Emery dragged herself from the bunker to check her traps late in the dawn. Leftover shocks of ethergic magic from her field test jolted through her fingers and arms for the rest of the night.

On top of her troubles, more fog dreams plagued her thoughts. More screaming, more warnings. Still, this last was like her vision aboard the Waif.

She recalled the field that the two boys and their grandparent were foraging in. This time they did not notice the blood red fogbank fall around them, slowly melting the wild grasslands where ever it touched, including the family in an acid cloud.

The family of bones rummaged through the grime, unperturbed. Carrying brittle straw baskets once piled high with foraged goods, now filled with black mold and dirt. 

This time there was no Siro or walking trees to wake her from the sight of their melted skin. She awoke instead on her own as the field rock crumbled out from under her phantom feet and fell into darkness.

Emery thought best to not stay an extra day and packed. The scout disliked fog dreams when they were on the move as they left them distracted. A calmer place to reflect would be better. Away from temperamental clouds and mud.

One trap yielded a hefty walking eel, lifting her mood long enough to roast it while she tidied the bunker. Her pantry would have to wait for another wanderer to finish the job. She’ll leave a note of intentions, she promised to no one.

By mid-dawn it was as neat as when she arrived, her travel wear cleaned of most of the grime. For all the brief seconds it will be after she passes that door. And her pack weighed heavier on her shoulders.

Chunks of hail the size of her fist littered the ground outside. A few languid rolls of thunder followed her footsteps farther into the open marshland, all bluster spent after a last hurrah. The wind just firm enough to push her about.

She made good time despite the trips. Emery hiked past five out of the eight path markers; the ship bunker was the second marker on this trail. She settled down for a brief day encampment.

Days were slow on Cartania, it was long till midday and longer till nightfall. She’d look over her route later, but wager’d they’d make it to the jump site before nightfall, if she broke camp by midday. Astus was least likely to conjure more than a harsh misting. Yet, the marsh air burned with ethergic magics from last night’s storm. Anything could pop up. Night could be a distinct challenge later.

Emery needed to burn off what she collected, not quiet rid of the tingling in her fingers. The wood of her gauntlets elongated to form mole like claws over her hands.

Ethergic charges danced through her veins as Emery dug a flood path around the small reed bush. In the brush, they burrowed below, forming a modest mound underneath, no different from the other mounds of mud and reeds scattered about.

Next, she hollowed it out, creating a hovel hole. Big enough for her to crouch in with her bag comfortably, facing away from the wind. With the last fragment of her power, she fire-dried the inner walls with a flint-blaze to keep its shape for the night.

Like a well-timed bell tolling the hours of the day, the clouds rumbled pitifully in the distance and the sky dimmed. Emery choked back a laugh at the weak bluster of wind that brushed through the reeds that surrounded them. A threat was still a threat, and this area was open.

Casting a light spell over the area first, Emery huddled over her flint pit with a portion of eel between her teeth. If it were to storm heavy again, she’d have to ditch this camp sooner. She was warm and safe in her hovel for now. 

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Emery awoke much later with a painful jerk, her head hitting the dirt wall hard.

Her flint pit had died out without being tended to, leaving the hovel colder. The wind continued its abuse of the reeds outside, batting them about to clatter against her hideaway. The Mid day sun hung dimly over the Shallows now, blocked by thick cloud cover that made it darker than it should be. No storms yet. A blessing, she thought with a yawn.

The scout hadn’t meant to doze off all morning, though it happens often enough when she’s in the Shallows. Or in a fog bank. Or on very little sleep, or a combination of all. It saps her strength at the oddest times. She had to make up for lost ti-

 Sp-thunk! Sp-thunk! Sp-thunk!

Wet, dragging, heavy footsteps approached her campsite.

Her staff, that she jammed through the top of the dirt mound as a ward beacon, suddenly hummed with gentle light as her barrier spell activated to form around her camp. 

Her eldest brothers and aunt had created this ward for her for her first staff as a simple alarm for nearby danger. It was a lifesaver on her previous trips, so she carved it into her current staff when the other eventually shattered.

Not as alone as she would like in this fog bank, she held her breath to see if it worked. Only listened for whatever was stalking just beyond the reeds.