Chapter Text
"I'll survive. I always survive," Ciri thought, grimly yet with a flicker of stubborn optimism, as she sprinted toward her destination within the place known as the Crossroads of Worlds. She knew of several such locations, and she knew exactly where this particular crossroads led. At this very moment, all she wanted was to settle down in this world—a place she already knew a little about—and just forget everything. Forget the past, forget the present, and simply start anew. A life full of fresh sensations. A clean slate. And if she got lucky, a life of peace and prosperity. Though deep down, she knew damn well that nothing of the sort would happen. Peace and prosperity for her? Yeah, right. Wishful thinking.
The world she was heading to was called Abeir-Toril, though that was more accurately the name of the entire planet. The continent that had caught her eye was Faerûn, though the locals sometimes called it the Forgotten Realms. Ciri had been there once before, and she had deeply fallen in love with the atmosphere of that reality. The realm where she had previously arrived was called Cormyr. It stretched across the heart of the continent like a majestic tapestry woven from emerald forests, golden fields, and shimmering waters. It was a kingdom where nature and civilization intertwined in a harmonious dance, creating breathtaking landscapes that sang of the land's grandeur.
Cormyr's plains were vast and fertile, where golden fields of wheat swayed in the wind like a sea rolling under the breath of the gods. Neat farms and villages dotted the countryside, their stone houses with red-tiled roofs looking like a scatter of gems upon green velvet. Above the plains rose the hills, softly rounded like the backs of sleeping giants, carpeted in grass and speckled with flowers—scarlet poppies, blue cornflowers, and white daisies.
The heart of Cormyr lay in its rivers and lakes, which Ciri had caught a fleeting glimpse of during her previous "flight." The Lake of Dragons to the south sparkled like a sapphire, reflecting the azure sky and snow-white clouds. Its shores were lined with willows, their branches weeping toward the water like lovers longing to touch its surface. Rivers, like the River Tun, flowed through the kingdom like silver veins, nourishing the land and connecting the cities. Their waters were slow but deep, their banks thick with reeds where herons and ducks nested.
The language spoken by the people of Cormyr was jarringly, terrifyingly similar to the Common Speech of the Northern Kingdoms in Ciri’s own world. She had learned to understand it quite quickly. But due to certain circumstances, she had never managed to visit Cormyr's capital, Suzail. From the height of her flight, the city had gleamed with spires and towers rising high above its fortified walls. She had only had enough time to see a twin, starry Suzail reflected in the waters, as if floating in the depths, before it was time for her to "leave" Faerûn, to "leave" Toril. To flee to another world.
But this time, everything would be different, she told herself. This time, it would change. She would return to this peaceful, quiet kingdom of Cormyr, where everything was so much better than in her "home" world.
There, at first glance, everything seemed to follow the rules. The King—or Queen, Ciri hadn't looked into it closely enough—ruled. The guards maintained order. And they actually maintained it, and specifically order, not tyranny. Mages conducted their research and traveled freely wherever they pleased. No one persecuted them, but no one worshipped them either. Magic was just a natural part of life on this planet, in this country. Peasants tilled the soil, paid their taxes, ate, drank, and celebrated their holidays. Fairs and festivals were everywhere. The people lived a measured, peaceful life. Yes, it was a world fraught with dangers—very serious dangers, in fact—but people lived in tranquility, protected by their kingdom, a strong army, and a thoroughly decent watch.
Ciri desperately wanted to settle there. She didn't know where yet—in the countryside or in a city. She would figure something out, find herself a decent trade, decent friends, decent company. Maybe she'd even pop out a few little rascals, who knew. Ciri smirked at how far ahead her thoughts were racing. But truly, if she could just finally get away... from everything. And forget. Forget it all forever. Only a new life. Abeir-Toril. Faerûn. Cormyr. A land flowing with milk and honey...
