Footprints on Foreign Soil

The dirt path, a faint line, continued deeper into the forest. Each step was a quiet rhythm against the subtle hum in the air. Trees, old and tall, formed a thick wall, their leaves a dense green that let only slivers of sunlight through, dappling the ground. The morning birdsong had faded. Now, only the sounds of the wild remained: rustles in the undergrowth, a distant, large call, the soft creak of old wood. My senses caught every detail—the smell of damp earth and strange flowers, the slight shift in air as something moved nearby.

I walked without a destination. Just moving forward. It was a quiet defiance against the void I had sought, a testament to this unwanted continuation. Sunlight, a faint memory through the thick leaves, drew patterns on the forest floor, lighting up patches of moss and odd, glowing fungi on tree bark. This world, with its unfamiliar energies and its vibrant, indifferent life, was just another stage.

Then, a new sound cut through the forest's symphony: a sharp clang of metal, a guttural shriek, then a desperate shout. Conflict. Raw. Immediate. I stopped, tilting my head slightly. “A fight? How utterly predictable.”  Even here, chaos remained. No urgency, no concern. Just a detached curiosity. The path, it seemed, led straight into someone else’s problem.

I pushed through the last line of trees. The scene unfolded quickly. Two figures, clearly adventurers, were struggling against a group of what I could expect as goblins. One, a woman with two daggers, moved fast but inefficiently. The other, a man with a large shield and longsword, lumbered, trying to land hits instead of just holding the line.

“Pathetic.”

My thoughts were silent, laced with a familiar disdain. The woman wasted movements, prioritizing flashy spins over direct strikes. Her daggers flashed, but the goblins, though clumsy, were too numerous, too aggressive. The man, a walking fortress, swung his sword like a club. He should have been a wall, a distraction. Instead, he was trying to be an attacker, leaving openings. Blood, dark against the green, splattered the ground. A goblin shrieked as her dagger found its mark, but another immediately took its place. It is funny how there was no fear in me, no disgust at the violence.

I stepped out of the shadows. Neither of them noticed me, too caught up in their clumsy dance of death. I watched for a moment longer, observing the patterns, the predictable mistakes. Then, I spoke, my voice low, almost a whisper, yet it cut through the din.

"You’re too slow to kill anything. Be the wall. Let her strike." My eyes flickered to the man, letting him know that I’m not trying to talk to any other goblin.

Then to the woman. "Pretty twirls won’t save your neck, Lady. Aim. Kill. Move. Repeat."

My words were precise, devoid of emotion. They were observations, not pleas. The woman flinched, her head snapping towards me, daggers still poised. The man, behind his shield, grunted, his gaze briefly meeting mine before returning to the goblins. Doubt flickered in their eyes. They didn't understand. They didn't believe me. Their movements remained the same, clumsy, inefficient.

Yet, a subtle shift occurred. Perhaps the sheer audacity of an unknown voice giving orders in the middle of a fight, or maybe a subconscious recognition of the logic in my words. The man tightened his shield wall, blocking more effectively. The woman, though still flashy, started aiming for more vital points, her movements gaining a fraction of precision. It wasn't a drastic change, but it was enough. The tide of the battle, slowly, imperceptibly, began to turn. The goblins, once overwhelming, now found themselves facing a slightly more coordinated defense.

The last goblin fell with a whimper, its small, green body slumping to the forest floor. Silence descended once more, broken only by the heavy breathing of the two adventurers and the faint drip of blood onto the leaves. The woman, her chest heaving, turned fully towards me, her daggers still clutched tightly. The man lowered his shield, revealing a face streaked with sweat and grime, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Who are you?" the woman demanded, her voice sharp, edged with exhaustion and lingering adrenaline.

I simply observed them. Their clothes were practical, worn, suggesting a life of constant movement and minor skirmishes. Their weapons, though functional, lacked any intricate design. They were clearly not seasoned veterans, just... beginners.

"My name is…” I paused. The old one didn’t matter. “Einar," the new name feeling foreign on my tongue. A minor inconvenience. My gaze drifted to the fallen goblins. "You fought poorly."

The woman's eyes widened, then narrowed into slits. "Excuse me?!"

"You’re both going to die swinging like amateurs," I continued, ignoring her indignation. "You, the shield-bearer, wasted energy on offense. You, the rogue, prioritized flourish over fatal blows." My voice remained flat, devoid of judgment, merely stating facts. I watched for their reactions, noting the subtle clench of the woman's jaw, the man's slight shift of weight.

The man grunted. "Still, who are you to tell us how to fight?"

"Someone who observed your near-demise," I replied, my gaze sweeping over the goblin corpses. "And offered a solution. Whether you choose to acknowledge it or not is irrelevant. The outcome, however, is not." I watched as the woman, still breathing heavily, began to move among the fallen goblins, her daggers now used for a different purpose. She expertly began to extract bones, crude weapons, and other usable parts. Pragmatic. Good.

"Right," the woman said, not looking at me as she worked. "Well, 'Einar' Thanks for... the advice. I'm Rovy, and this is Bane." She gestured with a bloodied dagger towards the man, who gave a curt nod.

"Your attire is... unusual," Bane commented, his voice gruff but less hostile now. He was eyeing my simple, dark clothes, so different from their leather and metal.

"It is what I possess," I replied, offering nothing more. The conversation felt like a necessary transaction, a means to gather information. My stomach, however, chose that precise moment to betray me with a loud, embarrassing growl.

Rovy paused her work, a small, tired smile touching her lips. "Sounds like someone's hungry. We're heading to the nearest town, Raven. It's not far from here. Care to join us? We could use a hand carrying these... trophies."

“A town. Surely they provided some food and Information.”

“Quite the logical next step I could do.”

"This body," I mused aloud, a hint of my usual disdain in my tone, "has its inconvenient demands. Very well. Lead the way." I said. Not out of trust. Not out of need. Just because motion was easier than stillness.