They moved through the emerald labyrinth in silence, punctuated only by the squelch of boots on damp earth and the constant, unnerving thrum of the jungle. Silas set a relentless pace, forcing Roric to push through the stabbing pain in his ribs and the throbbing ache in his arm. The Stalker sounds had faded behind them, but the tension remained thick in the air, a palpable weight pressing down with the humidity. Silas moved with an economy of motion Roric had only seen in seasoned CRRF Pathfinders, his connection to this alien environment instinctual, profound.
After what felt like another hour, Silas finally slowed, pausing near a thicket of bamboo-like stalks that glowed with a faint internal blue light. He gestured towards them, then held up a finger for silence, listening intently. Satisfied, he drew his long knife – a practical, unadorned tool compared to his sword – and expertly sliced off a section of one of the thicker stalks between two nodes. He offered it to Roric with a grunt.
Confused, Roric took the offered stalk. It was surprisingly light, cool to the touch. Silas pointed at the end, then mimed drinking. Roric hesitated, then carefully tilted the stalk. Clear, slightly viscous water trickled out, tasting faintly sweet, cleaner than the stream water. He drank gratefully, the simple act easing his parched throat.
"Water," Roric said, tapping the stalk. He looked at Silas, pointing again. "Water?"
Silas watched him, his expression unchanging. He grunted again. "Vesi," he said, his voice rough. He tapped the stalk Roric held. "Vesi."
Roric repeated the word, stumbling slightly. "Vesi."
Silas gave a curt nod, seemingly satisfied. He cut another section for himself, drank, then gestured for them to move on, leaving the harvested bamboo behind. A small gesture, but it felt significant. Sharing a resource. Establishing a basic term. Communication, however rudimentary, had begun.
Their path took them across a narrow, natural bridge formed by a fallen colossal tree trunk spanning a deep, misty chasm. Strange, winged creatures with leathery hides flitted through the gloom below, emitting soft clicks. Silas crossed quickly, pausing only to check that Roric made it over safely before resuming his pace. He pointed down towards the creatures, then shook his head sharply, making a snapping motion with his hand near his neck. Dangerous. Roric nodded his understanding. Assume everything is dangerous.
As the strange twilight deepened, weaving longer shadows through the undergrowth, Silas led Roric towards a sheer rock face almost completely obscured by hanging curtains of phosphorescent vines. He pushed aside one thick curtain, revealing a dark fissure barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through. He glanced back at Roric, jerked his head towards the opening, and slipped inside.
Roric hesitated for only a moment. Staying out here alone as full night – whatever that meant in this place – approached felt infinitely more dangerous than following the wary survivor into his den. He took a breath and slid into the narrow opening.
Inside, the air was cooler, drier, smelling faintly of woodsmoke, dried herbs, and something metallic. The passage opened quickly into a small, natural cave. A low fire smoldered in a ring of stones near the back wall, casting flickering orange light onto sleeping furs, bundles of dried plants hanging from the ceiling, and an assortment of scavenged gear piled neatly against one wall – tools, rope, waterskins, and several unfamiliar weapon components Roric didn't recognize. It was cramped, basic, but undeniably a place of refuge. A camp.
Silas was already by the fire, adding a few pieces of dry, fungus-like wood that caught quickly, producing minimal smoke. He motioned for Roric to sit near the entrance, keeping him positioned between Silas and the only way out. Trust had its limits.
Roric eased himself down onto a worn piece of hide, letting the relative safety wash over him, though every nerve ending remained on high alert. His body screamed with exhaustion and pain now that the immediate adrenaline rush had faded.
Silas rummaged in a crude sack and tossed something towards Roric – a strip of tough, dried meat. It smelled pungent, gamey. "Food," Roric guessed, looking at Silas for confirmation.
Silas nodded. "Liha," he corrected, tapping his own chest, then pointing at the meat. "Liha. Good." He took a piece for himself and began chewing methodically.
Roric examined the jerky. Looked like muscle tissue, dried and possibly smoked. Edible fauna. He took a tentative bite. Tough, chewy, with a strong, slightly metallic aftertaste, but undeniably protein. Better than the ration bars. He ate slowly, mimicking Silas, conserving his energy.
They ate in silence for several minutes, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and their chewing. The oppressive symphony of the jungle felt muted here, distant.
Finally, Silas finished his portion and wiped his hands on his leather trousers. He looked at Roric, his cynical eyes catching the firelight. He pointed at the cave entrance, then made the throat-slitting gesture again. "Stalker," he said, the word guttural but recognizable from Roric's own internal labeling. He then pointed towards the deeper jungle, in the direction they had fled, and mimicked a heavy, stomping motion with his fists, adding a low rumbling sound. Big danger.
Roric nodded. "Stalkers. Yes. And… something else?" He mimicked the stomping, looking questioningly at Silas.
Silas's expression darkened. He spat into the fire. "Murskaaja," he growled. The word sounded heavy, final. Crusher. He shook his head, a clear warning. Avoid at all costs.
He leaned back against the cave wall, observing Roric again, the assessment returning to his gaze. He pointed at Roric's torn uniform, specifically the faint Coalition insignia patch still partially visible on his shoulder, though frayed and bloodstained. Silas grunted, a questioning sound.
Roric touched the patch. "Coalition. CRRF." He didn't expect recognition. He pointed back towards the sky, vaguely indicating where he'd fallen from. "Earth."
Silas frowned, the word 'Earth' clearly meaning nothing. He pointed at Roric again, stabbing the air with his finger. "Echo," he stated, his tone flat, matter-of-fact. He then swept his hand around the cave, indicating himself, the camp. "Survivor." He tapped his own chest again. "Silas. Survivor." Then back to Roric. "You. Echo."
Roric was starting to understand. Echo wasn't just 'newcomer'. It was a specific category. People like him, appearing from… elsewhere. Dying and arriving here. How many? How often?
"Why… Echo?" Roric asked slowly, trying to convey the question with his tone, his expression.
Silas seemed to understand the query. He shrugged, a gesture heavy with weary resignation. "Maelstrom," he said, waving a hand vaguely upwards, towards the chaotic sky Roric remembered falling through. "Brings… pieces. Wreckage." He nodded towards the Aegis debris they'd left behind. "Echoes." He looked Roric up and down again. "Some break. Some fight. Some… food." His expression was grim.
He picked up a small, smooth stone near the firepit and held it out. He tapped it. "Stone." He tossed it to Roric. Roric caught it. Silas pointed at Roric. "Echo." He pointed at the stone Roric held. "Like stone. Thrown by storm." He paused, his gaze intense. "Many thrown. Few land well."
The implication was clear. Echoes were common debris, spat out by the Maelstrom, most perishing quickly. Survival was the exception, not the rule.
Roric looked down at the smooth stone in his hand, then back at the flickering firelight playing on Silas's scarred face. This taciturn survivor, with his rough language and pragmatic view, had just given him the most crucial piece of intelligence yet. He wasn't unique. He was just the latest piece of flotsam washed ashore by a cosmic storm. A stone thrown, waiting to see where it landed. And Silas… Silas had seen countless stones hit the ground before.
The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows on the cave walls. Outside, the jungle continued its alien symphony, a constant reminder of the dangers kept temporarily at bay. Roric felt a profound weariness settle over him, deeper than just physical exhaustion. He was an Echo. And survival, it seemed, was a long, brutal road paved with the broken remains of those who came before. He met Silas's gaze across the small fire, a silent understanding passing between them – the newcomer and the survivor, bound by the shared, harsh reality of the Shardlands.