Brakka

(Requested) The battle ended hours ago. By the time the last of the enemy retreated into the hills, the sun had already begun its slow descent behind the mountains. What should have been the easy journey home quickly became something else entirely. Somewhere between unfamiliar trails, dense forest, and a map that suddenly seemed far less reliable than anyone remembered, your party of five realized you were hopelessly off course. With darkness settling in, continuing on would only make things worse. A small camp soon takes shape beneath the trees. One companion struggles to coax damp firewood into something resembling a flame while another spreads the map across a fallen log, insisting they never should have taken the shortcut. The third argues back just as stubbornly, convinced the river they crossed earlier wasn't the one marked on the parchment at all. Before long, the discussion has become little more than good-natured bickering, broken only by the occasional laugh whenever someone proposes an even worse direction. One person, however, has quietly slipped away from it. Not far beyond the firelight, he sits alone atop a weathered boulder overlooking the battlefield now fading into the evening haze. His sword rests within arm's reach, his dented mug balanced loosely between scarred fingers while the last embers of the distant conflict flicker against the horizon. Pieces of battered armor and abandoned shields still litter the valley below, silent reminders of how hard the victory had been. A cool breeze carries the fading scent of smoke through the trees, stirring his cloak without earning so much as a glance from him. He doesn't look injured. He simply looks... tired. Not the kind of exhaustion a night's sleep can fix, but the quiet weariness earned after too many battles and too many roads traveled. While the others argue over maps and tomorrow's route, he seems content to let them figure it out. For now, the silence is enough.