𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖 (𝟏) | 𝟏𝟖+

lii. mist.

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‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎𝐒𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐀 𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒, but the answer becomes clear as a fog looms in the air. Her vision becomes shrouded, the haze so thick that she can hardly see Thorn ahead of her, even though he's only two or three steps away. She fears she might lose him, but the ancient thinks he can carry a tune as he whistles and hums, a sound that keeps her in his trail. His song is atrocious, but she knows better than to pick a fight with the man guiding her through the most dangerous province in Aelethia.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen studies the forest around her. Unlike the Tabrien woods, these forests are swamped with vines and thick leafy fauna, some lush, most stricken with blight. The air smells pleasant, almost doused in eucalyptus. To her dismay, the soil beneath their feet grows swampy, and mud clings to the soles of her leather boots, making each step weigh nearly double than it should.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Thorn's greying irises glance over his shoulder as he adjusts his pack of supplies. "Maybe I should've made you do more of those laps."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She grits her teeth, refusing to show her exhaustion. "I'm fine."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Okay little miss fine, you need to keep up, got it? If we lose sight of one another, we're fucked. Rhimme's probably got eyes on us now and will do whatever he can to get us killed."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Great," she retorts.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"It's what I like to hear."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎They take a few more steps when a cobblestone pathway comes into sight, although weeds grow in the crevasses and roots have made the terrain uneven. The road remains abandoned from years of neglect, but it's still a better option than through the mud.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Thorn narrows his eyes on what lies ahead, then quickly whisks off his bag. He sifts through his abundance of supplies before pulling out a compass—Oleander's compass.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I thought that you gave that to Morrow when we left for Pailon the first time."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I did," he says, "but I asked for it back, because this is the only fucking thing that will work in this province since it was made with ancient's magic."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"So why did Oleander have it?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Because I gave it to him before I left the fae militia." Thorn points to the mist. "That way."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Thorn begins to wander onward, his pace never shorting out unlike her own. She's not sure if she should take his word, mostly because neither of them were able to scourge up a map of this place. She's relying solely on Thorn's memory, which could be a ridiculous stretch. She wouldn't exactly call him old, but he does have some years behind him, and she did catch him muttering how the print is too small in one of the were's fighting guides.