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They caught the first glimpse of the sea in the waning light of day, glittering in the distance with millions of rubies and opals.
Their pace grew faster, the sight helping them shed a bit of tiredness with every step.
Soon the water filled the whole horizon.
Eyes caressed the expanse like a long lost lover, as if trying to find the most secret parts of her.
They were actually looking for...
"...sail!" the ranger pointed.
It was still more sensed than seen, the speck of white against the darkening sky.
But it was there.
They made it.
Home beckoned.

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.

"They bring the plague!"
"Curses, I tell you. They serve the mother of devils..."
"...plunder, rape, murder. That's what they leave in their wake."
"Helping them is treason."
"But those who refuse to help end... badly."
If looks could kill, they would all be drowning in blood.
Whispers and growls followed them.
The sorceress pointed at a pamphlet, nailed to a notice board.
"Somebody is making this difficult for us."
The paladin shrugged. "Let's show them the rumours are wrong."
He turned to three street urchins, offering them food.
"A cousin of a friend got poisoned like that," someone spit.

The party enters the dungeon.
The ranger goes first, her cat eyes see through darkness.
The others follow about twenty feet back.
The cleric sends up an orb of light.
What colour is the light?
"It's purple."
It reflects on water and moss on the walls.
There is a door on the right.
The ranger signs "STOP".
"I open the door!"
There is a room.
"We search it!"
You hear SQUEAK, SQUEAK from a corner.
There is a nest. Of rats.
"I want to THWACK them!"
Roll a D20.
"13"
Is that more or less than 8?
"More. I win!"

Their allegiance was first and foremost to the people in their charge, and to the homeland they were trying to get to.
Staying neutral was necessary - but at the same time it was impossible, because the warring factions held the resources.
"We should try to talk to the mayor, or whoever is in charge in that village," the cleric suggested. "They don't seem friendly with any of the sides - so maybe they will help us."
"Maybe they were left alone, because they don't have anything of interest," the sorceress opined.
"Won't know till we ask, will we?" the paladin shrugged.

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.

Lososů je ještě stále pomálu a napětí u vodopádů každým dnem stoupá.
Dva roztomilí jarní chlupáčci se tulí na písku pláže, nebo sedí jeden s tlapkou kolem ramen druhého na balvanu těsně u peřejí.
Pozorují svoji matku, medvědici 26, jak v divoké vodě loví - oddaně, klidně, trpělivě.
Působí na zjitřené emoce pozorovatelů jako uklidňující senzorická deka.
Říká se jim Velká a Malá lžička.
Se srdci internetů spravedlivě rozdělenými v pracičkách se ve hře vrhnou do vln.
Jedno z nich proud strhne, příliš rychle a nešťastně přímo před čekající mordu.
Z očí za obrazovkami se přes prsty do klávesnic přelévá bolest.

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.

Weapons were my daily bread. I knew them, inside and out.
In the heat of the forge's fire or a raging battle.
I hoped my arms will be strong enough to fulfill my mission, to reclaim, what was stolen.
Gold and gems, treasures, they seemed so important to the well-being of my people.
People I will never rule again, never bring home.
Home.
They can have that now. Erebor can rise and thrive again.
But not for me... not for my sister-sons.
I have done much, but little that gives me peace now.
"Farewell, child of kindly West!"
Remember me.

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.

They came from different walks of life, different castes, even different ethnicities.
In the beginning they had nothing in common, carried on the wave of migration, prompted by warriors fallen out of mind and time.
Flotsam and jetsam on the stream of history, carried and caught in a small cauldron of a country.
United by a moral code, that grew into (or out of?) religion.
The diverse community knit and wound ever closer by the notion that all they could rely on were each other.
Respect - grudging at first, but warmer with each generation.
Erekaria, their homeland, mothered her people.

The cleric, paladin and sorceress were leaning over a map, discussing a plan.
Suddenly the ranger burst into the room, victoriously waving a small bundle of some... dried herbs.
"I've got us the way into the tower!" she announced gleefully. "Grace, the herbalist, had it in her supplies!"
Her companions looked at her with confusion.
"Not sure which part is 'ear', so I took the whole plants."
The sorceress caught on, and almost facepalmed.
"I said we need 'the ear of A sage' - the trust of someone who has access to the wizards' order!"
The tabaxi blinked: "Oh! ... Tea, anyone?"