But destiny had its own plans for Ciri's landing in this place, which wasn't actually as welcoming as it seemed. Even mid-flight, Ciri realized something had gone wrong. To her left, she saw a boundless sea; below, unfamiliar mountains and forests. A massive, sprawling city layout nestled on the coast. Small coastal towns, villages, more woods, and fields. And then, looming closer and closer... what the hell was that?! SWAMPS?!
The landscapes that flashed before Ciri’s eyes didn’t bring her any joy. None at all, not in the slightest. And by the time she managed to drag herself out of some strange stone structure, wondering how her landing could have gone so terribly wrong, she retched, her stomach literally turning inside out.
The air was heavy, thick, and saturated with the acrid stench of rotting foliage and stagnant water. It enveloped Ciri as she, barely keeping her nausea at bay, tried to take her first breath after her leap between worlds. Just a moment ago, her skin had been burning from the searing ether, but now she was wrapped in a sticky, cold dampness. She fell awkwardly, sinking up to her knees into a viscous muck that squelched and bubbled beneath her feet like a hungry beast.
All around her stretched a boundless swamp, blanketed in a dense shroud of milky-gray fog that swallowed the horizon, turning the world into one continuous, endless nothingness. Only directly overhead, through rare rifts in the clouds, did a pale, indifferent light break through, serving more to emphasize the bleakness than to dispel the gloom.
Everywhere she looked, the twisted trunks of stunted trees jutted out, looking as if they were suffering from some ancient agony. Their branches, draped in tatters of gray, deathly moss, reached toward the sky like the gnarled fingers of drowned men. Beneath them, as far as the eye could see, lay rusty-brown thickets of reeds and withered grass, interspersed with patches of open, dark-green water that looked heavy and motionless. Now and then, the water’s surface would ripple, leaving expanding circles—either from a fallen branch or from the movement of something hidden in its depths.
Ciri could feel the cold moisture seeping through her boots, the sticky mud unpleasantly tightening on her skin. The air was filled with the persistent buzzing of invisible insects and the rhythmic, monotonous croaking of frogs, interrupted only by a rare, unsettling bubbling from the depths. Every sound seemed amplified and distorted, as if the air itself were as thick and sticky as the quagmire. There was no wind here to scatter the oppressive atmosphere, only occasional cold gusts that made the branches shiver and the reeds rustle.
This place promised nothing but danger. This was the Mere of Dead Men—a land of oblivion, decay, and quiet, lurking threats. And Ciri, a child of the Elder Blood, found herself in one of the most wretched places in all of Faerûn.
The stagnant, heavy air suddenly vibrated. Out of the corner of her eye, Ciri caught a swift movement to her right. Instincts honed by years of battle kicked in before her mind could even register the threat. Her sword, already drawn from its scabbard, flashed through the dull haze, slicing the sticky dampness of the swamp air. She struck with a backhand blow, delivering it with enough force to cut a full-grown griffin in half.
With a sickening, squelching sound, the blade bit into something soft and flabby. A fountain of thick, black ooze, mixed with vile green chunks, erupted from the severed flesh. Before her, now in two separate pieces, lay a headless creature, bulky and squat. At first glance, it was jarringly, hideously similar to the Drowners of her home world—the same bloated, slime-covered skin, the same contorted limbs—but this was worse. Far worse.
This creature turned out to be somewhat less agile than the ones she knew, but the stench! A sharp, putrid odor—a mixture of decaying flesh, sulfur, and something else, unbearably sour—hit her nostrils, forcing Ciri to recoil. The foul reek was so potent that she could taste bile in her mouth. Even through the fog, this nauseating aura seemed to radiate, permeating everything around her.
Ciri’s eyes widened in sheer horror. She had been trained to fight all manner of monsters, but this was something beyond the pale. A pure, dull, primordial abomination. Her hands trembled slightly, and her stomach cramped painfully.
"Damn it! What kind of place is this?" flashed through her mind. Her only desire was to get out of here, away from this stench, away from this sticky, threatening mire, away from these eyeless horrors.
