Lesser Bloom

Sea of tents

The troops of Areindel marched beneath banners of silver oak and starlight, five hundred strong—spears glinting like frost on the high passes, their boots drumming a steady war-rhythm against the broken roads of the North. They had left the white-walled city of Areindel at the turning of the leaf, when the first chill winds carried word south: the Northern Neverwinter Wood was bleeding. Goblin hordes and darker things had boiled up from the Crags, and the Neverwinter Guard was buckling. Reinforcements were needed. So the Lord-Protector had sent his finest, and with them rode Lirael. She wasn't heavily armored, nor really prepared for what has awaited her. In the cargo carriage they sent her, she spent her days and nights, trying to peek out from time to time to learn more about the world outside of the castle gates.

The journey was no gentle parade.

For the first week they crossed the lands under a sky the color of hammered iron. Rain turned the roads to sucking mud; wagons bogged down and had to be hauled free by ropes and curses. At night they camped in rings of steel, fires low, while scouts reported distant howls that were not wolves. Twice they were harried by bandits—desperate men who thought five hundred spears an easy mark. Each skirmish ended the same: steel flashed, arrows hissed, and when the fighting was done, Lirael got out of the carriage. She walked the field silently, moving like a living shadow, her lantern glowing soft gold over the fallen of their soldiers and she tended their injuries according to her best knowledge. She couldn't help but wonder, how much worse the actual battlefield will be, if their journey to there had already had so many incidents. Beyond the horizon rose into the foothills of the Sword Mountains. The road narrowed to a goat-track; the air grew thin and cold. Here the column slowed, single file between sheer granite walls. Avalanches of loose scree rattled down without warning. One night part of their troops had been swapped away by mountains of snow. They had to spend hours and use magic stones to dig out the survivors. Lirael tried to help to everyone she could, but death took its own soldiers. On the far side of the mountains the forest finally appeared—dark, ancient, and already wounded. Smoke stained the northern sky long before they reached the treeline. The scent of burning pine rode the wind. Birds had fled; only ravens remained, fat and bold. The troops of Areindel tightened their formation, shields forward, as they passed the first signs of war: an abandoned watchtower with its roof caved in, a field of trampled wheat already black with crows, and a half-buried corpse wearing the blue-and-silver of Neverwinter. Pip rode his horse next to Lirael's carriage and he didn't say the word. The glances these two kids exchanged, said everything that was needed. At that moment they understood, this wasn't a reward. This wasn't about adventure or glory. They came here to fight, and hopefully to survive. Pip stopped for a moment and Lirael watched him looking back at the road they came from longingly. Her heart clenched for her friend, unlike her, Pip had a family that loved and cherished him and a life that awaited his safe return. She prayed to the Gods to aid her friend and let him return home. Soon, the trees opened onto the battlefield proper. The Northern Neverwinter Wood had become a place of ash and iron. Distant horns wailed. The clash of steel rolled like thunder between the ancient oaks. Smoke curled between the branches like ghosts. They all halted for a moment looking at the scene unfolding in front of them. Seasoned soldiers cursed heavily as they realized, this won't be an easy aid, and they won't return in a few weeks as their Lord promised. As they rode through the remaining tents, no cheers greeted the newcomers. The men already in camp simply paused in their tasks—sharpening blades, stitching wounds, hauling water—and turned tired eyes toward the silver-oak standards descending the slope. A few raised weary hands in salute. Most just watched with the hollow relief of people who had been holding a crumbling line for too long. The column of five hundred moved with disciplined quiet. Boots crunched over frost-hardened ground still littered with broken arrows and discarded bandages. Wagons creaked at the rear, carrying the last of the supplies the southerners had managed to bring through the mountains. Lirael got out of the carriage and took the remaining journeyby foot. Many widened eyes and weird glances followed her. All worn faces filled with surprise at the sight of the young weak girl, walking between the armored soldiers. At the center of the clearing stood the largest remaining tent—once grand, now sagging under patched canvas. From it emerged two figures.

The first was Captain Alan Thorne of Neverwinter, a broad-shouldered man in his late forties whose once-polished breastplate was now dented and scorched. His dark beard was streaked with premature grey, and a fresh scar ran from his left temple to his jaw. He moved with the careful stiffness of someone nursing cracked ribs, yet his grip on his sword belt was steady.

Beside him walked a slimmer, younger officer—Lieutenant, Vincent Thornwhisper, an elf scout whose leather armor was dyed in forest greens and browns. His short silver hair was tied back with a strip of blue cloth, and his sharp eyes missed nothing. He looked at Lirael in disbelief for a split second before turned his attention back to his Captain. Captain Thorne raised a hand. The Areindel column halted with a single barked order from their own leader.

From the head of the southern troops stepped Captain Emmett Starshield—tall and black haired, even in middle age, his plate armor still bright beneath the dust of the long march, the white cloak of Areindel’s Lord-Protector fluttering at his shoulders. A longsword rested at his hip. His face was calm, but his dark blue eyes carried the quiet weight of command.

The two captains met in the open space between the arriving column and the battered tents. No grand ceremony. Just two soldiers sizing each other up under the weight of a war that had already claimed too many.

Thorne extended his gauntleted hand first.

- Captain Emmett Starshield. - said the voice rough as gravel.

- Your banners are a sight we’d almost stopped hoping for. I’m Captain Alan Thorne. These are what’s left of the Northern Neverwinter detachment. We’ve held the eastern flank for nineteen days. Barely.- Starshield looked around the wounded and tired men and nodded.

- We brought aid, not just in numbers but food, medicine, new weapons and a... - he took a deep breath and sighed out loud before finishing his sentence. - skilled healer. - Thorne's eyes lighted up at the mentioning of the healer.

- Looking forward to meet him! Heard a lot about the famous Eldrin! We need his knowledge more than ever! - Starshield bowed his head in shame. He didn't agree with this arrangement. He knew what they were about to face but didn't expect the situation to be this dire. And here they were, with a twelve years old girl, putting all this tragedy and responsibility on her weak, fragile shoulders. His hands clenched in fists. This wasn't right, but he couldn't go against the orders. His eyes met Thorne's and lifted his hand.

- Lady Lirael Areindel came to aid your wounded soldiers. His Lordship, personally sent his daughter, who is a skilled healer and precious part of the family. - Thorne couldn't help to shook his head and he patted Starshield's shoulder.

- This is not the time to make such jokes my friend. Everyone knows that, that girl is only part of his Lordship's family on paper. If they really sent her, they are really treating that girl as someone disposable, a collateral damage to say so. - Starshield cleared his throat and that moment Lirael stepped ahead out of the crowd. She walked towards the two high elves and tried to pull herself straighter. When she stood next to them, she looked like a halfling next to giants. Lirael bowed respectfully and forced a smile on her face.

- Captain Thorne, I'm confident in my abilities and will serve under yours and Captain Starshield's orders according my best knowledge. - Thorne's smile froze and his eyes glanced at the girl furiously then back at Starshield.

- This has to be a joke. - The other man shook his head.

- This is our cruel reality I'm afraid so. - Thorne scoffed and nodded towards a tent that once used to be white, but now turned into almost yellow due to dust and blood.

- That's your new home girl. May The Coronel help you on your journey. - Lirael bowed and headed towards the tent. Starshield nodded to Pip and said.

- Follow the girl and help her. - Pip quickly nodded and grabbed materials from the carriage before rushing after Lirael.