The morning of the forest trip arrived with a tense, grey drizzle. Ali stood in the yard, the damp earth seeping through his disintegrating socks—the last remnants of his old life were now just filthy, tattered cloth. The inside-out hoodie was stained beyond recognition, its fabric thin in places. He looked, he knew, like a scarecrow that had fought a losing battle with a swamp.
Bryn was checking his gear: a sturdy bow, a quiver of arrows, a hunting knife at his belt, and a small woodsman's axe. He was dressed in waxed leathers and thick, patched trousers tucked into worn but solid boots.
The contrast was absurd. Ali was about to walk into a monster-haunted forest dressed for a nap.
Enough, he thought. The risk of asking was lower than the risk of going out there like this.
As Kaelen emerged to give final instructions, Ali stepped forward, stopping at a respectful distance. "Kaelen. A request. For the trip."
Kaelen's eyes narrowed, but he gave a curt nod. "Speak."
"I have no boots. My clothes are… not for the forest." Ali kept his voice flat, stating facts, not pleading. "If I step on a thorn or snag on a branch, I become a burden. A noise. A weakness Bryn would have to carry. I have worked. I ask for what will make me less of a liability out there. Even old ones will do."
He didn't ask for a weapon. Not directly. But he let his eyes flicker to Bryn's axe, then back to Kaelen. The implication hung in the damp air: A man going into the woods should have more than his hands.
Kaelen was silent for a long moment, his gaze assessing Ali from head to toe. He wasn't seeing a stranger anymore; he was assessing a piece of his steading's operational capability. A broken tool was worse than a missing one.
"Elara," he called over his shoulder.
She appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron.
"The boy goes with Bryn. He needs to not freeze or bleed from a pebble. Find him something from the spare chest. And the old belt-knife."
Elara's lips tightened, but she didn't argue. She disappeared and returned with a small bundle. She thrust it at Ali.
"These were Bryn's, seasons ago. They're patched. The boots are hardened, but the soles are thin. They'll do." Her tone made it clear this was an allocation of resources, not a gift.
The bundle contained:
A pair of rough-spun, homespun trousers, faded brown, too short in the leg but wide enough.
A long-sleeved tunic of a similar material, patched at the elbows.
A thick, scratchy wool vest.
A pair of leather boots, scuffed and cracked, with thin but intact soles. They had crude leather laces.
A worn but serviceable leather belt.
And, tucked into the belt, a sheathed knife. It was a simple piece of iron with a wrapped leather handle, its edge decent but not sharp. A tool for cutting rope, cleaning game, and not much else.
"Change in the shed. Be quick," Kaelen said, turning back to Bryn.
Ali retreated to the wood-shed. He stripped off the ruined socks and the pathetic, crumbling bark wraps. He pulled on the trousers and tunic. They smelled of lye soap and cedar—clean, but alien. The fabric was coarse and stiff. He put on the wool vest; it was immediately scratchy but promised warmth. The boots were a revelation. They were stiff and didn't fit perfectly, but they enclosed his feet. They had soles. He laced them up, feeling a profound, almost emotional sense of security.
Finally, he buckled the belt and drew the knife. It was heavy in his hand, solid. A real, tangible tool. A symbol of marginal trust.
[Acquired: Basic Frontier Garb (Set).]
Effect: Minor Cold Resistance. Minor Puncture/Snag Protection. Social Signaling: 'Laborer/Provisional Member.'
[Acquired: Tool - Iron Belt Knife (Common).]
Quality: Poor. Use: Cutting, carving, basic self-defense against small fauna.
[Skill Opportunity Unlocked: Knife Handling (Basic).]
[Social Standing Update: You have successfully negotiated for necessary resources based on demonstrated utility. Status shifts from 'Ward-of-Suffrance' to 'Provisional Member - Labor & Support.']
When he stepped out, he felt different. Not stronger, but less vulnerable. The clothes itched, the boots were clumsy, but he was no longer a half-wild thing in party clothes. He looked like he belonged on the periphery of Blackridge.
Bryn gave him an appraising look, slightly less dismissive than usual. "Don't lose the knife. And don't wave it around like a fool. It's a tool, not a warrior's blade."
Kaelen handed him a small, empty pack. "You'll carry the game, if we get any. Or the kindling. Keep up. Stay quiet."
They moved to the main gate. Kaelen unbarred it, his eyes scanning the mist-shrouded tree line. "South and east. Check the snare lines, the old boar wallows. Be back before the light fails. Bryn leads."
Bryn slipped out first, silent as a shadow. Ali followed, his new boots crunching far too loudly on the gravelly path. He winced, consciously trying to mimic Bryn's lighter tread.
The gate thudded shut behind them.
They were in the forest.
Not the relatively tame resource-side, but the true wild, south of the steading. The air was thicker, the canopy denser. Bryn moved with a predator's grace, pausing every few yards to listen, his head cocked.
Ali tried to do the same, layering his normal senses over his Mana-Sense. The forest here was a deeper, more complex tapestry. He could feel the slow, thick pulse of the ancient trees, the skittering pinpricks of small life, and… colder, slower-moving patches. One, about fifty meters to their left, felt dense and patient. A predator's blind? A sleeping beast?
He pointed towards it, catching Bryn's eye.
Bryn frowned, peered into the brush, then gave a slight, begrudging nod. He changed their course, giving the cold spot a wider berth.
They found the first snare. It was empty, the trigger mechanism rusted and overgrown. Bryn reset it with quick, efficient movements. The second snare held the mangled remains of a large rabbit, half-eaten by scavengers. Bryn grunted in displeasure, cleaned the usable meat with his own sharp knife, and handed the grisly bundle to Ali to wrap and store in the pack.
As they worked, Ali felt it. The temptation. The ambient mana here was thicker than near the steading. Richer. It sang to his core. One Active Draw here might equal ten back at the shed. His core hummed, a hungry emptiness amidst the feast.
But he remembered Lyra's flare of discomfort. And he remembered the System's warning: in the forest, a ripple wasn't just a draft under a door. It was a vibration in a spider's web. The owner of that cold, patient signature to their left might feel it.
He clenched his jaw and kept his core sealed. Not here. Not now.
Bryn finished his work and gestured onward, deeper into the green gloom. Ali adjusted the pack, the weight of the meat a tangible return for their risk, and followed.
He was no longer just surviving in the steading. He was working for it, contributing to its larder. He had boots, a knife, and a mandate to be useful. The vertical line to infinity had just been given its first, proper set of climbing gear. The climb, however, had only just begun, and the cliffs were alive with unseen things.