Mace's Camp

A hidden enclave carved into the woodland’s edge, shielded by dense thickets and the towering trunks of ancient trees. The camp occupies a small clearing where the underbrush has been trampled flat, the earth packed hard beneath folded cloaks and scattered supplies. A smoldering firepit at its center casts flickering light against upturned crates and jury-rigged shelters, its smoke curling upward only to be snatched away by the forest’s restless winds. Makeshift barriers of lashed branches partially obscure the encampment from the woodland paths, while the stench of gunpowder lingers on the damp air—both from Mace’s wasted shots and the villagers’ recent confrontation. Cloaks hang damply from low-hanging boughs, their wool absorbing the chill of the evening, and a single lantern flickers inside a tent woven from scavenged fabric, its glow barely piercing the gloom. The camp feels provisional, its survival dependent on haste and secrecy rather than permanence, safe only so long as no torch or shout betrays its position.