But where to go? The fog was ubiquitous, swallowing any landmarks, turning the world into a hopeless gray soup. Every step threatened to plunge her into a deeper bog, every shadow could be hiding another monstrosity.
Where the hell was she supposed to go?!
A sharp, persistent thirst clawed at her throat. Ciri ran her tongue over her parched lips, feeling every cell in her body desperately begging for moisture. There was water all around her—everywhere, as far as the eye could see—but it wasn’t the kind of water that could quench thirst. Murky, rusty-brown, and marbled with oily streaks on the surface, it looked as if death itself had dissolved into it. Ciri merely gritted her teeth, forcing away the thought of tasting the vile stuff. Her only hope was to get out of here, and as fast as possible.
She narrowed her eyes, trying to pierce the dense fog, which only seemed to be growing thicker. And the more closely she scrutinized her surroundings, the more horrifying details revealed themselves. Above the withered reeds, giant dragonflies the size of a human palm flitted about with a buzz reminiscent of a swarm of blowflies, their compound eyes gleaming predatorily. Thick, scaled reptiles slowly slithered and writhed over the logs jutting from the water; they resembled huge lizards, but with flatter, more serpentine heads and cold, unblinking stares. Their movements were fluid, almost silent, yet steeped in a cloaked malice.
In the distance, where the fog deepened into an impenetrable shroud, a loud splash resounded. Not just a splash, but a massive, ground-shaking thud, as if something immense and heavy had risen from the depths. Then came a sickening squelch and a hiss, like a gargantuan beast noisily spewing out water. Ciri's heart skipped a beat. She strained her eyes, trying to discern anything in the milk-white haze. And then, for a fleeting moment, the fog parted slightly, revealing something colossal—a dark, writhing silhouette dripping with water, and... multiple heads rising above the surface.
"A HYDRA?!" — Ciri breathed soundlessly. The horror she had felt upon seeing the headless creature paled in comparison to this realization. This was no mere wild beast, but a monster out of legends, capable of tearing her to shreds. Her palm tightened its grip on her sword's hilt. The Mere of Dead Men was turning out to be a far more dangerous place than she could have ever imagined.
Her heart pounded high in her throat, drumming a frantic rhythm in her ears. Ciri forced herself to look away from the monstrous silhouette of the hydra as it slowly dissolved back into the fog. She needed to think, to act, not stand there paralyzed by fear. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to piece her thoughts into some semblance of a clear picture.
Her jump had dropped her somewhere on the Sword Coast, judging by her meager knowledge of Faerûn's geography and her vague memory of the world's map. No, it certainly wasn’t Calimshan, which was all scorching deserts. And it wasn’t Icewind Dale, with its tundra and endless ice-capped mountains. What was that city she had glimpsed? Baldur's Gate? Waterdeep? Luskan? Ciri furrowed her brow, trying to recall the names of the city-states scattered along the Sword Coast. And where on that map were these damn swamps?
Ah, whatever. It meant that behind her, to the southwest, lay the way to the sea. And where the sea was, there was no escaping this quagmire. Therefore, her only chance, the only direction that held any hope of solid ground, forests, fields, and perhaps living, inhabited villages—was the northeast. There, in her vague understanding, the land should be less wretched, with normal rivers instead of these murky bogs.
The air still reeked of rot and fear, but Ciri gathered all her willpower into a fist. Every nerve screamed of danger, every instinct told her this was a path to nowhere. But staying here, on this cursed patch of land teeming with headless horrors and hydras, was tantamount to death.
Gritting her teeth so hard her jaw ached, Ciri took her first step. Her leg pulled heavily out of the viscous muck, making a disgusting squelching sound. She moved forward, toward the invisible northeast, into the unknown—which could just as easily be her salvation or another nightmare. Every step was a battle—against the sticky mud, the treacherous roots, and her own fear. Her legs sank deep, but Ciri pressed on stubbornly, her sword ready, her gaze piercing the fog, trying to catch any sign of a better fate.
