Anabasis

The grove looked like all four seasons lived there next to each other.
The children started to pick flowers to weave them into crowns.
Some even splashed in the babbling brook.
Only when one of them reached to pick an apple from an impossibly autumnal tree the cleric caught their hand.
"Whoever you are," he spoke to the air. "Show yourself. We mean no harm. We just want to pass through."
The trees seemed to hold their breath for a heartbeat.
"Your hands are full of blood," the grove answered. "Your mind is poisoned by war. The children deserve better!"

The further east they traveled, the less settlements they encountered.
The countryside grew ever wilder.
And with every step and every turn in it it seemed more aware of their presence.
If they concentrated, they could feel the magic, ever more foreign, ever more unknown crackling all around them.
There was almost a palpable curiosity in the air, as if every creature - and pretty soon every landscape feature as well - looked and listened and considered the Interlopers into their territory.
Pretty soon all the chatter, usual during the day on the road, quietened to whispers, reminiscent of reverence in church.

Everything fell into the eerie silence of anticipation, and that's when they could hear it.
Krraaa! Krraaa! Krraaa!
The cleric frowned.
"Tell me those are rooks," he indicated black birds, swooping in and out of sight.
"Crows," the ranger grimmed, eyes narrowed, ears pricked. "We better be stealthy."
They crept through the undergrowth, until they came to a small clearing.
With very fresh, very open mass grave, crawling with cawing blackness.
The paladin moved to step into the open.
"Don't," the ranger pulled him back, pointing at two crows perched on branches, seemingly keeping guard.
"Who know who they serve..."

They had a reputation, the Erekari.
Valiant souls, never fleeing from a fight.
Fearless adventurers who won't balk at any challenge.
Mere sight of their banner gave enough courage to make them almost invincible.
Some considered them daredevils, cavalierly defying odds, mocking danger...

"You have some nerve!" spat the innkeeper.
"It's called gallantry," the cleric shrugged, tossing a bag of gold on the bar.
"...or having a lot of heart," the bar wench piped up, cheeks crimson.
"Aye, I've got two of those," the dwarven paladin replied with a wink. "Solid effin' brass ones. In my sack."
The sorceress choked.

Mir is world, peace and fatherland.
It stands on its own, its people tough as their land.
Some say it is too big to hold together.
There definitely are wide differences within it.
The world of bustling cities, overflowing with luxuries looked with condescension and disdain at the world of fields and forests, brimming with hard work.
And the world of nature, untamed, wild, thrumming and singing with magic more ancient than most would believe was constantly striving against both the others.
The Mirians had little thought for anything outside their borders.
They always had both friends and enemies within.

They came from different walks of life, different castes, even different ethnicities.
In the beginning they had nothing in common, carried on the wave of migration, prompted by warriors fallen out of mind and time.
Flotsam and jetsam on the stream of history, carried and caught in a small cauldron of a country.
United by a moral code, that grew into (or out of?) religion.
The diverse community knit and wound ever closer by the notion that all they could rely on were each other.
Respect - grudging at first, but warmer with each generation.
Erekaria, their homeland, mothered her people.

The situation was deteriorating fast.
Suddenly there was a crash and an arrow flew in through the window, closely followed by a dwarf, yelling something that might have been a battlecry, or an insult to whoever threw him.
In the few minutes that followed, the confused Mirians lost any and all advantage they initially had.
Soon enough they were pushed out of the room, some through the just opened window, others through more conventional means (the door).
Finally, with feline elegance, the ranger swung in on a rope and landed softly right next to the safe, lockpick kit in hand.

They were traveling through a... plain. Even at the best of times it used to be deserted, but now they might as well have been on the moon. It was bitterly cold.
The party was keeping vanguard, making sure nothing attacks the caravan.
They were just coming up to a rock formation when...
*riiiip*
...a chasm opened up in the ground right in front of them. The cleric almost lost his balance, milling his arms in the air before the paladin caught him.

"...well, there goes that map!" the DM shook his head. "I knew this rubber is too hard!"

The statue was almost menacing, with a battleaxe firmly grasped in both hands.
The old arena of an unused, decrepit military facility in the middle of nowhere was not a place you would normally want to linger in.
But they had a mission. They needed something to give the caravan an edge, coming into the vicinity of the last big(ish) city on their way east.
Not that this seemed promising.
Then the paladin noticed something.
He put his hand on one of the fists and pulled it along the shaft of the axe into a correct position.
The statue moved.

The ground lurched and the paladin slid down an embankment, where the rest of the party crouched for cover.
"Well, that's our answer about this 'three crones' thing, I guess."
He grimaced at the warlock, who just shook his head, popped up and fired off an eldritch blast.
One of the three unfortunately deflected it, and in response the ground shook again, this time sprouting some menacing wines.
"We need our cleric, where is he?"
A snoring was his reply.
"Seriously??? He is still out, with all that ruckus around? How long does that sleep spell last, exactly?"
Everyone shrugged.

Forests were good.
They were a source of wood, food, medicinal herbs and good hiding places.
"Hello forest! Run!" joked the druid of the party.
"You know it doesn't work that way," came an unexpected answer. "We plants prefer to stay put."
The sorceress firebolted the shrub, before anyone could stop him.
The ranger's hound averted catastrophy by peeing on the fire, making it go out.
"Gross," the shrub shook droplets off its leaves.
"I could have used holy water," mumbled the cleric.
That's when a ghost-like figure rose out of the branches.
"Next time, I'll mask as a waterfall!"

Another day, another road.
The caravan plods along, at a pace the slowest of them can keep. Unease grips at every soul. Eyes dart back and forth, left, right... Sometimes one of the rear guard turns in their saddle to face backwards.
Everyone knows danger lurks everywhere around them. The question is, what are they facing today. Monsters from the wilds? Rads? Something worse?
The scouts are coming back, foreheads creased with worry.
The leader raises his arm and the wagons stop.
"Form the wagon fort!"
Five officers peel off.
The prayers of the whole Erekari camp go with them.