Tim is out of breath, sweat dripping down my brow, hands glowing with ether as I weave vines into the frame of my sixth A-frame shelter of the day. The structure’s coming together—slanted roof, two walls to block the wind, sturdy enough for 2-3 people, maybe 4. My crafting team’s nearby, hammering away at their own projects, the clearing buzzing with the usual hum of 500 people going about their tasks. I’m just lashing the last vine to secure the roof when a commotion stirs from the south—shouts, the rustle of leaves, a ripple of tension through the camp. I pause, wiping my forehead, and look up to see a massive group—hundreds strong—emerging from the woods.
An entourage of five from the new group approaches, their leader at the front, an Oriental-looking woman with sharp features and a commanding presence. She grips a well-made spear, its tip carved from bone, and I spot bows among her group, arrows fletched with feathers. They’re partially clothed in animal skins and furs, stitched into rough tunics and cloaks—a stark contrast to our leafy gear. Mr. Simons strides forward, gesturing for a few of us to join him. Sophia’s at his side, her purple eyes scanning, with Gideon and Rebecca following. For some reason, he waves me over too—me, still holding a bundle of vines, ether fading from my hands. I jog to catch up, confused but not arguing.
The two groups meet near the clearing’s edge, tension hanging thick in the air. Mr. Simons steps forward, his Texan drawl steady but cautious. “I’m Simons, leader here. This is my team—Rebecca, chief of medicine; Gideon, chief of security; Sophia, chief of communications; and Timothy, chief of supplies.” I blink, startled—chief of supplies? Since when? I open my mouth to question it, but Sophia’s voice whispers quietly in my ear—“It was decided days ago. You were too busy crafting to notice.” I shut my mouth, cheeks burning, and nod awkwardly, trying to look like I belong.
The woman assesses us, her dark eyes steady but not hostile. “I’m Zhang Mei,” she says, her Chinese name carrying a quiet authority. She gestures to her entourage. “This is George, our crafter—handles our gear and weapons.” An older man steps forward, grizzled, with steady hands and a bow slung over his shoulder. “These two are my bodyguards, Liang and Wei—twins.” Two men, identical with lean builds and fur cloaks, nod in unison, each gripping a spear. “And this is Chen, our military leader.” A broad-shouldered man with a scarred face and a staff steps up, his eyes scanning us like Gideon’s mirror.
They’re weary, shoulders slumped from a long trek, but Zhang Mei holds herself tall. “We’ve come a long way, traveled for days,” she says, her voice measured. “We’re not here for trouble—just lookin’ for a safe place to rest.”
Simons nods, his jaw tight, but he doesn’t relax. “You’re welcome to rest, but I’ll be straight with you—we’ve got trouble of our own. North of here, we’ve got greys—short, grey-skinned, nasty claws. They’re psionically linked, so don’t use psionics on ‘em—it’ll backfire. They’ve got large numbers, and they take women when they attack. We’ve been holdin’ ‘em off, but the north’s dangerous.” Gideon shifts, his scowl deepening, hands flexing like he’s ready for a fight. Sophia’s gaze is steady, scanning their minds—“No deception. They’re cautious, but genuine.”
Zhang Mei exhales, a flicker of concern in her eyes, though her expression remains composed. “We’ve had our own problems too. Groups of raiders, fightin’ like berserkers—throwin’ themselves at us with no regard for their own safety, swingin’ those clubs like they’re possessed. Seen people tied up with vines and dragged or marched off to their camp. I’ve never seen it myself, but Chen has.” She nods to her military leader, who steps forward, his scarred face grim. “They’re set up in the flat grassland, teeming—thousands strong. Huts made of grass and mud, sprawlin’ as far as you can see. They’re buildin’ an army by forceful conscription.”
The morning after Zhang Mei’s group joins us, I’m tasked with getting their crafters settled in. I find George near the main shelter, his grizzled face focused as he inspects a pile of vines we’ve been using. He’s got a small team with him—three others, two men and a woman, all in fur tunics, carrying bundles of their own materials: furs, sinew, and carved bones. They look eager but out of place among our leafy setup. I wipe my hands on my toga, still adjusting to this “chief of supplies” title, and approach. “George, right? I’m Timothy—guess I’m in charge of supplies ‘round here. Let’s get you and your team introduced to the rest of the crafters.”
George looks up, his weathered eyes sharp but friendly, and gives a nod. “Lead the way, Timothy. We’re ready to work.” His team follows as I guide them to the crafting area—a cleared patch near the edge of the camp where my crew’s been working non-stop. There’s about a dozen of them, scattered around piles of vines, leaves, and branches, crafting togas, belts, and spears. The air smells of sap and sweat, with faint shimmers of ether lingering from our work. I call everyone over, clapping my hands to get their attention. “Hey, folks—this is George and his team, new crafters joinin’ us. They’ve got skills with furs and weapons, so let’s make ‘em feel at home.”