Trying not to make any unnecessary noise, Ciri began to wipe her sword against the stiff stalks of the reeds. The blade was still coated in the vile ooze and chunks of the headless creature, and even this simple act of cleaning aroused her disgust. Suddenly, cutting through the monotonous croaking and buzzing, a dull movement reached her. Not the rustling of reeds in the wind, but the heavy, measured stride of something massive.
Instinctively, Ciri ducked and darted behind the nearest cover—a huge, moss-covered boulder jutting out of the quagmire like the fang of an ancient behemoth. She pressed herself against its rough surface, her heart pounding once more, drowning out all other sounds. And just in time.
To the side, moving slowly, with dignity, yet with a sinister lack of haste as it shifted its powerful, clawed talons, something colossal appeared. It was a long, elongated creature, covered in scales the color of dried mud. Its flattened, draconic snout, with cold, unblinking eyes, swayed lazily from side to side, sniffing out something in the damp air. Webbed wings were visible on its powerful, muscular back, which, by the look of it, were used not so much for true flight as for short leaps or navigating the broken terrain.
"A WYWERN?!" — Ciri whispered soundlessly, despair overtaking her. Where, oh where, in the literal hell had she landed?! She wanted to fall to her knees, howl, and beg for salvation from any gods that might hear her in this accursed place. But the thought cut off just as sharply as it had arisen. Foolish. She didn't believe in anything, and that faith had never saved her before. Only her sword, only her speed, only her own will.
The wyvern seemed to have caught a scent. Its head jerked sharply, and it let out a low, guttural snarl. Taking a couple of heavy bounds, the monster took off briefly—scarcely a few meters above the ground—then, landing with a heavy thud, bounded away, crushing the reeds and leaving deep ruts in the mud. The sounds of its movement gradually faded into the fog.
Ciri unfroze, exhaling her trapped breath with a rush. Her body trembled, but she did not allow herself to relax. One nightmare was gone, but who knew what lay ahead. She bolted from behind the stone, eager to put as much distance as possible between herself and the spot where that beast could return.
However, she didn't manage to run far. After a few dozen paces, the fog unexpectedly parted a fraction, and she found herself in a small, more open clearing. A clearing that was far from empty. Through the sparse trees and low brush, she caught sight of several... giant spiders. Their bodies were a hideous, sickening green, bristling with barbed hairs, and sharp claws gleamed on their long, jointed legs. A few sat motionless on thick webs spun between the stunted trunks, as if waiting for prey. Others moved slowly across the ground, their multiple cluster-eyes catching every shift in the air like glossy beads.
Ciri froze. The wave of revulsion and horror was so intense she nearly cried out. Where did these monsters even come from?! Everywhere she turned, a new nightmare was waiting.
The sight of the giant green spiders creeping across the clearing made Ciri inwardly flinch. But fear quickly gave way to a grim resolve. There was no time here for second-guessing or searching for detours; this was a direct threat, and it had to be neutralized. A fight is inevitable, she thought, instinctively weighing her odds. Her remarkable Sihil—lightweight, razor-sharp, and perfectly balanced—was her only reliable shield. A blade capable of cleaving solid stone would pass through the chitinous carapaces of these abominations without a hitch.
The golden rule she had hammered into her mind from countless trials and real-life skirmishes was simple: don't let them surround you. The spiders, though bulky, could be surprisingly agile, especially when acting in concert. A single mistake, one missed parry, and she would be trampled beneath hundreds of the vile creatures' jointed limbs.
Ciri raised her sword, settling into a combat stance. With her opening move, she lunged forward, practically diving beneath the legs of the nearest monster. The Sihil flashed in the dull light, and the first creature collapsed with a sickening squelch, sheared completely in half. Without lingering for a split second, Ciri bounded backward, dodging the swift counterattack of two other spiders attempting to flank her. Her movements were swift, practiced—a veritable dance of death.
She circled the clearing, using every hummock and rotting log as cover or leverage. A sweep of her blade—and another spider toppled, its green blood hissing vilely as it splattered onto the decaying leaves. Backward again, then a side-step, evading a sudden, coordinated rush from three beasts at once.
