The Watch

It was a quiet, nearly moonless night. The sparse forest was wet and verdant, filled with mushrooms and mold. Argen snored softly, away from the banked coals of the fire they allowed themselves. Anya tossed and turned in her bedroll, as she so often did, soft mewling cries occasionally slipping through her pale, drawn lips. Ros could still taste the delicious spongy mushrooms they discovered and had fried in butter. With her back to a tree, she stood watch with her ears, not her eyes. There were too many shadows dancing through the wood to rely on what she saw.