I know we loved to hit the road

Ryden sat in the cramped tent, his arms folded as his eyes wandered to the opening. Outside, the Stonehoof Tribe's encampment buzzed with activity. Workers moved with an air of grim determination, hauling wood, grinding tools, and preparing food under the watchful gaze of armed warriors. The oppressive atmosphere weighed heavily on him, the sounds of labor underscored by occasional barked orders.

A single warrior stood outside his tent, his shadow stretching long in the midday sun. Ryden let out a sigh and stood, brushing the dust from his trousers. He approached the tent flap, peeking his head out.

"Hey, big guy," Ryden said to the guard, channeling his inner Rice. "I just want to go out there, stretch my legs, maybe talk to my future coworkers, you know?"

The guard didn't budge, his expression as stoic as the wooden spear in his hand. "Sit back down, outsider," he said gruffly.

Ryden raised his hands in mock surrender. "Come on, what's the harm? I'll stay where you can see me. Scout's honor. Plus i really need to pee"

The guard's frown deepened, but after a long pause, he grudgingly stepped aside. "You've got five minutes," he growled. "Don't cause trouble."

Ryden grinned. "Trouble? Me? Never."

As Ryden approached the group of workers, their movements slowed. The tribe members exchanged wary glances, their tired faces tightening with suspicion. Quietly, they shifted aside to make room for him. Ryden picked up a hammer and began helping to reinforce a wooden beam.

One of the workers, a wiry man with sunken eyes, leaned closer. "You shouldn't have come here, outsider," he whispered, his voice low and hurried.

Ryden kept his tone light as he worked. "Why's that? Seems like you've got plenty of room for one more."

The worker's gaze flicked toward the guard watching from a distance. "Once they let people in, they never let them leave," he muttered. He gestured subtly to the surrounding workers. "Most of us here? We're refugees. Some from tribes that were destroyed by others. Others were simply captured and sold for a price, some of us came here for safety but…" His voice trailed off, and he nodded toward the warriors overseeing them. "Now, we're slaves. And so are you."

Ryden paused, his hands tightening on the hammer as he looked around. "Slaves?" he echoed quietly. His eyes swept over the group. "Are all of you—?"

The worker nodded grimly. "All of us," he said. "The only true Stonehoof members are the warriors and Gastrar himself. The rest of us? We're just tools."

Ryden's jaw clenched, but he forced himself to stay calm. "Have you ever thought about escaping?" he asked.

The worker hesitated, then gave a single, weary nod. "Many have tried. But only three succeeded. But now? Nobody tries anymore." He tilted his head toward a man crouched nearby, his body covered in bruises and fresh cuts. "That's what happens to those who fail."

Ryden looked away, his fists clenched at his sides. "Damn," he muttered under his breath. "Slavery already?"

Before he could say more, the guard approached, his heavy footsteps thudding against the ground. "Time's up, outsider," he barked.

Ryden nodded, but as the guard reached for his arm, Ryden slipped a small wooden carving—a bird he had crafted days earlier—into the worker's hand. The man's tired eyes widened slightly, but he said nothing as Ryden was dragged away.

Thrown back into the confines of the tent, Ryden stumbled slightly, catching himself on a low, uneven stool before sinking onto it with a heavy sigh. The air inside was stifling, carrying the faint musk of damp earth and worn canvas. Shadows from the campfires outside danced across the tent walls, their flickering light casting restless shapes that seemed to mock the turmoil in his mind.

He dragged a hand through his disheveled hair, his fingers catching on tangles as he exhaled sharply. The muffled din of the encampment filtered through the thick fabric of the tent—the low hum of workers murmuring, the occasional bark of a warrior's command, and the sporadic clatter of metal on stone. Yet to Ryden, it was all distant, drowned out by the rush of his own thoughts, each one louder and more intrusive than the last.

His hand moved almost automatically to the bag slung across his side, the worn leather creaking softly as he unfastened it. From within, he pulled out the familiar chisel Darius had crafted for him, its handle smooth from countless hours of use. Next, he withdrew a small bundle of wood—rough, uneven pieces he'd scavenged earlier, each bearing the marks of hardship, but still solid enough to serve his purpose.

Setting the first block on his lap, he balanced it carefully before pressing the chisel's edge against the grain. His hands, though trembling with residual tension, steadied as the blade bit into the wood. A satisfying whispering sound accompanied each precise stroke, the slivers curling away to fall in a soft pile at his feet.

The faintest outline of a wolf began to emerge, its body lean and poised. Ryden's movements grew surer as the shape took form, his focus narrowing until the outside world faded entirely. The chisel glided over the surface, carving out the fluid lines of a muscular frame, the pointed ears, and the fierce intelligence captured in the slight tilt of the wolf's head. He etched fur along the body with painstaking care, each mark a testament to his skill and concentration.

Satisfied, he set the wolf aside and reached for another block. This one became a bird frozen mid-flight, its wings outstretched as if to catch an unseen current. He carefully traced the contours of its feathers, the fine lines adding a sense of motion and grace. The bird's sharp beak and piercing eyes seemed almost alive, as though it might burst from his hands and soar into the sky.

One by one, the blocks of wood transformed under his chisel. A coiled serpent with scales so finely detailed they seemed to shimmer in the low light. A crouching fox, its tail wrapped elegantly around its body, eyes gleaming with clever intent. A bear mid-roar, its jaws wide and its claws poised as if to defend its territory.

The tent began to fill with the soft, earthy scent of freshly carved wood, mingling with the lingering musk of his surroundings. The rhythmic sound of carving and the steady motion of his hands worked like a balm, calming the storm of his thoughts. With each finished piece, the weight in his chest eased, replaced by a growing sense of clarity and purpose.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the horizon in hues of amber and violet, Ryden finally set his chisel down. He leaned back against a support beam, his muscles aching but his mind calmer than it had been in hours. The collection of figures spread out before him gleamed faintly in the dim light. They stood as small triumphs—proof of his focus, his creativity, his ability to create even in the bleakest circumstances.

A small smile tugged at his lips as he gazed at the wolf, the bird, the fox. But it faltered just as quickly. The reality of their situation—the camp, the blood-streaked warriors, the ever-looming threats—crept back in like an unwelcome guest. He rubbed a hand over his tired eyes and sat in silence, the newly carved figures the only witnesses to his quiet resolve.