In addition to the physical threat, the spiders constantly spat streams of acidic, corrosive fluid. The air grew thick with the pungent stench of sulfur and burning matter. Ciri had to weave continuously, ducking, twisting, and rolling across the damp earth to keep the foul ooze from touching her skin or clothes. Every hit meant searing pain and the threat of flesh being eaten away.
The battle turned into a grueling game of survival. Strike, spring back, strike again, evade. Fifteen... at least. She lost count of the slain monsters until, finally, the last green spider collapsed with a dying wheeze. A heavy silence, broken only by Ciri’s ragged breathing, settled over the clearing.
She stood in the center of the fray, surrounded by shattered shards of chitin and foul-smelling stains. Her chest heaved, hair clung to her face, and her muscles ached from the sheer exertion. The nightmare was over, at least in this clearing. But the Mere of Dead Men still stretched all around her, and only a fresh unknown lay ahead.
Ciri breathed heavily, the air in her lungs damp and foul-tasting. It took her several moments to catch her breath after the exhausting clash. Yet, even as her heart began to steady, she distinctly felt how the very atmosphere of these mires pressed down on her like an invisible weight. It seemed as though every breath, every step required double the effort. Her senses were dulling, her reflexes slowing, and the combat skills honed by years of training felt as if they were being coated in a viscous silt, losing their sharp edge. This wasn't merely physical fatigue; this place was draining her life force, crushing her spirit. Ciri understood perfectly well that staying here meant slowly fading away, losing herself. She had to get out, as soon as possible. Leave this place. Run, disappear, vanish into thin air.
A grim determination returned to her. She allowed herself only a brief respite to recover her breath, but then her gaze, usually fixed on immediate threats, suddenly sharpened as it swept over the fallen carcasses. Her right hand instinctively reached for her belt. Drawing a small but sharp camp knife, Ciri narrowed her eyes. With methodical, almost surgical precision, she began to carve the jaws and mandibles out of the decaying green carcases—those horrific, pointed appendages the spiders used to tear flesh apart. The chitin crunched under her blade, making a grating sound, but Ciri paid it no mind. She stowed the repulsive trophies into her satchel, not entirely sure why.
It was pure intuition. Perhaps in another world, or even in this one, these monster parts might hold some value. Well... the thought flashed, a bitter smirk tugging at her lips, if I don't end up dying in this endless quagmire after all, maybe I can at least sell them for a decent price. I might as well get paid for my suffering.
This cynical yet practical thought seemed to offer an unexpected jolt of confidence. There was no grandeur in it, just the harsh pragmatism of a survivor. Ciri gave another grim smile as she pulled the drawstring of her pouch tight. It was time to keep moving. Her sword was back in her hand, and she stepped forward into the next unknown, casting cautious glances around her, ready for whatever new trials this cursed—but no longer quite as hopeless—place had in store.
"The forest! The tree line!"—these words raced through Ciri's mind, nearly drowning out the exhausted drumming of her own heart. A day. A whole, endless day she had spent in that living hell. Twenty-four hours of cautious, backbreaking treading, where every single step was a battle. A day of endless skirmishes wherever a fight was unavoidable, and grueling retreats where she could manage to bypass the slaughter. Hundreds of lethal monsters that could have torn her to shreds without blinking, and hundreds of lesser beasts that had fallen beneath her sword—a sword she could now barely hold in her hands. Yet she had gritted her teeth, swallowed the pain, the fear, the revulsion, and pressed onward.
And then, finally, she felt it. A sharp shift in the air—warmer, less humid, slightly fresher. The thickets of reeds gave way to undergrowth; the murky puddles yielded to dry earth, uneven as it was. That was it. Out of strength, exhaling her absolute last breath, she collapsed onto the ground. She was done. She had made it. She had dragged herself out of those horrific, impassable Mere of Dead Men! She had... she had overcome. Overcome the nightmare.
