Exodus

 The woods should sound different than this.

Dog moved quietly through the dark beyond the firelight, boots finding earth by instinct more than sight. A branch bent beneath his fingers. Damp bark. Pine and cold soil. Deer blood still under his nails from dressing the kill.

Not the Gnarley.

Wrong trees. Wrong air.

Too many voices.

Twenty and more souls sleeping behind him. Twenty and more frightened breaths. Armor creaking. Quiet grief. Quiet relief.

Not all of them made it.

Dog adjusted the necklace beneath his cloak. Yeti tooth. Goblin teeth. Orc and Hobgoblin tusks. Owlbear feathers.

Drow finger.

The thought should have felt better.

It didn't.

The drow Markessa was dead. Others with her. Stockade broken. Chains opened. Men and women walking free who would have died in darkness otherwise.

Good work.

Necessary work.

So why did victory feel so hollow?

His hand drifted unconsciously toward the place where the spirit had touched him.

Still there.

Not pain.

Wrongness.

Something taken.

Two measures slower now and less certain. Less sharp.

He hated it.

Hated the possession.

Hated almost dying.

Twice.

Hated the cold emptiness where strength used to sit before the undead horror had stolen part of him away.

A ranger of the Gnarley measured themselves by what they could endure.

Lately Dog felt smaller....Less....

The trees stood silent.

No answer.

"Ehlonna....My Lady...."

The words barely left his mouth.

Nothing.

No warmth.

No certainty.

Just wind.

Maybe that was worse than the wounds.

He remembered the Gnarley.

The green canopy.

Streams giggling over the stones.

The places where the world still felt right.

Where he could kneel beneath old branches and know he belonged to something older than kingdoms and slave lords and dead things crawling from darkness.

Here?

Only ash.

Only tired feet.

Only responsibility.

He circled farther.

The paladin bothered him.

Divine guidance? Convenient....

Too convenient.

Dog had met men who carried gods like banners.

Some served and some lied.

Some lied so well they believed themselves.

A divine hand led him here?

Maybe.....

Or maybe something else had.

Dog trusted tracks and broken branches.

Blood trails and cries for help.

Not stories.

Still...

The man had aided them when they were in need of help.

That mattered.

Didn't mean Dog would sleep easy.

Not that he was sleeping anyway.

He passed close enough to camp to hear quiet movement.

One of the others awake on watch.

Good.

They needed sleep.

All of them.

The freed captives. His companions.

Even the sniveling noble.

Especially him. For it was him that brought us here. Here, to this cursed land.

Dog could endure tired.

Could endure pain.

Could endure fear.

That was his work and his burden.

He moved beyond the edge of firelight again.

Darkness wrapped around him.

For a moment he imagined the Gnarley.

Ancient trees.

Moonlight dancing through leaves.

The smell of home.

"I'll come back," he whispered quietly.

To the forest.

To himself.

To Her.

Somewhere ahead an owl called into the night.

Dog listened.

And for the first time all evening—

the woods sounded almost right.