The waning days of winter were quick to pass, bringing the promise of spring and renewal to the nation of Sylvee. Being of the middle-north portion of the Pact of Aeon, Sylvee, and its respective settlements, were host to the extremes of all seasons. Heated summers and frigid winters were what befell the land, with Autumn and Spring being the only seasons a reasonable man would find kind to the body. Days, once short and shallow, stretched longer with each passing week, dethawing the frost and snow covering the ground to truly herald the end of the tundra season. The trees, still dark and dormant, would take quick to the change in temperature, and bud with life anew. All in time, however. For now, the cold was still present in the land.

Ander, with a pelt strung about his back, and a cup of tea nestled in his hands, sat on a large rocky outcrop looking over Thrassing’s Valley. The stone belonged to the cliff his new home was dug into, and it provided him with an excellent view of the rising sun in the east. Echelons of clouds loomed above the young man, with the yellow gleam of the distant sun painting over them a varied mirage of colors, both warm, and some cold. As always, he had his coveted choir of risen birds to serenade the moment as he sipped his tea in solitude. It was his morning ritual to escape the stronghold and watch the dawn of every new day. With a month separating the present and his first appearance at the stronghold’s door, a great deal had changed. His form, once tattered and stripped of weight, had filled out some under the guise of the gang, bringing him renewed strength. His time beneath his coats and old blue nightwear were gone as a great deal of clothes had been afforded to him, thanks in large part to the generosity of his new brother-in-arms, Damien.

A particular group, they are, and drew from his tea, enjoying the warmth gifted to him by the bear pelt on his back. While they could be harsh and unforgiving, and downright cruel, the thieves weren’t evil at heart. Did they lack honor and constitution? No doubt. But it never came from malice, or hatred. Their view of life was ‘in order to survive’, and thus sprung their twisted choices. It was a relief to learn that, in all their years, they had only ever made four witnesses, with two of them being Nallia, the Nyx woman, and Damien. The fate of the fourth was unknown, but as the man had never begged to join, he carried with him no knowledge of the group, and such was little threat to their secrecy. 

In no way were they righteous people, at most they were neutral. At most. They stole from others to aid themselves, and thought nothing of what their larceny might bring about. While they did only steal from the wealthy, they were also absolute in their secrecy. None would ever learn of who they were, nor what they looked like. They were so hidden and veiled in shadows, in fact, that they went by no name. There was not a man who knew of the thieving clan, which was the result of the tireless effort of their leader, Sylas. Above all, that man devoted himself to keeping his siblings alive. There was no shared blood between any of the members, but it mattered not. Family is what they were, and with every step they took, they had their kin to cover their trails.

Family…

With each passing day, that one word bore ever more pain for the young Idris. To live amongst such comradery was misery, in truth. All of the members had endured suffering, as he had, but in no same magnitude to his. The core four: Sylas, Bella, Leon and Thaddeus, were the closest. He wasn’t sure, but from what he had picked up on, he assumed they were all from the northern orphanage, the same one Nina had come from. Like the silver-haired maiden, they were kicked out onto the street, and with time they grew to become thieves. There they came across a wandering Nyx, far from her home in the mountains and isles of Arbora. Born of the Shadowfang lineage, it was a mystery as to why Nallia had come to the land of Elyon when so much was promised to her at home. Nonetheless, she was a valued member of the group, and her venomous affection for the younger archer only served to make her stranger. The sixth member was the homeless Damien, who had only been with the gang for a few seasons prior to Ander’s arrival, having taken up apprenticeship under Thaddeus in archery. 

None of their lives were easy, but none of them had watched their life blaze away in an inferno, or witnessed their love succumb to the cold. His past made it hard to form any real relationship with the group, no matter how they treated him. The lady magii, Bella, despite being cold on the outside as they all were, was a kind spirit in her heart. It was thanks to her that he had regained his strength, yet he found himself unable to connect with her, nor any of them. How could he ever come to feel for another, when everything he loved was destined to die?

He put down his tea, and drew from his pocket the folded up portrait. Its colors and features were as grand as the night he was given it. His parents’ stoic looks, Elara’s infectious smile, and the general warmth of the visage brought sickness to the boy’s stomach. The last of his love was placed in the painting, and it was unlikely he would ever cultivate more.

“Ander!”

