I sit by the fire, cradling the axe across my knees and considering the scraps of meaning I've collected. The brooch with its crossed blades, the parchment of twisted runes, the silent echoes replaying old scenes. Each expedition into the mist-laden fragments of this world leaves me with more questions. And yet, I press on, as if uncovering a puzzle whose final shape I can only guess at.
Lynn settles across from me, her posture composed but not relaxed. She watches as I toy with the objects. When my gaze meets hers, she lifts a hand slightly, then lets it drop. I know she wants to speak—her lips part, but the mist swallows her words before they form. Instead, she closes her eyes and sighs. I can almost feel the weight of what she cannot say.
My throat tightens. I wish I could reassure her, but there is no point in empty promises. We journey together in enforced silence, each trip changing me, and maybe changing her as well.
I reach for the deck of cards. By now, the ritual is familiar. The leather box, the careful shuffle, the subtle warmth that nudges my fingers toward certain choices. I must trust these silent intuitions. I draw three cards and hold them close to the firelight:
Location: Industrial Loading Dock.
A place of stacked crates and heavy machinery, now rusted and overgrown. High catwalks and shifting shadows. Good vantage points for scouting, perhaps.
Event: Pocket Bazaar.
A strange merchant appearing as a phantom stall. Trading opportunities, if I can spare something precious. The thought intrigues me. We've only scavenged so far—could we bargain?
Enemy: Bleeding Courier.
A twisted figure that once carried messages. Now it slinks through ruined corners, hurling sharp missives. Silent but deadly, it may try to ambush rather than charge head-on.
I glance at Lynn, raising an eyebrow. A Pocket Bazaar amidst old cranes and shipping containers, guarded by a courier who bleeds ink or something worse. I feel her tense, though she offers no sound. Perhaps this is what we need—access to something that can interpret the parchment or the brooch. Bargaining might unlock answers where brute force cannot.
I rise, slipping the brooch and parchment into my pouch. My axe is steady in my hand. Lynn nods once, and we approach the mist's edge. I present the three chosen cards, and the white shroud parts reluctantly.
A harsh scent of rust and old metal hits me first. The Industrial Loading Dock sprawls before us: hulking shapes of shipping crates stacked three and four high, broken forklifts, and abandoned cargo scattered about. The catwalks overhead creak softly as a faint wind stirs loose chains. Dim light filters through cracks in the mist, painting shifting patterns on the concrete floor.
We advance slowly, each step echoing. I scan the upper levels, wary of ambush. If the Bleeding Courier lurks, it might strike from above. Lynn keeps close, her hand hovering near my arm. I detect her silent encouragement.
Then I see it—a faint glow between two leaning stacks of crates. The Pocket Bazaar. It appears as a spectral stall draped in tattered silks of impossible colors. I glimpse small shelves holding bottles, coins, blades gleaming faintly. A hooded shape stands behind the stall, its face veiled by shimmering cloth.
I approach, heartbeat quickening. What can I trade? The merchant hums, a gentle thrumming that fills my ears, yet I see no lips move. It displays its wares with silent gestures: a flask of red liquid that might restore vitality, an amulet etched with symbols somewhat like those on my parchment, and bundles of dried leaves that smell faintly of spice.
My eyes settle on the amulet. It looks old, the kind of thing that might help decipher runes or strengthen resolve against dark whispers. I open my pouch, considering what I can offer. Canned goods, rope, flares—basic survival gear. Will that interest a phantom merchant?
Before I can decide, a sharp whistle cuts through the silence. I duck instinctively, dragging Lynn down behind a crate. A slender, blade-like object skitters off the concrete, sparking slightly. Another whistle. I catch a glimpse of a shape perched high on a catwalk: the Bleeding Courier. Hunched and ragged, it clutches a bundle of sharpened letters or knives. Its face is shrouded by something dark, and I see trails of crimson where its arms move. Ink or blood, I cannot tell.
The merchant stands unmoving, the Pocket Bazaar unaffected by the conflict. Perhaps violence means nothing to it. Or perhaps it awaits the outcome, patient and indifferent.