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My team gathers, curious but waiting for me to say more. I realize, with a sinking feeling, that I barely know their names. Much to focused on crafting instead of socialising with the people around me. I fumble, pointing vaguely. “Uh, this is… the crew. They’re good with vines and stuff.” An awkward silence hangs; a few of them exchange looks, and I feel my face heat up. I’m supposed to be chief of supplies, but I don’t even know who I’m leading. Trying to save face, I blurt, “Look, I’ve been buried in work— some of the camp still don't have any clothes.”
That gets a few chuckles, and the tension eases. A wiry woman with quick hands speaks up. “I get it— Name’s Lila, by the way.” A stocky guy with a half-finished spear chimes in, “Doesn't help that we are up half the night with the greys out there— I’m Marcus.” Another crafter, a tall woman with a pile of leaves, adds, “Don’t even get me started—I swear my fingers are number from all this melding.” I grin, relieved
With the ice broken, I show George’s team our workstations: the vine piles for clothing, the branch stacks for shelters, the sharpening stones for weapons. “We’ve been makin’ do with what we’ve got,” I explain, showing George a toga I crafted yesterday, the edges a bit uneven where the vines didn’t meld smoothly. “Mostly vines and leaves—keeps us covered, but it ain’t pretty.”
George grunts, running a hand over the toga. “It’s solid work for what you’ve got. We’ve been usin’ furs and sinew—warmer, tougher, but takes more time to prep.” He gestures to one of his team, the woman, who pulls out a fur cloak—stitched tight, lined with soft hide, the seams glowing faintly where ether sealed them. My team murmurs, impressed, and I can’t help but feel a little jealous of their gear.
With introductions done, we get to work—time to learn from each other. What follows is a blur of activity, a proper crafting montage. George shows us how to skin small game with a bone knife, his hands steady as he peels fur in one smooth motion, then tans the hide with ash and water. I watch, fascinated, as he uses ether to meld the fur pieces together, his hands glowing as the seams fuse into a cloak that’s warm and durable.
My team jumps in, trying it themselves—Lila’s quick to pick up the melding technique, her ether steady as she seals a fur seam, while Marcus struggles with the tanning, muttering about the smell.
In return, I teach George’s team how to meld vines into togas and belts, showing them how to channel ether to fuse the vines into a single piece, then layer leaves with a thin coat of ether for waterproofing. George takes to it fast, his carpenter’s eye for structure helping him meld a belt smoother than mine in half the time. His team’s slower, their ether flaring unevenly as they try to fuse the vines, but they get the hang of it, laughing when one of their togas splits apart mid-meld. We move on to weapons—George demonstrates how to carve a spear tip from bone, sharpening it to a wicked point, then uses ether to meld it seamlessly to a wooden shaft. I show them how to meld a branch with a stone tip using ether, the glow of my hands fusing the materials into a sturdy spear. By the end of the day, we’re swapping tips like old friends—George’s team melding vine belts, my crew fusing fur cloaks, a pile of new spears and togas growing between us. It’s exhausting, but for the first time in days, crafting feels like more than just a grind.
As the sun dips low, George and I are wiping down our tools when I spot Zhang Mei and Mr. Simons near the main shelter, waving us over. They’re sitting by the big fireplace, a spread of roasted fish and roots laid out—chow time. We head over together, my hands still tingling from ether use, and join them on the crude benches. Simons nods at us, tearing into a fish. “How’s the craftin’ goin’, boys?”
I clear my throat, trying to sound like I’ve got a handle on things. “Goin’ good, sir. George’s team’s settled in—we’ve been tradin’ skills all day. They’re teachin’ us how to meld furs and bone, makin’ cloaks and better spear tips. We’re showin’ ‘em how to fuse vines, layer leaves with ether for waterproofin’. Got a good pile of gear done—togas, belts, spears, some cloaks. Teams are meshin’ well.” I glance at George, who gives a small nod of agreement, and I feel a bit more confident. Maybe I can handle this chief of supplies gig after all.
I bite into a piece of fish, the taste bland and smoky—same old, same old. My mind drifts, imagining a proper battered fish and chips, the fish golden and crispy, paired with thick-cut fries and a dollop of delicious tartar sauce, tangy and creamy. Yum. I’m lost in the daydream, the imagined crunch almost real, when Chen, Zhang Mei’s military leader, speaks up, his scarred face serious as he leans forward, staff resting across his knees.
“Leaders, if I may—a tactical report,” Chen says, his voice low but firm. “This clearing, it’s too exposed. We’re open to attack from all sides, and we’ve got two major threats now—raiders from the south, greys from the north. The raiders are thousands strong, buildin’ an army through force, and they’ll come for us if they track our trail. The greys, with their numbers and psionic link, can hit us hard from the north, especially at night when visibility’s low. We’re sittin’ ducks here—need a better position, higher ground, or at least some natural barriers.” He pauses, glancing between Simons and Zhang Mei. “We can’t stay here long-term—not with enemies closin’ in.”
I snap out of my fish-and-chips fantasy, the weight of Chen’s words sinking in. Simons’ jaw tightens, and Zhang Mei’s eyes narrow, both leaders clearly feeling the pressure of our new reality.
