Their steps grew slower and slower the farther they were from the cave village.
His pale hands gripped the leather rope attached to his makeshift drawstring bag. It was the best the Merfolk could find after such short notice. He carried food that would last him a week ago most and some freshwater within the only bottle the people could offer him. Although he was short in supplies, Moulin didn't complain. He was grateful enough to receive the tribe's care even when he's an outsider.
It was only the chief who was escorting him. Moulin followed while his vigilant eyes scanned the surroundings.
When they walked past a tree marked with yellow paint, it was then that the man raised his hand to stop.