The situation was deteriorating fast.
Suddenly there was a crash and an arrow flew in through the window, closely followed by a dwarf, yelling something that might have been a battlecry, or an insult to whoever threw him.
In the few minutes that followed, the confused Mirians lost any and all advantage they initially had.
Soon enough they were pushed out of the room, some through the just opened window, others through more conventional means (the door).
Finally, with feline elegance, the ranger swung in on a rope and landed softly right next to the safe, lockpick kit in hand.

The adventuring party stood in front of a conundrum.
The copse of trees they were coming up to was almost definitely important and some sort of magical.
The question was, how to find out if who- or whatever reigned over it was neutral or took a side in the war.
"It might be just nature. A dryad or maybe a ring of druids?" the ranger guessed.
The paladin looked at her sideways. "When did you last check your character sheet?"
"My what?" she sputtered, flabbergasted.
"Oh..." the paladin blushed. "I meant, I seem to remember you being proficient in nature..."

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They were traveling through a... plain. Even at the best of times it used to be deserted, but now they might as well have been on the moon. It was bitterly cold.
The party was keeping vanguard, making sure nothing attacks the caravan.
They were just coming up to a rock formation when...
*riiiip*
...a chasm opened up in the ground right in front of them. The cleric almost lost his balance, milling his arms in the air before the paladin caught him.

"...well, there goes that map!" the DM shook his head. "I knew this rubber is too hard!"

The huge stone axe barely missed the cleric's head.
"Train!" the living statue bellowed.
The sorceress lobbed a scorching ray towards it.
"Train!" it shrugged it off, apparently immune to magic.
The paladin, who seemed to be the only one not targeted grinned.
"It's a golem," he explained as one more of his companions barely dodged a blow. When none of the party reacted with more than nasty looks, he added: "A drill sergeant golem, meant to train new recruits."
More glares.
"Alright, stop. Training over," he finally said. "Time to go home."
"Train?" the golem asked, but then followed.

The statue was almost menacing, with a battleaxe firmly grasped in both hands.
The old arena of an unused, decrepit military facility in the middle of nowhere was not a place you would normally want to linger in.
But they had a mission. They needed something to give the caravan an edge, coming into the vicinity of the last big(ish) city on their way east.
Not that this seemed promising.
Then the paladin noticed something.
He put his hand on one of the fists and pulled it along the shaft of the axe into a correct position.
The statue moved.

The ranger sniffed the air and shot a few furtive looks around.
Then headed into the darkness underground.
The silence of the shaft was only punctuated by the rings of falling water droplets.
"This is not right," she whispered to herself, whiskers standing to attention with unease. Her nostrils flared with the coppery smell of blood.
She notched an arrow into her bow.
Suddenly a shape came into view. An abandoned cart.
It looked empty, but a quick swipe of her paw caught a small metallic pebble.
Maybe this will pay for a bit of trout from that nearby farm...

Most of the villages along their way were not affluent to begin with.
But with the Rad's creeping encroachment, they became almost unlivable.
Most able bodied men gang pressed into service, or dragged off into mines.
The louder of the women shot as an object lesson.
Houses, barns and fields stripped of anything useful.
But some people were devious or better prepared than others.
"That's the last of them," the sorceress dusted off her robes, looking at the pile of flour sacks they stored in a hidden basement.
"Thank you, friends," the miller smiled, rewarding them with a magic wand.

The ground lurched and the paladin slid down an embankment, where the rest of the party crouched for cover.
"Well, that's our answer about this 'three crones' thing, I guess."
He grimaced at the warlock, who just shook his head, popped up and fired off an eldritch blast.
One of the three unfortunately deflected it, and in response the ground shook again, this time sprouting some menacing wines.
"We need our cleric, where is he?"
A snoring was his reply.
"Seriously??? He is still out, with all that ruckus around? How long does that sleep spell last, exactly?"
Everyone shrugged.

She was the force that united them, the thing that held them together when the forces of the world threatened to tear them asunder.
Some said she was a princess of old, the one who led the first inhabitants to the land of milk and honey. Others thought she was the goddess, the creator.
One thing was certain - she was the Savior, the Protector.
To be an Erekari meant to believe in and worship her.
Dcerka, our Lady, do not let us or future ones perish.
"I will not.
I will go with you everywhere, and bring you back home."

