Today marked the fourth day since our departure from Yggdra.
The caravan is currently traveling east toward one of the harbor cities still allied with Roderick Street.
From there, we intend to hire a ship and return south to Port Roderick by sea.
This caravan is considerably larger than before.
Twelve wagons now move together along the road.
Six additional wagons were added purely for trade cargo.
The Caravan Master also hired a large number of temporary workers for this journey.
The roads feel louder lately.
Busier.
More alive.
Yet strangely…
None of it has managed to improve my mood very much.
We are currently resting near an old place called the Ruins of Elbaf.
Though calling it ruins feels somewhat generous.
I saw no collapsed towers.
No broken walls.
No ancient roads swallowed by time.
Only a wide stretch of open land beneath pale grass and uneven stones.
Perhaps the ruins themselves no longer exist.
Or perhaps people simply kept the name because forgetting felt stranger.
Lately, I have not felt particularly motivated to write.
What happened with Kitsu still lingers unpleasantly in my chest.
And beyond that…
I still have not told Ryn that I intend to leave the caravan after this journey.
Every time I consider bringing it up, the words somehow become heavier.
So instead, I continue delaying it.
Which is a remarkably effective strategy if one wishes to slowly become a coward.
Earlier today, while sitting beside the campfire eating roasted chicken, I found myself quietly observing the core members of the caravan’s main wagon.
It occurred to me somewhat suddenly that despite traveling together for so long…
I have barely written about any of them.
Which feels strange now that I think about it.
Without them, I am fairly certain this caravan would collapse within a week.
Possibly sooner.
Thrain “Ironbeard” Korr sat closest to the fire as usual.
Massive shoulders.
Grey braided beard.
Eyes that never stopped scanning the surroundings even while eating.
He rarely speaks unless necessary.
But somehow his silence feels reliable rather than cold.
The newer workers seem terrified of disappointing him.
Reasonably so.
Nearby sat Garrick “Stonefist” Vale.
Complaining.
As always.
Mostly about supply costs.
And wagon weight.
And water usage.
And apparently the structural dishonesty of barrel manufacturers.
I am still uncertain whether he enjoys complaining or simply communicates exclusively through suffering.
Across from him sat Borin “Grim” Ashford repairing a broken lantern hook while muttering things that sounded deeply hostile toward both metal and existence itself.
Every few minutes he announced this would absolutely be his final caravan journey.
Nobody acknowledged this statement.
Which suggests he says it often enough to qualify as tradition.
Rordan “Blackthorn” Hale arrived somewhat later from scouting ahead of the road.
He sat down quietly beside the fire without greeting anyone.
Then calmly informed us he once heard a Giant breathing beneath the stones of Giant Crossing during winter.
Nobody reacted strongly.
Which somehow disturbed me more than the statement itself.
Eventually the conversation shifted toward the roasted chickens we were eating.
Master Stonefist wondered aloud why chickens possessed wings despite barely being capable of flight.
Master Grim declared them defective birds.
Master Blackthorn suggested perhaps they had once offended a god and been cursed accordingly.
Everyone laughed.
Even the Caravan Master seemed mildly amused.
I was not paying much attention at first.
Mostly because I was concentrating on the chicken itself.
Then suddenly—
Ryn casually remarked that perhaps I knew the answer.
And before fully realizing I had opened my mouth, I began explaining.
Apparently modern domesticated chickens descend from a wild ancestor called the Red Junglefowl from the southeastern continent.
They were originally capable of short burst flights for escaping predators and reaching elevated resting points.
However, selective breeding by humans over roughly eight thousand years gradually prioritized meat production and egg-laying efficiency over flight capability.
This resulted in increased body mass, reduced wing proportionality, and significantly diminished aerial function compared to their ancestral forms.
I explained all of this while continuing to eat.
Without once looking up from my chicken.
Then eventually—
I noticed the silence.
A very complete silence.
When I finally raised my head, everyone around the fire was staring at me.
Even the Caravan Master.
Master Stonefist looked genuinely concerned.
Master Grim appeared deeply offended by my existence somehow.
Master Blackthorn narrowed his eyes slightly as though reevaluating whether I might secretly be supernatural.
Then beside me, Ryn sighed quietly into her cup.
“Of course you know,” she muttered.
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