WE RUN. THROUGH THE NIGHT. THE F IVE OF US. THROUGH the white night-time woods of New Eden. Lugh an Tommo an Ash an Creed an me. The f ive of us. We run.
Dry tree litter cushions the ground. Hushes the pound of our boots. Our breath puffs steam in the chill. We’re all sharp, tight with intent.
Lugh’s got the rope, slung around his chest. I carry the blastpack. Swaddled in cloth, tucked in my sack, along with my meagre gear.
Long-looker. Sleepkit. F lint. Waterskin. Salt twist. Cooktin. Shirt. Medicine bag....