One of the camp followers approaches the party, bent over the map, plotting the next course.
"We should stop by this village over here," she says, half pleading.
"Why? It's out of our way, and there's nothing remarkable about it."
She blushes.
"My sweetheart is there. We haven't seen each other in weeks, and I am worried sick, with the Rad's activity..."
"You're afraid they'd kill or convert him?"
"Don't we have enough eligible Erekari men in our ranks?"
She blushes again.
"We do have men, yes. But Grace is the best herbalist I've ever known. She could join us."

Forests were good.
They were a source of wood, food, medicinal herbs and good hiding places.
"Hello forest! Run!" joked the druid of the party.
"You know it doesn't work that way," came an unexpected answer. "We plants prefer to stay put."
The sorceress firebolted the shrub, before anyone could stop him.
The ranger's hound averted catastrophy by peeing on the fire, making it go out.
"Gross," the shrub shook droplets off its leaves.
"I could have used holy water," mumbled the cleric.
That's when a ghost-like figure rose out of the branches.
"Next time, I'll mask as a waterfall!"

"Go east to get west!"
The conflict that changed the whole world is barring us from returning to Erekaria directly.
The caravan needs to make its way across the continent to the sea.
The Mirians, on whose land we find ourselves, were our allies until their land devolved into a civil unrest, that is just flaring up into an outright war.
We don't want to join any of the sides.
Our fearless leaders must do anything that is needed to protect us on this journey.
The ships are waiting to take us home over the sea.
Lion's might, Falcon's flight!

In a way, the Rads were predictable. Press everyone to convert (and give their worldly possessions into service of "the cause"), or murder them in their crusade (and take their possessions anyway).
Travelling through the night, you could see the fires burning - non-compliant, looted villages set alight, or camp bonfires celebrating the latest success?
Sometimes you could tell by the sounds... other times... you could not.
The smart option was to not engage.
It might be easy.
Sneak by, while the garrisons sleep in drunken stupor.
Treat locals with respect, but do not see the pleading tears in their eyes.

Another day, another road.
The caravan plods along, at a pace the slowest of them can keep. Unease grips at every soul. Eyes dart back and forth, left, right... Sometimes one of the rear guard turns in their saddle to face backwards.
Everyone knows danger lurks everywhere around them. The question is, what are they facing today. Monsters from the wilds? Rads? Something worse?
The scouts are coming back, foreheads creased with worry.
The leader raises his arm and the wagons stop.
"Form the wagon fort!"
Five officers peel off.
The prayers of the whole Erekari camp go with them.

The village was on the verge of ruin and despair.
"Help us!" there was a woman, braver than most. "Please! My father is ill. Surely you have someone skilled in medicine?"
The adventurers looked at each other.
"What is ailing him?" one of them asked, cautiously.
The woman took them into a house, where an old man laid, only semi-conscious.
Two of the strangers bent over to examine him.
"I'm going to need something to focus this magic," one of them said finally. "A hen?"
"The Rads took them all! Even to the last feather..."
"There are some excrements though..."

They stood by as the mechanism pulled the gasket in and the heavy door closed.
"There will never be another like her," Philip shook his head, voice trembling.
"It was her time. She's had a good, long and happy life," Thorne added.
"Two lives. At least," Philip smiled with glistening eyes. "But still, she deserved so much more!"
"At least she went peacefully," Maddie offered.
"Yeah, she just... sputtered out. Even pulling the plugs didn't help."
Then, as the mechanical noise rose to a crescendo, he caressed the last thing left of her - the license plate.
"Rest in pieces, Smogey."

The memory came unbidden. First family dinner at his sister's he brought Maddie to, "making it official".
Deirdre was her suspicious but prim, proper and pleasant self.
Maddie could charm anybody (that thought sat particularly ill with him right now) but that evening she was trying to be 'normal'.
Philip kept the atmosphere light that night. And she played along.
To the point, that Deirdre - as the youngsters did the dishes - suggested Maddie might actually be more appropriate (Agewise. Of course.) for him than for Thorne.
"Treat her well for me, uncle," Philip winked at him as they were leaving.

"She swears the baby is yours. Are you going to do anything about it?" Philip asked his uncle gingerly.
There was no answer. The young agent didn't have to be an empath to feel the chill radiating from Thorne.
"Look, I get you don't want to talk... even think about it. And that's cool. Just... The worst thing that could happen, if you *do* care for them... is you look gullible, if she's lying."
The fists on the table have clenched.
"If she's telling the truth, you'd be abandoning your child. And that's not something you want held against you."