I need a plan. The Courier holds the high ground, its missiles deadly and swift. If I show myself recklessly, I'll be skewered. I glance around, spotting a ladder that leads up to another platform. If I can circle around and approach from above, I might knock it down or force it into range of my axe.
I tap Lynn's shoulder, then point to the ladder. She understands and nods, staying low as we move from crate to crate, avoiding the Courier's line of sight. Another metal shriek rings out as a sharpened letter pierces a hanging chain near us, setting it swinging wildly. Dust rains down. I grit my teeth and press on.
At the ladder, I climb as quietly as I can, the axe strapped to my side so I can use both hands. Lynn waits below, pressed against the crate stack, ready to distract the Courier if needed. I reach a narrow platform of rusted beams and inch forward. From this vantage, I see the Courier crouched on a higher catwalk, scanning the ground where we stood moments ago.
I take a breath, steady myself, and hurl a small piece of debris—a bolt I found underfoot—toward the opposite end of the dock. It clangs loudly. The Courier jerks its head at the sound and leaps onto an adjacent beam, trying for a better angle. Now's my chance.
I rise swiftly, run two steps, and leap onto a connecting catwalk just beneath it. The Courier turns too late. I surge upward, swinging the axe at its legs. My strike hits metal railing instead of flesh, but it startles the creature. With a shrill hiss, it hurls another letter. I raise my arm to shield my face. The missile slices my forearm lightly, drawing a hot line of pain. I grunt and push forward. We clash on a narrow beam, each step precarious.
It tries to back away, but I rush in, forcing it against a cargo hook hanging overhead. I strike again, this time catching its shoulder. A thin splatter of dark fluid arcs through the air. The Courier's eyes—if it has eyes—glow faintly behind rags. It tries to speak, but only a whisper of air escapes.
It lunges, attempting to push me off the beam. I dig my heels in and slam the axe's butt into its chest. The Courier staggers. One more strike, overhead and savage, and it collapses, dropping its sharpened letters into the darkness below.
Breathing hard, I descend the ladder. Lynn rushes to my side, examining the shallow cut on my forearm. She applies a small bandage from our medkit, her eyes full of concern. I nod gratefully, then we turn back to the Pocket Bazaar.
The merchant remains as before, silent and patient. I show it some items: a spare can of food, a length of rope, a flare. It shakes its veiled head, unimpressed. I try again, offering the broken broom handle I once fought with, and a spare bit of scrap metal. Another shake. Then I remember the sharpened letters the Courier dropped.
I retrieve one, careful not to cut myself. Its metal is engraved with faint script—not like my parchment's runes, but intriguing. I offer it. The merchant hums approvingly. It lifts the amulet I desire and holds it forward. A trade sealed in silence. I accept, feeling the amulet's cool weight in my palm. It bears a faint symbol that might help me parse mysteries, strengthen my will, or at least give me courage.
As soon as the deal is done, the Bazaar flickers, growing translucent. The merchant bows, then fades into the gloom. I stand there, holding the amulet, uncertain if I've gained anything beyond a curious trinket. But Lynn touches my shoulder lightly, her expression more hopeful than before.
With no more reason to linger, we return to the Campground. The mist parts smoothly this time, as if satisfied. Back in the glow of the campfire, I study the amulet, holding it next to the parchment. The runes don't hurt my eyes as much now. I can almost see patterns. The brooch, the parchment, and now this amulet—pieces of a puzzle sliding into place.
Lynn tries to speak, fails, then simply lays a gentle hand on my wrist. I think I understand. Each step brings us closer to a truth she cannot give but can guide me toward. The silence is heavy, but now I feel less alone in it. We have made a bargain this time, not just with a phantom merchant, but perhaps with fate itself.
I rest, holding the amulet and breathing in the quiet stability of the Eternal Campground. I will return to the deck soon enough, draw again, and walk deeper into the mist-shrouded corridors of this realm. I do not know what I will find, but I know that I must keep going, piece by careful piece, until the silence breaks.