The waters of the Greyflood lapped gently against the banks, whispering secrets of the wild lands beyond. Deorla trudged along its side, the soft squelch of mud underfoot a steady reminder that she was far from any well-trod path. Her new outfit, crafted in the quiet weeks before all the turmoil on the East Road began, fit her like a second skin.
Gone was the tattered ranger's garb of faded greens and browns. Now she wore sleek, black leather armor, fitted for ease of movement and stitched tightly to mute the sound of her steps. The armor was of medium weight — heavy enough to turn aside a blade if it came to that, but light enough for her to move swiftly, melt into shadow when need called.
Completing the ensemble was a black bird-shaped mask, its beak short and curved, its surface polished to a dull sheen. She had carved and shaped it herself from treated wood, reinforced with strips of iron beneath, and painted it in the deepest black she could find. When worn, the mask turned her into a creature of nightmare: part woman, part omen. Only her keen grey eyes peered out from behind the narrow slits.
She missed the old gear in some ways—the worn leather, the scent of smoke and rain soaked into it over countless years—but it had been time to let it go. The past was too dangerous a burden now.
Not that the wilds of the Greyflood were any safer. Deorla's heart still pounded with the memory of the attack—those cursed river avancs. She had stumbled too close to a nest hidden among the reeds, thinking at first it was no more than an otter’s den. The creatures had come at her with thrashing tails and gnashing teeth, more reptile than bird. Swift, brutal blows with her knife had felled two of them, but she bore a deep gash along her forearm as a reminder of the fight. Blood still seeped through the makeshift binding she'd tied with a strip torn from her undershirt.
Later, as she followed the curve of the river, a softer sight greeted her bruised senses. A flock of wild swans floated serenely on a broad stretch of still water, their white feathers dazzling against the dark current. They moved without fear or hurry, weaving among each other with the kind of grace Deorla had only ever seen in dreams. For a moment, she simply stood and watched them, her breathing slowing, the adrenaline ebbing from her veins.
One of the swans lifted its long neck and regarded her solemnly, as if recognizing a fellow traveler of lonely, dangerous paths. Deorla offered it a half-smile beneath her cloak’s hood before she pressed on, the memory of the swans glimmering in her mind like a rare, unsullied thing.
Later that day, just as the sun crested above the green hills and the river’s mists began to lift, Deorla spotted the outline of a settlement ahead. Stone walls, squat and worn by wind, ringed a scattering of houses. The place was no fortress, but it looked defensible enough for a village this far from the heart of the kingdoms. A battered sign swinging in the breeze named it: Lhan Garan.
All wet from travels in the water, first thing she decided to do is give her horse a rest in a small stable in the village, after that she set a small tent near campfire, and ate what was left of her provisions, she mumbled to her self "Will need to stock upon some food while I am here, or steal it." and with that thinking she felt quietly a sleep, it was a hard day.
Here below are maps of Deorla travels and the route she has taken in this story if someone will want to travel same way or follow her in RP or for anything else.