Overcome it—for what? The thought pricked her like a needle. A terrible, unbearable thirst scorched her throat, turning it into sandpaper. Water. She needed water. Was there any body of water around? Looking about, she saw only trees, bushes, and dry leaves. Not a stream, not a puddle, nothing to quench this torture.
She sank limply against the rough trunk of a massive oak. Its branches spread wide, offering a modicum of shade from the pale sky. Oh, why was this happening to her? Why all these trials, each one worse than the last? She closed her eyes, feeling every muscle tremble from overexertion, her head spinning from dehydration and sheer fatigue.
Suddenly, cutting through the haze of exhaustion, a sickeningly familiar stench hit her nostrils. That exact same putrid, sulfurous odor that had accompanied her for the past twenty-four hours. A grimace of disgust contorted her face. Her eyes snapped open. Her hand, acting on pure reflex, reached for her sword's hilt, but she found she could scarcely grip it. Her muscles refused to obey; her wrist trembled.
This was the end. She couldn't fight anymore. Her strength was depleted, drained to the very last drop. And in that moment, an all-consuming, cold wave of doom washed over her. Too much. Too long. She had conquered the Mere, but what now? To die here, two steps away from salvation, because of thirst or some new monster she simply had no strength left to face? Ciri felt the final remnants of hope wither away, giving ground to a bitter, helpless despair.
The stench intensified, becoming sharper, almost tangible. Ciri forced her eyes open, and the sight before her only confirmed her worst fears. Out of the gloom beneath the withered trees, where the forest began its slow, aching transition into the swamp, silhouettes began to stretch outward. There were many of them. Several of those headless, hideous beasts—just like the one that had fallen to her blade in the clearing—moved clumsily but inevitably. Alongside them, shuffling forward, came others: "zombies," as she might call them, with rotting faces and hollow eye sockets, letting out low, guttural growls.
They gathered beneath the trees, their slow, ragged ranks gradually converging into a single mass, and all of them were heading directly for her.
The girl understood perfectly well that if these had been the drowners of her own world—those fast, agile, and lethal creatures—she would already be dead. These ones were... slower. Less nimble. There was a chance here. Rather, there would have been a chance. If she were in any condition to fight, she would have slaughtered them all in a couple of minutes, slicing, hacking, destroying them. But... she couldn't.
Every muscle in her body screamed in agony, her head split from thirst and exhaustion, and the sword felt as though it weighed a ton. The last vestiges of her strength were slipping away like water through her fingers. Ciri let out a heavy sigh.
What an absurd death awaited her. To die like this, after everything she had survived? For what? Why? Ah, well... The voice in her head was faint, barely audible. The advancing wall of undead seemed inescapable, and for the first time in a very long time, Ciri felt herself truly giving up.
At the absolute last second, just as the headless horrors and rotting zombies were about to close the circle, poised to descend upon the motionless Ciri, something incredible happened. The sky, hidden behind the shroud of fog and tree crowns, seemed to rip open. Right into the thick of the undead, with unbelievable velocity, struck a flame—but it wasn't just a fireball. It was something more... concentrated, radiant not so much with heat as with pure, blinding energy. It flashed, enveloping the central figures of the horde, and they instantly turned into charred, lifeless lumps.
Ciri didn't even have time to register where the strike had come from. It was like a bolt of lightning descending from the heavens, yet possessed of a different, more focused power. And immediately, giving the remaining undead no time to recover, a figure lunged forward.
It was a girl—young, swift, moving like a whirlwind. Her bare blade flashed in the dull light as she, like a shadow, tore into the ranks of the monsters. Her movements were rapid and precise, every strike lethal. She sheared through one beast after another, paying no heed to their drawn-out, bubbling shrieks. Severed limbs and heads flew in all directions; rotting flesh fell apart under her blows. She seemed to move in her own accelerated tempo, exterminating the undead with an astonishing, almost mechanical efficiency.
