Chapter 3: Caravan, Lies, Translation
The voices resolved into three distinct registers before Ellie saw their owners.
Rough laughter first—male, gravel-edged, the kind that came from too many campfires and not enough sleep. Then a lower mutter, patient, correcting. Finally, a woman's voice, sharp and amused, cutting through both like a whetstone on steel.
Ellie stepped from the undergrowth onto what passed for a trail: packed earth, hoofprints, the occasional wheel rut half-filled with last night's rain. She kept the milk pitcher low at her side, dented rim still tacky with wolf blood. Her bare feet registered every pebble and root, but the pain dampener turned sharp edges into dull pressure. Convenient.
The caravan rounded a bend twenty meters ahead. Six wagons, canvas tops patched in mismatched colors. Two outriders on sturdy geldings, one leading a spare mule laden with crates. The rearmost wagon carried a cook-fire setup still smoldering; the scent of charred meat and onions drifted toward her.
Ellie stopped walking.
The lead rider—a broad man in scarred leather, gray streaking his beard—spotted her first. He raised a gauntleted hand. The whole line slowed, then halted. Weapons appeared: short-swords, a crossbow, and one long spear leveled casually in her direction.
Ellie raised her free hand, palm out. Universal gesture. She hoped.
The bearded man nudged his horse forward a few steps. His eyes flicked from her bare feet to the pitcher to the blood on her forearm—her own, from a claw swipe she hadn't noticed.
"Girl," he said in a language that sounded like Old English run through a blender with something guttural. "You lost?"
The words arrived in Ellie's skull already translated, crisp and modern. The System's doing, presumably. A small blue tag hovered beside his head for half a second before vanishing.
[Garrick Stormblade – Mercenary Captain – Level 18]
[Basic Analysis (passive): Threat assessment – moderate. Loyalty bias: caravan first.]
Ellie considered several responses. Honesty was inefficient. Flattery was exhausting. She settled on economy.
"Yes," she said. "I am lost."
Her voice came out flat, accentless. The translation must have smoothed it. Garrick's brows rose slightly.
"You speak Common like a noble's tutor," he said. "Yet you're barefoot in the Whispering Woods with nothing but a… kitchen tool?"
Ellie glanced at the pitcher. "Improvised."
A snort from the woman on the second horse—short-cropped red hair, leather jerkin, two daggers crossed at her belt.
"She's either mad or very good at pretending," the woman said. "I vote mad."
Garrick ignored her. His gaze stayed on Ellie. "Name?"
"Elara Voss." Pause. "Ellie."
"From where?"
"Far."
He waited for elaboration. None came.
The cook—a wiry man with a limp—leaned over the side of his wagon. "Captain, we're burning daylight. Bandits hit the north fork yesterday. Sooner we're behind city walls, sooner I sleep."
Garrick studied Ellie for another five seconds. Then he jerked his head toward the rear wagon.
"Climb on. We'll drop you at Ordelia gates. After that, you're on your own."
Ellie nodded once. No thank-you. Gratitude was performative; she saw no reason to spend it yet.
She walked past the line of wagons. Eyes followed her—curious, wary, amused. One young archer whispered something about "ghost girl." Ellie filed it under irrelevant.
The rear wagon had a low step-board. She climbed up, sat on the edge beside a crate of turnips. The cook tossed her a rough wool blanket without comment. She draped it over her shoulders. Not for warmth—modesty seemed expected.
As the caravan lurched forward, the System chimed softly in her periphery.
[New Quest: Reach Ordelia Capital]
Description: Arrive at the city gates alive. Optional: Maintain cover story.
Reward: 150 EXP, Basic Clothing Set, Minor Reputation with Stormblade Company
Failure Penalty: None (yet)
Bonus Objective: Do not reveal the System interface to any native.
Current Progress: 0%
Ellie thought: Menu.
The dashboard appeared. She selected Inventory. Still empty except for one item.
[Stainless-Steel Milk Pitcher – Durability: 41/100 – Improvised Weapon (Blunt)]
She dismissed it.
The trail widened. Sunlight filtered through the thinning canopy. Ellie watched the trees thin, cataloging details: leaf shapes (broad, serrated), bird calls (trilling, repetitive), occasional glint of water through distant foliage. Data accumulated. Useful later, perhaps.
Garrick dropped back after an hour, reining his horse alongside the wagon.
"You're quiet," he observed.
"Yes."
"Most lost travelers talk. Cry. Beg. You just… sit."
Ellie considered. "Talking uses air. I have enough."
He barked a laugh—short, surprised. "Fair."
A pause.
"Where exactly are you from, Ellie Voss?"
She met his eyes. Direct. Unblinking. "A place without wolves that size. Or magic."
"Magic?" He raised a brow. "You've seen none yet?"
"I saw a blue box in my head that told me to survive. Then wolves tried to eat me. I hit one with this." She lifted the pitcher. "It worked."
Garrick stared. Then he laughed again—longer this time.
"You're either the best liar I've met in twenty years, or the strangest thing to walk out of these woods since the last dragon."
"Probably both," Ellie said.
He shook his head and urged his horse forward again.
The woman—introduced later as Mara—rode close enough to toss Ellie a strip of dried venison. "Eat. You look half-dead."
Ellie accepted it. Chewed mechanically. Salt. Protein. Acceptable.
[Sustenance consumed. Minor stamina restored.]
By late afternoon, the forest gave way to rolling hills dotted with sheep. In the distance, stone walls rose—gray, weathered, topped with banners snapping in the wind. Ordelia.
The gates were open, guarded by spearmen in blue tabards. Garrick paid the toll with a handful of copper discs. No one asked about the barefoot girl in the blanket. Mercenaries apparently carried odd cargo.
Inside the walls, the city unfolded: cobbled streets, timber-framed houses leaning over alleys, hawkers shouting about bread and charms and "genuine griffin feathers, fresh-plucked!" Smells layered—baking rye, horse manure, incense from a street shrine, iron from a smithy.
Ellie absorbed it the way she absorbed caffeine: clinically, noting effects without attachment.
Garrick halted the caravan in a wide yard behind a three-story inn called The Iron Flagon. Stableboys swarmed the horses. Drivers began unloading.
He walked back to Ellie's wagon.
"Gates are that way," he said, pointing. "Beyond them, you're nobody's problem but your own. Unless you want to work."
Ellie tilted her head. "Work?"
"Caravan guard. You're small, but you've got steady hands. And you didn't scream when wolves came up in conversation."
She considered. Safety in numbers. Free food. Mobility. Data on this world.
"Pay?" she asked.
"Three silver a week. Food. Bedroll. No questions."
Ellie nodded once.
"Accepted."
Garrick grinned—small, crooked. "Good. We leave in three days. Until then, room six upstairs. Don't steal. Don't start fights. And for gods' sake, get some boots."
He walked away.
Ellie slid off the wagon, blanket still around her shoulders, pitcher in hand.
The System pinged.
[Quest Updated: Reach Ordelia Capital – Complete][150 EXP awarded][Level 3 reached][+10 System Credits][New Title: Caravan Stray][Reputation: Stormblade Company – Neutral → Friendly]
She dismissed the notifications.
Then she looked down at her bare, dirt-streaked feet.
Boots.
Right.
She started toward the inn door, already calculating the most efficient way to acquire currency, footwear, and—potentially—answers about why a floating blue box had decided her continued existence was its personal project.
Three days.
Plenty of time to experiment.