bircheye's Clan

This morning's tea has been overbrewed, an unwelcome bitterness seeping alongside its usual herbal warmth. Your mouth furrows at the taste, but you don't take conscious note of it. No; your attention is too firmly set on the newspaper in front of you. It's days old by now, fraying a bit at the edges, but nonetheless puzzling. In bold type the headline reads,

"How did they survive the Icefield? Unknown bandits said to have smuggled imprisoned thieves out alive."

The more you pour over the article, sparse as the information therein is, the more it all clicks into place. Piece by piece, memories resurface. Plans that you'd thought would never see the light of day, fool's errands you once had faith in, being written out by some harried journalist with a fraction of the picture at hand.

You make a decision, soon enough. There will be no questioning letters sent, no words of warning, just you and your own meager supplies. There are some long lost friends who need a visit paid, and a dust-swallowed trail for you to follow.





Hey, the name's Gray (he/him, 20s).
In need of an Earth nest or brewing services?
Feel free to message me with a request!