Champion of a Lost Cause

The Surviving Rebels' Camp is already coming apart. Families bind blankets and cooking pots into bundles while fighters strip useful gear from broken wagons, all beneath the smoke-stained horizon of Galtic Castle.

At the camp's edge, Vas the Vanguard has gathered armed survivors around him. Beyond them, the road into the Weirwood Forest lies open, dark between blood-red branches.

Near the ruined supply tent, Eve of the Willow kneels among wounded refugees. Her red robes are stained with dust, and her hands move from bandage to bandage as frightened families press close.

The armed survivors turn toward the camp's remaining authority, divided between escape and defiance. Packs tighten, blades remain close, and every conversation dies when Effruin approaches.

Effruin drives his shoulder into Vas and pushes him aside. The larger druid gives ground, boots scraping through ash, more startled than injured as the camp’s attention follows.

Vas stays behind as Effruin crosses to the lee of a collapsed wagon, where torn canvas walls cut off the camp’s noise and leave a patch of cold shade.

He sets a battered cup, bitter herbs, and a dented flask on the wagon plank. Holding the cup steady against the wood, he measures and mixes with one hand, every small motion taxing the shoulder.

The drink comes together slowly but cleanly. Effruin seals the flask beneath the canvas, alone with its sharp scent and the distant murmur of rebels deciding what remains.

Effruin uncorks the chimera-hide wineskin and pours its sharp spirit into the battered cup, bracing the vessel against the wagon plank with his forearm.

His missing right arm makes every task awkward. He pins the herbs beneath his elbow, then crushes them one-handed against the wood until their bitterness bleeds into the liquor.

The old dependence steadies his judgment rather than his hand; he knows the scent, the measure, and the dark warmth his body expects. He adds water sparingly.

Effruin seals the wineskin and works it against the wagon’s edge, rolling the mixture until the herbs dissolve. The leather flexes without leaking, holding the batch cleanly.

When he opens it again, the liquor has taken on a smoky amber color and a harsh, rich aroma. A serviceable batch of rum rests within the chimera hide.

Effruin knots the chimera-hide wineskin beneath his belt with one hand, the leather flexing securely around the smoky rum. His shoulder protests, but the pack closes.

The liquor’s sharp scent follows him beneath the canvas. Alcoholism tugs at his attention, urging another drink, yet the long road’s familiar burden steadies his pace.

He leaves the wagon’s shade and crosses the unraveling camp without a word. Ash crunches beneath his boots as the forest road opens ahead.

Eve of the Willow steps from the wounded refugees’ shelter into his path, her red shabby robes and broad wizard hat stark against the smoke.

Her request reaches him, but his feet do not stop. No matter how much he might love Eve, and no matter how much he might want to give her what she wants just for the chance at her affection, he would not suffer lost causes. The wineskin knocks softly against his hip, while his remaining arm settles into the rhythm of departure.

Eve remains behind as Effruin passes beyond the camp’s last bundles and takes the forest road alone, carrying the rum and leaving her appeal unanswered.