"Quickly...!"
"...it's going to be okay."
"Can only hope so...hmm."
Four lost shadows, lit by guttering torchlight, weave through the Western Brisshal woods. Following the southern flow of the Blue Rapid, the fleeing Landers threaded a dirt path only recently trodden along the river, crude weapons drawn to provide some semblance of security. They knew that many escapees from Astorea had hopped the border here in West Brisshal, but...
"...and none of this would have happened if you didn't lose the map!"
"So you think this is all my fault? That damned King Balthas..."
"What's done is done already! We need to..."
Without the precious knowledge of where the local goblin patrols and roving bandits frequented least, every step was taken at the peril of their lives. Though the ambient crashing of the rapids concealed their footsteps and arguing, the Landers knew just as well that they could hardly hear anything but the river. It would be more than difficult to detect anyone following, watching, waiting...
"Wait. There's someone there."
The vanguard of the four, who had been warily silent thus far, suddenly stops. Until now, they had been doubting whether their watchful gaze had failed them, though it was now less a comfort and more a sinking realisation that they had in fact been correct. That stalking presence trailing them since they began following the path was-

Travelers. But not Starcalled.
Short, or just hunched? The figure wore what looked like a large pelt, but in the darkness it seemed that they were garbed in a second skin, bristling in the chilling breeze. The fanciful mind may have conjured a beast on two legs barring the path, somehow having circled unseen and emerged so calmly ahead of the Landers, just out of their ring of protective firelight.
Bravely stepping forth, the vanguard kneels and issues their plea. Their companions huddle in nervous formation behind them.
"...'tis true. We are merely poor Landers fleeing Astorea. We have nothing of value save the clothes on our backs. By what grand goodness is in your heart, please, let us pass. We can do no more than this."

But there's nothing to be scared of.
In the figure's words, they could detect a sting of mirth. None of the four had any martial training, no armour nor weaponry beyond scavenged and repurposed implements; woodworking hammers and kitchen knives, at best. If this were one of those monstrous Starcalled, then they had no fighting chance in a confrontation.

This path...
The figure points down the path, into the darkness beyond. Their torches illuminate only ripples of water that reflected their light, nothing more. In turn, its shrouded head regards each of the party.

...this path, I would not take. Landers...some Landers dressed just like you wandered by not so long ago. A caravan.
Was its voice truly that of a young girl? Was it some trick, a deception, magic or something similar? How and why? The goosebumps on their skin told the Landers that something sinister was at work. Gathering up their courage, one of the Landers raises their voice to inquire:
"The path. Is it safe?"

Their bodies were never found. Only their carriage. Weapons. Scraps of clothing. Not a drop of blood spilled.
Letting a cold silence hang in the air, not a word spoken, the figure shuffles back and forth on the path. A light crunching sound, that of something crossing the undergrowth, seizes its attention. Slowly, it turns its head, slinking away into the impenetrable gloom.

Take care.
"F-Fuck."
"Maybe we should go back."
"We should run! We have to go!"
"..."
The darkness seems to close in. Fear. Confusion. The vanguard breaks formation, stepping ahead resolutely with their torch held high. The gloom has no hold over this one.
"We've come too far. I'm going."
"No. No. I'm not dying for this. This wasn't even my idea..."
"I can't...this..."
Another breaks wordlessly from the hemming and hawing to join them. The two pairs silently confront each other, gazes locked in confirmation before separating. Two go forth, two turn away. The chance of survival is most precious to preserve after all, the more certain the better.
But chance is still but chance. Roll the dice, not knowing they hold only one outcome.

...
Roll Result
1d3 (2) = 2 Landers affected
+1 Wanderer Point for Ludmilla
Presence 15 | Ludmilla Orphys | 1815 | Lander Exodus