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The wagon creaks and groans as it lumbers through the night, the gravel crunching beneath its wheels like bones underfoot. Cold wind whips through the slats, carrying the scent of damp earth and hay from the sacks of grain piled around you. Above, the trees weave a tangled canopy, their branches clawing at the faint starlight, casting long, restless shadows across the road. Near the front of the wagon, the rest of Vox Machina fill the air with chatter and laughter—Scanlan’s high-pitched jokes, Grog’s booming guffaws, and Percy’s dry retorts. Pike and Keyleth are curled up together, fast asleep, their breathing soft and steady. You sit in the back, hunched over a small notebook, your pencil scratching out sketches of past battles. The chill bites at your cheeks, but something else…