The scavenger camp rose out of the Wastelands like a scab over a wound—ugly, fragile, but clinging stubbornly to life. As Eris approached, he caught the acrid stench of smoke and filth, carried on the dry, bitter wind. It wasn't a place of safety, but it was as close to civilization as the Wastelands could offer.
The camp sprawled across a jagged basin, surrounded by crude barricades made of scavenged scrap: rusted metal sheets, shattered wood, and the occasional shard of crystalline Spire material, glowing faintly with dangerous energy. Watchtowers fashioned from the skeletons of ancient machines loomed over the settlement, their occupants armed with mismatched weapons and hollow eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and constant fear.
Inside, the camp was a chaotic maze of ramshackle huts and open stalls, each a testament to desperation and ingenuity. Tarps stitched together with wire flapped in the wind, offering flimsy protection from the elements. Fires burned in crude pits, their smoke mingling with the sulfurous reek of decay.
People moved through the narrow pathways with the cautious urgency of prey in a predator's den. Most wore layers of patched clothing, their faces obscured by scarves or masks to filter the noxious air. Their eyes darted constantly, watching for threats both human and otherwise.
Eris slipped through the entrance, nodding to the guards who barely spared him a glance. He wasn't worth robbing—yet. That could change the moment someone thought his satchel held something valuable.
He headed for the market, a grim parody of a bustling bazaar. Merchants hawked their wares from crude stands, their voices hoarse from shouting over the din. The items for sale were as grim as the Wastelands themselves: rusted tools, shards of corrupted Spire crystal, bits of dried meat of dubious origin, and vials of strange, glowing liquid that promised miracles but more often delivered death.
Eris approached a stall where an old woman sat hunched over, her face a web of wrinkles and scars. Her one good eye fixed on him as he dropped his satchel onto the makeshift counter.
"Back so soon, Vayne?" she rasped, her voice like the scrape of metal on stone.
"Scavenging doesn't wait," Eris replied, pulling out the items he'd collected. "What'll you give me for this?"
The woman sifted through the loot with gnarled fingers, her movements surprisingly deft. She held up a broken blade, its edge jagged and useless. "Scrap metal. Not much good unless someone wants to melt it down."
She picked through the rest, her expression unimpressed. Finally, she set aside a few items—a shard of Spire crystal no larger than his thumb, a handful of herbs, and a piece of cloth that wasn't entirely rotted through.
"Two strips of jerky and a bottle of water," she said, leaning back.
Eris frowned. "That Spire shard alone is worth more than that."
The woman's laugh was a dry, hacking sound. "Not in this camp, it isn't. No one's gonna risk using it, not after what happened to the last fool who tried."
Eris thought about arguing but decided against it. He wasn't in a position to haggle, and the old woman knew it. With a resigned nod, he took the offered items and slipped them into his satchel.
As he turned to leave, his gaze swept over the camp. In one corner, a group of children huddled around a fire, their faces gaunt and hollow. They watched him with a mix of curiosity and wariness, their hands clutching crude weapons made of bone and scrap.
Nearby, a man and a woman argued loudly, their voices rising above the din. The man's hand hovered near a knife at his belt, while the woman clutched a bundle of rags to her chest—a child, Eris realized, though its frail, silent form made him wonder if it was still alive.
The tension was palpable, a powder keg waiting for a spark. Fights broke out in the camp often, over food, over territory, over nothing at all. Violence was the currency of the Wastelands, and everyone paid the price eventually.
Eris moved quickly, keeping his head down. The camp was a place to trade, not to linger. The longer he stayed, the more likely someone would decide he was worth the trouble of robbing.
As he passed a stall selling weapons, his eyes lingered on a jagged blade, its edge glowing faintly with etched runes. It was far beyond his means, but he couldn't help but imagine how it might feel in his hand. A weapon like that could mean the difference between life and death—or a quicker end, at the very least.
But that wasn't his reality. Not yet. With a sigh, Eris slipped out of the market and headed for the outskirts of the camp, where the shadows were deeper and the noise less oppressive.
He sat beneath a crumbling wall, pulling out one of the jerky strips. It was tough and flavorless, but it was food. He chewed slowly, his eyes on the horizon where the Wastelands stretched endlessly.
The camp was no home, but neither was the barren land beyond its gates. For now, it was a place to survive, to endure. Tomorrow, the Wastelands would call him back, and he would answer, as he always did.
Dusk draped the Wastelands in a veil of shadow, the crimson sun sinking into the jagged horizon like a dying ember. Eris picked his way through the ruins of a shattered village, his sharp eyes scanning the ground for anything salvageable. Cracked pottery, rusted metal, the faint glimmer of Spire crystal—it was a scavenger's routine, a monotonous ritual performed under the threat of death.
