Anabasis

The grove looked like all four seasons lived there next to each other.
The children started to pick flowers to weave them into crowns.
Some even splashed in the babbling brook.
Only when one of them reached to pick an apple from an impossibly autumnal tree the cleric caught their hand.
"Whoever you are," he spoke to the air. "Show yourself. We mean no harm. We just want to pass through."
The trees seemed to hold their breath for a heartbeat.
"Your hands are full of blood," the grove answered. "Your mind is poisoned by war. The children deserve better!"

The frozen steppe grew harsher with every step.
They decided to keep moving through the night, afraid they might not wake up if they stop.
Eyes misted, asaulted by the minuscule particles, the gleeful air threw at them.
"Forest," the ranger pointed out. "Hopefully we can take shelter there!"
As soon as they stepped in, the few children of the caravan heard tinkling, like bells.
Soon, to the dismay of uncomprehending adults, they were laughing and dancing deeper into the trees, led by the sound.
The sorceress followed, almost enchanted.
"My children. Are you warm now?" a soothing voice asked.

The further east they traveled, the less settlements they encountered.
The countryside grew ever wilder.
And with every step and every turn in it it seemed more aware of their presence.
If they concentrated, they could feel the magic, ever more foreign, ever more unknown crackling all around them.
There was almost a palpable curiosity in the air, as if every creature - and pretty soon every landscape feature as well - looked and listened and considered the Interlopers into their territory.
Pretty soon all the chatter, usual during the day on the road, quietened to whispers, reminiscent of reverence in church.

At first they almost didn't notice.
Little creeks that flowed despite the more and more bitter cold.
But as they started to descend from the mountain range there was more and more of them, joining together, skipping along the stones with tingling challenge.
The world around them was glittering with icy frosting, precarious to navigate.
And yet, as the stream became river, it refreshed the wandering hearts.
As they looked across the plain, covered in snow with occasional conifer, it seemed tied together by that blue ribbon.
Where the fresh water hugs salt in welcome, their ship will be waiting.

Everything fell into the eerie silence of anticipation, and that's when they could hear it.
Krraaa! Krraaa! Krraaa!
The cleric frowned.
"Tell me those are rooks," he indicated black birds, swooping in and out of sight.
"Crows," the ranger grimmed, eyes narrowed, ears pricked. "We better be stealthy."
They crept through the undergrowth, until they came to a small clearing.
With very fresh, very open mass grave, crawling with cawing blackness.
The paladin moved to step into the open.
"Don't," the ranger pulled him back, pointing at two crows perched on branches, seemingly keeping guard.
"Who know who they serve..."

When you have to cross such vast distance, you need speed, agility, and endurance.
When it is paramount to keep going, you need something that will carry you.
Legs or wheels.
Both need maintenance - the wheels can be replaced (with a bit of time and material, which you might not have), the legs need to be protected.
Which is why, every evening, while the campfires are burning, there are the sounds of hammers on metal, and neighing, as the new horseshoes are shaped and affixed; and the softer sounds of mallets and needles on leather, shaping, reshaping and darning shoes.

They had a reputation, the Erekari.
Valiant souls, never fleeing from a fight.
Fearless adventurers who won't balk at any challenge.
Mere sight of their banner gave enough courage to make them almost invincible.
Some considered them daredevils, cavalierly defying odds, mocking danger...

"You have some nerve!" spat the innkeeper.
"It's called gallantry," the cleric shrugged, tossing a bag of gold on the bar.
"...or having a lot of heart," the bar wench piped up, cheeks crimson.
"Aye, I've got two of those," the dwarven paladin replied with a wink. "Solid effin' brass ones. In my sack."
The sorceress choked.

Complications were expected.
However, as they passed into the wilderness, they should lessen, as does the Rad's activity.
"There is something wrong with the mountain pass," the village elder warns sagely. "We have not had anyone come through from the east since the thaw before last."
"What about the other way?" the ranger asks.
"Five or six parties tried. One of them came back, of the others none was heard from again."
That earned some raised eyebrows.
"Is there someone of the party that came back we could talk to?"
"You can try. But their tongues stayed in those mountains..."

Mir is world, peace and fatherland.
It stands on its own, its people tough as their land.
Some say it is too big to hold together.
There definitely are wide differences within it.
The world of bustling cities, overflowing with luxuries looked with condescension and disdain at the world of fields and forests, brimming with hard work.
And the world of nature, untamed, wild, thrumming and singing with magic more ancient than most would believe was constantly striving against both the others.
The Mirians had little thought for anything outside their borders.
They always had both friends and enemies within.

They want to go home - although what *is* home remains to be seen.
For two centuries Erekaria has been occupied by a neighbouring country with pretensions to empirehood.
Now it finally had a chance to break the chains and stand on its own again.
There were a lot of opinions on which way they should cast their lots next.

The country is too small to stand without allies.
The allies cannot be allowed to turn into usurpers ever again.
We have the opportunity to garner favour with 'cousins' right here, right now.
We no longer need to fight another's war.