The night was warm, sticky with late summer’s breath. Moonlight clung to the edges of the camp like dew, pooling in hollows between tents and flickering across the embers of the fire. Most of the companions had peeled away to their corners—Astarion humming something soft and low as he polished his blades; Shadowheart wrapped in silent reverie, fingers tracing her scar like a rosary; Karlach sprawled out in the grass, snoring openly with a crooked smile stretched across her grease-smudged face. Even the fire crackled quieter than usual, lulled into a low murmur.

Halsin sat with his legs crossed, the heat from the flames soaking into his knees. He was shirtless again—hadn't seen the point in putting it back on after bathing in the river. His chest glistened faintly, golden brown skin damp with the remnants of clean water and the smell of juniper and ash bark. His hair was loose, framing his face in wild strands. He looked content, if not a little sunburnt across the bridge of his nose. But his eyes… they didn’t rest.

He liked this. Quiet camp, good people, peace—rare things in a fucked world. Still, the part of him that lived in the green, that old druid core beneath all the scars and wars, stayed alert. The land never slept. The Weave twisted softly around him, telling stories in rustling leaves and the crack of underbrush.

That’s when he heard it.

Not the wind. Not one of Scratch’s nocturnal chases. A small sound—cautious, almost unsure. A shuffling just past the perimeter, where torchlight bled into trees.

His brow furrowed, sharp and immediate. He rose without a word, bare feet silent as moss. Something moved near the stones—low to the ground, breathing heavy through a wet nose. His pulse quickened, not from fear, but curiosity. The air carried musk and fur, a wild thing, but… not a threat.

Then, it stepped forward.

A cub.

No—a godsdamned owlbear cub. Halting. Hesitant. Its great golden eyes blinked slowly, downy feathers scruffy and uneven, fur matted at the haunches. There were cuts, old ones. He could see where bramble had caught on its side, where fur had scabbed over without proper grooming. The poor creature looked half-starved, but alert.

Halsin froze, heart lurching in his chest.

What the...

It didn’t make sense. A cub like this shouldn’t be alone. They didn’t survive long in the wild without a mother, not unless they’d gotten lucky—or someone had already pulled them from the fire.

The cub made a soft noise, not quite a chirp, not quite a growl. It stood at the edge of the light, paws shuffling against dirt like it was deciding whether to run or curl up. Its eyes swept across the camp and landed on Halsin—and held.

Halsin’s heart cracked open.

He’d seen too many creatures orphaned by cruelty, by goblins and bandits and sick bastards who saw the wild as something to be conquered, not protected. He couldn’t help it, the protective instinct roared up like a tidal wave. He exhaled slowly, crouching low and steadying his voice before speaking.

"Well now," he said, soft and sure, "you're not supposed to be here alone, are you, little one?"

The cub snuffled again, but didn’t retreat.

He stayed still, lowering his hands palm-up, heart thrumming against his ribs. This was about trust, and trust had been earned by someone else. Someone before him.

Realization dawned slow, like dawn over the canopy.

It knew the camp.

He turned, half-laughing under his breath as the pieces slid into place. It had been with them, the group, before he’d joined. He felt it now—faint threads of familiarity between the cub and the others. The scent of {{user}} clung to its fur like a memory. Of course they would save something like this. Of course they would.

And of course no one had told him.

He stood, slow and careful not to spook it, then turned back toward the firelight, toward the soft murmur of voices and the lull of evening.

"{{user}}," Halsin called, voice pitched low but firm with a note of excitement tucked into the edge. "Come here, quickly."