**Garrick Thorne's Log, Supplemental**
**Rothguard Woods recording**
The woods remember those who bleed for them.
Garrick's squad moved like shadows through the dense Rothguard Woods, following Lirien's lead as the elf guided them deeper into the ancient trees. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, and every snapped twig sounded like a gunshot in the heavy silence. Behind them, the distant rumble of secondary explosions continued to roll across the valley from Rothguard — low, angry thunder that reminded them the Imperia's grip on the city was still being violently contested.
Instead of heading for exfil, Garrick had chosen to complete his secondary objective: making contact with the resistance. Mira suddenly raised a clenched fist. Her suit's sensors had flagged movement ahead. The squad froze instantly. Pistols came up in smooth, practiced motions. Every member scanned the surrounding undergrowth, eyes sharp, bodies coiled like springs. Garrick could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.
A voice called out from the shadows, low and edged with steel, speaking in clear, melodic Elvish. "Ael'vandar thalor?" Lirien answered immediately, his voice steady but low. "Rothgar en'vandar, thalor." For a long, suffocating moment, nothing moved. The forest seemed to hold its breath. Garrick's grip tightened on his pistol. He could feel the tension radiating from his squad — shallow breathing, fingers hovering over triggers, eyes flicking between shadows.
Then the trees parted.
Elves and humans stepped into view, emerging from the undergrowth like ghosts. Their once-proud Rothguard uniforms were now little more than tattered rags stitched with crude, mismatched patches. Faces were gaunt, eyes hollow with exhaustion and suspicion, and every weapon was held ready — bows half-drawn, blades gleaming in the moonlight. Several fighters had fresh wounds crudely bandaged. One human's hand trembled slightly on the hilt of his sword.
Garrick stepped forward without hesitation. He performed the traditional Rothguard Cross Mark — pressing his closed fist firmly to his chest — and spoke the ancient motto of the most trusted loyalists, his voice clear and steady in the charged silence. "The Cross Remembers. Rothgard Endures." The resistance leader, a tall elf with silver-streaked hair and a deep scar across his cheek, studied Garrick for several long seconds. His eyes narrowed with recognition — and something sharper. He turned sharply to Lirien, voice tight with barely contained anger.
"You brought outsiders," the elf said in Trade Tongue, the words slicing through the air. "Strangers into our woods. Only one of them bears Rothguard blood." Lirien met the leader's gaze without flinching. "They are the ones responsible for the attack that shattered the harbor. The sky-fire that broke the Imperia's grip on the city."
The leader's expression darkened. He stepped forward until he stood directly in front of Garrick, close enough that Garrick could see the exhaustion and grief carved into every line of the elf's face. For a long, dangerous moment, the leader searched Garrick's eyes as if trying to read the truth written in his soul. The surrounding fighters shifted, weapons inching higher, the tension thick enough to choke on.
"Is this true?" the leader asked quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper — yet it carried the weight of judgment. Garrick didn't hesitate. He held the elf's gaze and answered with quiet, unshakable certainty. "It is." The leader stared at him for several heartbeats longer. Then, slowly, he exhaled. The rigid tension in his shoulders eased, though the wariness in his eyes remained. He gave a single, reluctant nod. "Follow," he said. "And stay close."
The resistance members melted back into the trees. Garrick's squad followed in tight formation, every sense still on high alert. They moved for nearly an hour through twisting, hidden trails until the forest opened into what appeared to be a wide, empty clearing — an open field bathed in pale moonlight. As they stepped forward, the air shimmered. A ripple passed over the clearing like heat haze rising from sun-baked stone. The illusion fractured and dissolved, revealing the truth hidden beneath.
The Resistance village was not an open field at all. It was a hidden stronghold nestled deep within the ancient forest. Shelters woven from living wood and reinforced with stone rose between massive trees, their roofs covered in moss and vines so perfectly they blended into the canopy. Narrow walkways of packed earth and wooden planks connected different sections of the camp, while thick walls of interwoven thorns and flowering vines formed natural defensive rings. Small cooking fires burned low in stone pits, casting flickering light across work areas where weapons were being repaired and supplies sorted. In the center stood a larger structure built around the base of an ancient oak — the command post. Wounded fighters rested in a long, open-sided healing tent where Aelari menders moved quietly among them.
The village hummed with quiet, determined activity. Elves, humans, and a few Beastkin moved with purpose, their eyes sharp and their movements efficient despite the exhaustion etched into their faces. Lirien glanced back at Garrick, a faint, tired smile touching his lips. "Welcome to the resistance," he said softly. Garrick gave a short nod, his hand still resting near his pistol. The real fight, he realized, was only just beginning.