In barely a minute, the combat was over. The clearing, so recently swarming with threats, was now littered with motionless corpses. The girl caught her breath and cautiously approached Ciri. She held her drawn sword at the ready, but did not come too close. Her gaze—discerning and alert—narrowed as she studied Ciri: her clothes, her sword, her emaciated state. Tension and suspicion bled from her every posture.
— Hwā eart þū? — the girl’s low, slightly husky voice rang out, marking a brief, tension-filled silence. She stood a few paces away, her sword still drawn, her suspicious gaze sweeping over Ciri’s emaciated form. In any other circumstances, Ciri would have tensed, but now, only a faint, ironic smile touched her lips. This language… she understood it. Ancient, archaic, like her own, yet recognizable.
— I am Ciri, she replied, her voice raspy and weak, but devoid of even a shadow of fear. — Thank you for your help. I… I really want to drink…
The last word was clearly lost in her accent or unfamiliar phonetics.
— You want what?! — the stranger asked, clearly failing to understand. She strained her ears, tilting her head to the side as her brows furrowed. "You… speak… very strangely…
— Driinkan..’, — Ciri repeated insistently, feeling desperation clawing at her throat once more. She brought her palm to her mouth, mimicking the gesture of drinking.
— Ah… drincan, — the girl grunted, a flash of understanding lighting up her eyes. She eyed Ciri up and down, taking in her pallor, her trembling hands, and her utter exhaustion. It seemed her suspicion had softened slightly. With a sharp click, her sword slid back into its scabbard. Reaching into her belt pouch, the girl pulled out a small waterskin, full of clean water, and extended it toward Ciri.
— Thank you, — Ciri breathed, barely audibly, as her trembling fingers snatched the skin. The girl snorted in response, and by that snort, Ciri realized she had botched the pronunciation of this word too. The languages were very, very similar—in fact, far more so than the one she had heard in Cormyr. Here, they were almost identical, yet they possessed subtle, elusive, but significant differences.
Without a second thought, Ciri pressed her lips to the opening of the waterskin. Water. Cold, clean, life-giving moisture surged into her parched throat, washing away the dust and the nightmare of the Mere. Never before had water tasted so delicious, so redemptive. She drank in large, greedy gulps, feeling every cell of her body eagerly soaking up the moisture. The revitalizing chill spread through her veins, rinsing away the fatigue and restoring her strength. Ciri paused to catch her breath, taking deep inhales, and then drank again and again until the waterskin was half empty. Finally, she was able to lift her head and look at her savior, whose eyes now held not just suspicion, but a certain curiosity.
Ciri studied the girl closely. Not particularly tall, of average height, she was young—perhaps just a bit older than Ciri herself, though she carried herself in a way that made her look considerably more mature. The girl held herself with effortless confidence, but her appearance—simple clothing, a rudimentary hairstyle, her general mannerisms—betrayed her rustic origins. Ciri didn't mean to offend, but everything about the stranger’s look practically shouted of village roots.
And yet… her combat skills. What Ciri had managed to glimpse during that brief, explosive skirmish was nothing short of spectacular. This girl was clearly a formidable fighter, trained to a proper standard. Her movements were precise, swift, and lethal. And then there was that fascinating magic—that burst of flame descending as if from the heavens… Who was she? The question hung in the air. Though, quite clearly, the girl was even more interested in who Ciri was.
— Mīn nama is Ciri, — Ciri said, doing her best to place the stresses correctly. She watched her savior's reaction hopefully, and the girl’s expression confirmed it: she understood.
— My name is Ariana, — the girl said slowly in the same language, inspecting Ciri thoroughly. Her gaze lingered for a long moment on the unusual, heavy sihil resting on Ciri’s hip. Evidently, such a weapon was a curiosity in these parts. — How did you end up here?
