Time soon passed and the fire continued to crackle, casting long, dancing shadows against the rib-bone cages.
The surviving Drifters, about fifteen of them stood in a loose semi-circle, clutching the bone spears and dried meat Damien had allowed them to scavenge.
They looked at the masked figure in the black coat, waiting for orders. Waiting to be told they were saved.
Damien stood up from the log, dusting off his trench coat.
"I am leaving," Damien announced, his metallic voice cutting through the hope in the air.
A murmur of panic went through the group. An Elf woman stepped forward, her hands clasping a rusted knife.
"Take us with you!" she begged. "Please! We won't make it alone!"
"You're right," Damien said coldly. "You won't."
He reached into his void gem and pulled out a small, flat piece of the obsidian axe he had shattered earlier.
He pressed his thumb against the stone.
VWMMM.
