Time’s a blur, flying past as I zone in-- focusing on what I can do to help out. Crafting!!

  I’m hunched over a pile of vines and leaves, hands glowing with ether, crafting like my life depends on it—‘cause maybe it does. Item after item taking shape: more togas, sturdier boxers, a few crude vine-laced belts, even some pointy sticks that might pass for spears. Sophia’s been a godsend at the start, her cool voice cutting through my haze—“Next project: reinforce the shelters—vines, tighter weaves.” She keeps me on track, feeding me updates so I can focus on crafting faster, better. No need for me to socialise, ask people what they want crafted and then figure out what needs to be done.

  Days bleed together, my fingers raw but my ether humming stronger each time. I’m not blind, though—between weaving and shaping, I notice the camp swelling. The clearing’s a hub now, new faces trickling in mostly from the south, east, and west. While I’ve been stitching clothes, tools, weapons, we’ve become a beacon. The east and west groups tell grim tales—grey attacks, same as us. Some stumble in injured, eyes hollow, muttering about claws and screams; others are battle-hardened, paranoid, clutching makeshift weapons, scanning the trees like the greys’ll pop out any second.

  The south, though, seems safer—no major threats, unless you count other human groups. Most interactions there are peaceful—small bands spot our clothes and tools, begging to join. A few larger groups come to trade instead, and I catch glimpses of their gear—other crafters are out there, no doubt.

  Later, an east group limps in—three guys, one with a gashed arm, faces pale. They flinch at every rustle, and when Rebecca patches the wounded one, he grabs her wrist, wild-eyed. “They’re still out there—greys took my sister,” he chokes out. Gideon looms over, growling, “We’ll get ‘em back,” but the guy just shakes his head, traumatized. I hand him a spear—best I can do—and he clutches it like a lifeline, muttering thanks.

  A west group—four of ‘em, battle-scarred, led by a stocky woman with a shaved head and a stone axe. “Greys hit us two days back,” she says, voice hard. “Lost half our crew—barely got out. You got weapons?” I point to a stack of sharpened sticks and vine-wrapped clubs. She tests one, nods, but her eyes keep darting north—paranoid, like she’s waiting for claws to strike.

  The north, though—that’s a different story. Only a few stragglers stumble in from there, always injured, always lucky to be alive. One guy, barely standing, collapses at the edge—blood down his leg, eyes glassy. “They’re everywhere,” he whispers, shaking. “Saw ‘em drag off… everyone." He wimpers inchoherently "Claws, teeth… I ran.” He’s too broken to say more, and Rebecca’s on him fast, but I can’t shake his words. The north is grey territory—pure, untouchable hell.

  The camp’s grown fast—nearing 500 people now, a proper settlement. I’ve got a team of crafters working alongside me, not that I’ve really interacted with ‘em—Sophia’s been my buffer so far, and I’m thanking her silently for saving me from small talk. There’s been construction too: a large shelter-slash-gathering place sits in the clearing’s heart, a big fireplace at its center with crude benches—vines and logs lashed together. The ceiling’s a thick weave of leaves and vines, keeping out rain, but there’s no walls yet, just open air.

  Surrounding it are dozens of smaller shelters—mostly simple A-frames, enough for a few people each, with slanted ceilings and a couple of walls to block the elements. Fire pits dot the clearing’s edges, more to the north—our defense line, burning day and night to keep the greys at bay. We’re building, surviving, but the north’s shadow looms heavy.

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  After a hard day’s work, I’m beat—ether’s low, hands aching. I shuffle to one of the benches near the main campfire, the glow warm against the night chill, and take a breather, watching the camp hum. Then I head to my own little spot to sleep—a one-man A-frame I claimed, just big enough for me. I’ve crafted a crude bed inside: a frame of sturdy branches lashed with vines, layered with soft moss I found near the stream.

  I remember sitting by the main campfire, the flames casting a warm glow as I share a roasted fish with Rebecca. Her green eyes catch the light, and she laughs at something I said—probably a dumb crafting joke—her dimples showing as she nudges my shoulder. The moment shifts, and now I’m cuddling with Sophia, sitting up against a log at the clearing’s edge, her blonde hair shimmering under the stars. Her icy elegance softens as she leans into me, our shoulders pressed together, the night sky stretching endless above us. Then I’m lying in my crafted bed again, the moss soft beneath me, a girl with long hair beside me. I run my fingers through her silky strands, her warmth filling the A-frame, my arm around her as I breathe in the quiet comfort.

  “Attack!” The shout rips through the dream shattering, as reality crashes in— "Greys, north side of the clearing." Another shout. I bolt upright, heart slamming. I hear the crackle of fire pits flaring, the watch’s sharp yells. “Greys—scouts!”—the triplets’ network buzzes in the back on my mind like static. I scramble up, reaching for my meager crafts—a sharpened stick, a vine toga—panic spiking as I brace for another fight.

  But then Sophia’s voice cuts through, cool and steady—“All clear. Attack repelled—no breach.” I exhale, tension draining, undress and settle back onto my moss bed, tugging the ragged vine blanket up. Hopefully, I can get some uninterrupted sleep now.

  All too soon the bright rays of dawn sting my eyes, pulling me to wakefulness. I groan, stretching in my A-frame, the moss creaking under me. I crawl out, splash my face with water from a nearby clay pot I crafted—holds just enough for a quick drink and rinse down—then run my fingers through my hair, shaking off the night’s sweat.

  I tug on my toga, the vines a bit frayed but holding, and head to the main gathering shelter. The big fireplace is already crackling, a few folks roasting fish and some kind of root over the flames. I grab a skewer—fish, crispy and warm—and join a small group on the benches.

  Teddy’s there, beard flecked with ash-- I thank him for cooking the food. An excuse likely to spend more time playing with fire. Rebecca’s sipping water from a crude wooden cup, her green eyes tired. "Stayed up late" I query her, she nods and channels some healing aura on her hands as an answer. A few of the fighters on the northern boundrary likely kept her busy. I share a comiserating smile.

  Mr. Simons strides in, the big man in charge, his toga stretched tight over his broad frame. He claps his hands, that Texan drawl cutting through the morning chatter. “Mornin’, y’all—let’s talk shop. Camp’s holdin’ strong—near 500 of us now, and we’re growin’. South’s still our best bet for trade; east and west groups are settlin’ in, some still jumpy from grey run-ins. North had that skirmish last night—a small skirmish, nothin’ more, but they’re testin’ us. Watch stays doubled, and we’re scoutin’ deeper today. Tim, your crew’s gearin’ us up good—keep it comin’.” He nods at me, and I manage a small uncertain grin, chewing my fish. 'My Crew', I'm not in charge of anything..

  Breakfast done, I’m itching to meditate—maybe clear my head, tap deeper into my ether, improve my crafting. I glance at my latest work: a toga, vines fraying at the edges, a spear tip that’s more splinter than point. Tatty, all of it—I need to get better. But then I see the massive pile of crafting waiting: leaves, vines, branches, all needing to be turned into gear for 500 people. I sigh, sitting down for another grinding session. As I start weaving, my first task of the morning is tackling that pile—yay, 100 pairs of boxers. Who said crafting isn’t fun?