— Listen, where even am I? — Ciri asked helplessly, catching her breath and feeling a small, slow surge of strength returning to her after the water. — I… I'm lost…
— Uh… — Ariana began, her eyes skimming over the churned-up mud and the corpses of the undead. — You're within the territories of the city-state of Neverwinter, located on the Sword Coast. The nearest settlement from here is a village called West Harbor—that's where I'm from. And you… you just came out of the Mere of Dead Men. How exactly am I supposed to make sense of that?
Ciri opened her mouth, then closed it again. How on earth do you explain to someone: 'I am from another world'? Ah, well… last time it had all happened on its own, more organically, somehow. But now she had to invent something, something believable.
— I escaped from bandits… slavers, — Ciri started, picking her words with care. Ariana looked at her, and her face suddenly contorted into an outburst of homeric laughter.
—From whoooo?! — she managed to squeeze out through her laughter, barely maintaining her composure. Ciri felt that the stranger saw right through her. All her excuses were pathetic. She had no strength left to pretend, and she sank limply back to the ground, feeling the final drops of her energy drain away.
— I don't know how to explain it, — Ciri pleaded, raising a gaze full of despair to Ariana. — I don't know what to tell you… I… I… — She felt herself lacking the vocabulary in this tongue to express the sheer complexity of her situation. — I… Ariana, I have nowhere to go…
The girl watched her with suspicion, but within her eyes, Ciri noticed a flicker of something akin to pity. She nodded slowly.
— You are a very… good fighter, though, — Ariana mused, her gaze sliding over Ciri once more before lingering on the soiled sword. — To have been inside the Mere of Dead Men. That place… no one usually walks out of there alive.
— I spent more than a day there, — Ciri answered softly, struggling to push herself up onto her feet.
— A DAY?! — Ariana cried out, inspecting her with a freshly ignited suspicion, though now it was heavily laced with astonishment. Finally, she caught her breath and took another close look at Ciri’s sihil, as if searching for answers within the blade itself.
— Interesting… — Ariana muttered, seemingly talking to herself. — Fine, maybe you'll tell me some other time… somehow. I don't know, I just feel like I shouldn't go digging into your soul. At least not right now.
— So, can I come with you? — Ciri asked gladly, a note of genuine hope ringing in her voice.
— Well… you've got nowhere else to go anyway, — Ariana shrugged, a light touch of mockery in her tone, though it carried no malice. — Can't exactly just abandon you here.
Ciri exhaled. The rush of emotion proved stronger than her fatigue, and she threw her arms around her stranger of a savior. Ariana instinctively moved to pull back, her body tensing up, but whether out of politeness or perhaps mere awkwardness, she managed to restrain herself. Nevertheless, it was evident that this sincere impulse from Ciri—this unexpected display of raw humanity—spoke volumes in her favor. A faint smile graced Ariana’s face.
With that embrace full of exhausted gratitude, Ciri felt the final barrier between herself and Ariana crumble. Though they spoke different dialects of the same tongue, though they carried vastly different worlds upon their shoulders, in this very second they were bound by something far deeper than words: mutual relief and a fragile, newly born friendship.
Slightly awkwardly, yet accepting the gesture all the same, Ariana jerked her head to the side, indicating the path. Now, Ciri’s journey lay not just toward some vague northeast, but toward a concrete destination: West Harbor. Well, it was certainly a far cry better than aimlessly wandering the Mere of Dead Men.
What awaited her in this village? What destiny was in store for a girl who had come from nowhere? Only the gods of this world knew. Would the local folk accept her, seeing a stranger, and one who had emerged from the accursed mired wastes at that? And how would her relationship with Ariana unfold? By all accounts, rather well. This young, combative girl, possessing a concealed strength and an unexpected kindness, had decisively won Ciri over. Her straightforwardness and her ability to spot Ciri’s lies were qualities Ciri thoroughly appreciated.
Granted, this wasn't Cormyr… but who was to say that life here on the Sword Coast would be any less interesting?
With a fresh, albeit still faint lease on strength, Ciri stepped into motion, following after Ariana. Every step carried her away from the nightmare of the swamps, drawing her closer to a hazy, yet beckoning hope.
As It Must Be.