Leon’s voice called from afar, but the waves found no council in Ander’s ears. The boy continued to admire his artwork even as the growing sounds of footsteps loomed near, and eventually right behind him. A sigh was let loose from the swordsman’s lips, which dragged the younger man out of his distant state.

“What’s that you’ve got?”

Ander was quick to hide the parchment, stowing it in his pelt to hide from Leon’s curious eyes. “I-It’s nothing! Just a piece of hide.”

“Is that the same piece you had the night you showed up?”

“So what if it is?”

“I don’t mean to meddle, don’t mind me,” Leon took a step back, digging his thumbs beneath the hem of his belt. 

“But I do mean to take you somewhere.”

“Take me where?”

“You’ll find out when we get there. Now up! This isn’t for negotiation.”

With reluctance, Ander rose to his feet, dusting off the bear pelt tied around his neck. The piece was actually prepared by the very swordsman standing before him, having made it not so long after he arrived a month prior. Made from the skin of the bear he felled, it was a thick piece, and brought its wearer much warmth and comfort.

“Shall we?”

The two began their amble down the wooded incline bearing the rocky cliff, meshing into the line of great trees and thick ferns parallel to the edge of the outcrop. The forest, much like it was every morning, was alive with avian song and foodland creatures, securing amongst the underbrush and up the scales of the mighty woods. It was a forest of many kinds, home to a number of oaks, pines, beeches, shagbarks, and above all, Ander’s favorite: the dogwood. With but a few months before its branches were flooded with pleasant white blossoms, it was nonetheless beautiful even when dormant. They were scarce in Vern’s Forest, but when one was found, it was a delight for the boy. Without much duties around the stronghold, he was free to roam about, regaining his grip on the concept of freedom. For so long, he had been under the tyranny of the alleys. But no longer.

“Do you care for the wild, Ander?”

“What’s that?”

“I asked if you cared for it? The woods, the birds. You seem to slip off whenever convenient. I know for certain that these walks best any road in Vimbaultir in beauty. I say this with experience.”

“That they do,” Ander spoke in a low voice. 

“Yet you still haven’t answered my question?” Leon looked back, his brow furrowed. “I understand being closed off, I do. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, Ander, and it doesn’t help that you’re so… disconnected.”

“My past is my own,” the young man pulled the bear cloak further around his body like a barrier to the forest. “It does not concern the present.”

“The past always concerns the present, and the future. But it does not have to be a burdening concern.”

“Then my burdens are my own, is that clear enough?”

Leon shook his head, looking up at the sunlight peeking through the overhanging canopy of the woods. Even Damien wasn’t this walled off when he arrived last summer, and within a couple weeks time, the boy found home in the clan. The swordsman could only pray Ander found the same fate.

“They don’t have to be, that’s my point. What do you wish to achieve by keeping all the pain to yourself?”

“And why do you care, why do any of you care.”

“Because… Ander, because we were you, that’s why. Your shoes were once our own, we know what it’s like to trek with feet burdened by heavy chains. You need not walk as you do now.”

“...”

“Are you afraid that speaking of it will only make it worse?”

“...”

“You'll be no less measure of a man if you seek company, Ander.”

“...”

“Well, perhaps another time.”

The rest of the walk was captive to silence, shedding no noise other than the crunching of brush beneath the soles of their feet. The path they walked on was narrow, and winding through the deciduous forest for miles far beyond the stronghold’s distance. It rose slightly above the rest of the forest and was bordered by withered ferns and small protuberances of stone. Boulders of granite were layered throughout the environment, bearing patches of moss - the only green of the hibernating forest. 

After a short while, the slope of the path evened out, and the aged stone brick walls of the stronghold began to creep through the woodland screen. There was much to the encampment other than the main keep. Outside the doors was a courtyard, which held several stone structures and even a tent pitched by the gang. To the left of the entrance was the wide stables where they housed their steeds, which ran in length to mesh with the forgery. Opposite to all of this was the large white tent - made to house whatever was deemed miscellaneous - and the exterior of the keep’s cache, where the food and provisions were stored. 

The pair paced around the stone wall, and came about the two looming doors of the front gate. Save for the night of Ander’s arrival, the two doors were always locked at dusk, and levied open at dawn. It was uncommon for any man to wander this deep into the forest, and even so, there wasn’t a soul who cared much about a crumbling and irrelevant military fort. Thus, the group had no worries about strangers meandering inside the fort, except for those who wished to join, that is.