The air was still, oppressive, and heavy with the scent of decay. The village ruins were a ghost of what they once might have been, the skeletal remains of homes rising from the dirt like tombstones. His boots crunched on debris, each step echoing in the unnatural silence.
Eris crouched near the remnants of a collapsed wall, his fingers brushing aside ash and dirt to reveal a shard of glass that shimmered faintly with Spire energy. A faint smile touched his lips—small, but it was something. He reached to pocket it when a sound pricked at the edge of his awareness.
A low, guttural laugh.
Eris froze, his hand instinctively darting to the crude blade at his side. His eyes swept the ruins, every shadow suddenly alive with menace.
"You've got sharp ears, boy," a voice rasped, grating like metal scraping stone. From the shadows emerged a figure, tall and gaunt, his skin stretched tight over his skeletal frame. His eyes glinted with hunger, his lips twisted into a grin that bared jagged teeth stained with something darker than dirt.
Behind him, more shapes slithered out of the darkness. Men and women, their bodies thin and sinewy, clad in rags smeared with dried blood. Their faces were hollow, their eyes sunken, but the way they moved spoke of a feral, unnatural strength.
Cannibals.
Eris stood slowly, his grip tightening on the hilt of his blade. "Not looking for trouble," he said evenly, though his voice carried the edge of tension.
The leader's grin widened. "Oh, but trouble found you. And it's hungry."
With a guttural cry, the cannibals lunged. Eris ducked under the first swing of a rusted axe, the blade whistling past his ear. He rolled to the side, his knife flashing in the dim light as he slashed at the assailant's thigh. The man howled, stumbling back, but another cannibal was already upon him.
Eris twisted away from grasping hands, slamming the hilt of his knife into the attacker's face. The cannibal's nose crunched with a sickening sound, but pain seemed to fuel his rage. He swung wildly, forcing Eris to dart backward, his boots slipping on loose rubble.
They surrounded him, circling like wolves. The leader stood back, watching with a twisted smirk, his fingers tapping a makeshift club wrapped in barbed wire.
"Play with him a little," he called to the others.
Eris's mind raced. Fighting them head-on was suicide—he was outnumbered, outarmed, and their maddened hunger gave them a terrifying ferocity. But he knew these ruins, had scavenged them before.
With a sharp breath, he bolted, weaving through the rubble. The cannibals gave chase, their howls echoing through the desolate village.
Eris leaped over a crumbling wall, his boots skidding on the loose dirt as he landed. He ducked under a low archway, forcing his pursuers to funnel after him. As the first cannibal squeezed through, Eris struck, driving his blade into the man's throat. Blood sprayed, warm and metallic, splattering Eris's face as the man crumpled to the ground.
The others roared, but Eris was already moving. He scrambled onto a precarious ledge, his heart pounding as he reached a vantage point overlooking the narrow passage.
The leader barked orders, his voice a guttural growl. "Flush him out! Don't let him get away!"
One cannibal hurled a jagged piece of metal at him, the projectile slicing through the air. Eris ducked, the shard embedding itself in the wall behind him. The leader grinned, hefting his barbed club as he advanced.
"Nowhere to run, little scavenger," he sneered.
Eris's lips curled into a grim smile. "Who said I was running?"
He kicked at the loose stones beneath his feet, dislodging a cascade of rubble. The ledge collapsed with a deafening crash, burying two of the cannibals beneath it.
The leader snarled, leaping forward with surprising speed. His club swung in a vicious arc, forcing Eris to parry with his blade. The impact jarred his arm, the crude knife nearly slipping from his grasp.
The two grappled, the leader's strength overwhelming. Eris gritted his teeth, his mind racing for an opening. As the leader forced him to his knees, the barbed club hovering inches from his face, Eris reached for the shard of Spire glass in his pocket.
With a desperate thrust, he drove the shard into the leader's chest. The crystal pulsed with a faint light, and the man screamed, his body convulsing as the volatile energy coursed through him.
Eris pushed the dying man away, stumbling to his feet. The remaining cannibals hesitated, their feral hunger tempered by caution.
"Still hungry?" Eris rasped, his voice low and cold.
They retreated into the shadows, their eyes glinting with hate but their bodies unwilling to challenge him further.
Eris didn't wait to see if they'd change their minds. He wiped the blood from his face and limped away, the crimson sun now fully swallowed by the horizon. The Wastelands had claimed more lives this day, but not his. Not yet.