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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.

"They bring the plague!"
"Curses, I tell you. They serve the mother of devils..."
"...plunder, rape, murder. That's what they leave in their wake."
"Helping them is treason."
"But those who refuse to help end... badly."
If looks could kill, they would all be drowning in blood.
Whispers and growls followed them.
The sorceress pointed at a pamphlet, nailed to a notice board.
"Somebody is making this difficult for us."
The paladin shrugged. "Let's show them the rumours are wrong."
He turned to three street urchins, offering them food.
"A cousin of a friend got poisoned like that," someone spit.

Their allegiance was first and foremost to the people in their charge, and to the homeland they were trying to get to.
Staying neutral was necessary - but at the same time it was impossible, because the warring factions held the resources.
"We should try to talk to the mayor, or whoever is in charge in that village," the cleric suggested. "They don't seem friendly with any of the sides - so maybe they will help us."
"Maybe they were left alone, because they don't have anything of interest," the sorceress opined.
"Won't know till we ask, will we?" the paladin shrugged.

When you have to cross such vast distance, you need speed, agility, and endurance.
When it is paramount to keep going, you need something that will carry you.
Legs or wheels.
Both need maintenance - the wheels can be replaced (with a bit of time and material, which you might not have), the legs need to be protected.
Which is why, every evening, while the campfires are burning, there are the sounds of hammers on metal, and neighing, as the new horseshoes are shaped and affixed; and the softer sounds of mallets and needles on leather, shaping, reshaping and darning shoes.

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 want to go home - although what *is* home remains to be seen.
For two centuries Erekaria has been occupied by a neighbouring country with pretensions to empirehood.
Now it finally had a chance to break the chains and stand on its own again.
There were a lot of opinions on which way they should cast their lots next.

The country is too small to stand without allies.
The allies cannot be allowed to turn into usurpers ever again.
We have the opportunity to garner favour with 'cousins' right here, right now.
We no longer need to fight another's war.

The cleric, paladin and sorceress were leaning over a map, discussing a plan.
Suddenly the ranger burst into the room, victoriously waving a small bundle of some... dried herbs.
"I've got us the way into the tower!" she announced gleefully. "Grace, the herbalist, had it in her supplies!"
Her companions looked at her with confusion.
"Not sure which part is 'ear', so I took the whole plants."
The sorceress caught on, and almost facepalmed.
"I said we need 'the ear of A sage' - the trust of someone who has access to the wizards' order!"
The tabaxi blinked: "Oh! ... Tea, anyone?"

The adventuring party stood in front of a conundrum.
The copse of trees they were coming up to was almost definitely important and some sort of magical.
The question was, how to find out if who- or whatever reigned over it was neutral or took a side in the war.
"It might be just nature. A dryad or maybe a ring of druids?" the ranger guessed.
The paladin looked at her sideways. "When did you last check your character sheet?"
"My what?" she sputtered, flabbergasted.
"Oh..." the paladin blushed. "I meant, I seem to remember you being proficient in nature..."

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.

Most of the villages along their way were not affluent to begin with.
But with the Rad's creeping encroachment, they became almost unlivable.
Most able bodied men gang pressed into service, or dragged off into mines.
The louder of the women shot as an object lesson.
Houses, barns and fields stripped of anything useful.
But some people were devious or better prepared than others.
"That's the last of them," the sorceress dusted off her robes, looking at the pile of flour sacks they stored in a hidden basement.
"Thank you, friends," the miller smiled, rewarding them with a magic wand.

She was the force that united them, the thing that held them together when the forces of the world threatened to tear them asunder.
Some said she was a princess of old, the one who led the first inhabitants to the land of milk and honey. Others thought she was the goddess, the creator.
One thing was certain - she was the Savior, the Protector.
To be an Erekari meant to believe in and worship her.
Dcerka, our Lady, do not let us or future ones perish.
"I will not.
I will go with you everywhere, and bring you back home."

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!"

In a way, the Rads were predictable. Press everyone to convert (and give their worldly possessions into service of "the cause"), or murder them in their crusade (and take their possessions anyway).
Travelling through the night, you could see the fires burning - non-compliant, looted villages set alight, or camp bonfires celebrating the latest success?
Sometimes you could tell by the sounds... other times... you could not.
The smart option was to not engage.
It might be easy.
Sneak by, while the garrisons sleep in drunken stupor.
Treat locals with respect, but do not see the pleading tears in their eyes.

The village was on the verge of ruin and despair.
"Help us!" there was a woman, braver than most. "Please! My father is ill. Surely you have someone skilled in medicine?"
The adventurers looked at each other.
"What is ailing him?" one of them asked, cautiously.
The woman took them into a house, where an old man laid, only semi-conscious.
Two of the strangers bent over to examine him.
"I'm going to need something to focus this magic," one of them said finally. "A hen?"
"The Rads took them all! Even to the last feather..."
"There are some excrements though..."

They stood by as the mechanism pulled the gasket in and the heavy door closed.
"There will never be another like her," Philip shook his head, voice trembling.
"It was her time. She's had a good, long and happy life," Thorne added.
"Two lives. At least," Philip smiled with glistening eyes. "But still, she deserved so much more!"
"At least she went peacefully," Maddie offered.
"Yeah, she just... sputtered out. Even pulling the plugs didn't help."
Then, as the mechanical noise rose to a crescendo, he caressed the last thing left of her - the license plate.
"Rest in pieces, Smogey."

"She swears the baby is yours. Are you going to do anything about it?" Philip asked his uncle gingerly.
There was no answer. The young agent didn't have to be an empath to feel the chill radiating from Thorne.
"Look, I get you don't want to talk... even think about it. And that's cool. Just... The worst thing that could happen, if you *do* care for them... is you look gullible, if she's lying."
The fists on the table have clenched.
"If she's telling the truth, you'd be abandoning your child. And that's not something you want held against you."