While Roche had insisted on calling the ensuing meal a celebration, life in the wasteland didn’t exactly offer the excess supplies or time required for such a thing. They could hardly afford to eat much more than their usual daily rations, and the group needed to take turns keeping watch. What little extra they did spend on this little event could be considered counter-intuitive to survival in this harsh land, but Roche refused to let the trio leave without honoring them somehow.

Alistair had no issue taking the first watch, leaning against the outer wall of the ruin, mostly obscured behind the cover of crimson willow trees between him and the main path. With twisted, bright red trunks that seemed to drip like coagulated blood and sickly green leaves that hung down, blowing idly in the wind, he’d always found the crimson forests of the wasteland to be oddly peaceful, despite the danger oft lurking within.

His term ended sooner than expected as Roy stepped outside after no more than 10 minutes had passed, a bottle of dark liquid snagged between his fingers.

Alistair: “What’s got ya out here so soon? Ain’t a fan of the festivities?”

Roy smacked his lips in annoyance, leaning back against the wall on the opposite side of the door and taking a short swig of his drink. “Roche’s orders. Wants everyone to partake in this joke of a celebration.”

His words were laced with venom, and he spat to the side before taking another drink. “We should be moving already. I’ll stay out here until they come to their damn senses.”

Alistair nodded. “Not a fan, then. Well, I’ll take ya up on that.” He stretched and turned, giving Roy a glance as he stepped through the doorway, “Just make sure ya pay more attention to the forest than your drink.”

Roy: “Yeah, yeah. Don’t patronize me, you old codger.”

Lightly snorting at the insult, Alistair stepped inside and looked around. On one side of the campfire, Roche and Loid were seated together, father and son engaged in some form of drinking contest, of which the result was already obvious.

Seated not far from them were two women—Jacqueline, the infant Jackie still in her arms, and Roche’s wife, Arianne.

Roche often joked that both of his children took after their mothers, and while his first wife died long before their groups ever met, Alistair could not deny the uncanny resemblance between Arianne and Loid. They shared the same pale skin, dark hair, black eyes, and thin frames—if Loid were to go clean-shaven and grow his hair out, one could mistake him for his mother’s younger self.

As Jacqueline was going on about the child in her arms, Arianne gave her a sweet smile and leaned forward, her long hair spilling over her shoulders as she touched her forehead to Jacquline’s, causing the latter to cut off in surprise.

Jacqueline: “Uh, An? What’re you..?”

Arianne: “Sh.” She interrupted the younger woman again, this time with a soft whisper. “I’m sorry that this is all happening so suddenly. I wish you could stay with us.”

Jacqueline’s eyes flickered with realization, and she gently shook her head. “No, no, it’s alright. I… knew this was coming, eventually. It’s my fault you all had to break the taboo to begin with.” She leaned back a bit with a soft chuckle, “Really, I should be apologizing for making you all put up with me and Al all this time.”

Arianne: “Nonsense. Roche and I wouldn’t have taken you in if we didn’t want to.” She closed her eyes, cocking her head slightly with a beautiful smile. As with her husband, she looked shockingly youthful for her age, only sporting a few wrinkles and greying hairs.

After a moment, she opened her black eyes again and continued, “Roche said it himself, but I also want to see my grandchild again one day. And my daughter, for that matter.”

Jacqueline: “I thought Roche had Wren with his first wife?”

Arianne: “I’m talking about you, silly.”

Alistair couldn’t help but smile at their exchange. With all but one person accounted for, he turned to the side to find the remaining lone wolf of the party. Wren was leaning against a wall, watching over the others with an unopened drink in one hand.

With a click of his tongue, Alistair sauntered over, propped himself up against the wall beside her, and plucked the drink right out of her hand, popping the cap off of it with a flick of his thumb.

Alistair: “What’s got ya all down in the dumps, eh? Not a fan of the festivities, either?”

She rolled her eyes with a scoff, “Not much of a party, is it?”

Alistair chuckeld in reply and took a swig of his drink; it tasted disgusting, as to be expected of alcohol fished out of an ancient ruin. Wren shot a glance at him, rubbing one arm as her gaze drifted away. After another moment she finally spoke up, “I just… can’t help but feel tense.”

Alistair: “On the Roy train, then?” He replied with a nod.

Wren: “Ugh.” She kneaded the bridge of her nose, letting out an exasperated sigh, “I really hate to agree with him, but we really shouldn’t be wasting time—and supplies—like this. That, and…”

Alistair: “And?”

She hesitated, raising her right hand and slowly opening and closing her fist. “Dad’s strong. I know that, but… he’s getting old. He’s only going to get weaker—and Mom and Roy are only a few years behind. With you and Lyn gone, I… I’m not sure if I’ll be enough.”

Casting his gaze sideways at her serious expression, Alistair thought for a moment before turning to her with a wry grin,

Alistair: “C’mon now, Wren. You’ve been trained by both me and Roche. Really, I’d be shocked if there was a better fighter than ya out there.”

Wren: “There are two of them in this room.”

Alistair: “Old men don’t count.”

At that, she couldn’t help but chuckle. “That’s real reassuring.”

Alistair: “I ain’t joking, ya know? You’re one strong girl—and ya sell yourself too short. I reckon ya could beat old musclebrains in a serious fight, so knock that count down to one.”

Wren: “Heh. Whatever you say, “hag bastard.””

Alistair: “Oi, don’t go pushing your luck. Only fellow old men get to call me that.”

Wearing a slight smile, Wren looked back to her hand, closing her fist one last time before returning her attention to Alistair,

Wren: “Could we test that theory? After all, I won’t get to spar with you again for a while.”

Alistair cocked an eyebrow at her and threw his head back, chugging down the rest of his drink. “Ha! Getting cocky, are ya? Well, if that’s what it’ll take to put your mind at ease, so be it. I’ll meet ya outside—we oughta give Roy something to watch, anyhow.”

Wren nodded and swiftly ducked out the door as Alistair kicked off the wall, tossing his empty bottle aside. “Oi, Roche, ya drunkard! Ya still got that wooden sword?”

Roche: “Who’re you callin’ a drunkard, you hag bastard!?” Roche stood with a start, his cheeks flushed with alcohol. “Aye, I’ll get it and knock some sense into you, howsabout that?”

Alistair: “Tch, I’d love to see ya try, mu…” He trailed off as he heard hurried footsteps at the door, turning to see Wren peek her head back inside, her face knit with worry. “Wren? Somethin’ happen?”

Wren: “It’s Roy. He’s not here.”