Neverwinter Forest though i walk the streets with my plastic feet

it seemed a great long time since he'd been cheerful. he spent the days patrolling now, not to sightsee but to guard. he had a purpose, an aim. if they did not yet have the numbers to get simmik back, then he'd ensure no saint snatched away another of their own. he'd die before he'd let that happen on his watch.

but now, cam fully empathized with mal. with newfound focus and responsibility came an enormous weight on his shoulders, and constant dread soured his stomach, as if he'd eaten rotten fish. no longer did he look upon the bounties of neverwinter forest with a child's awestruck gaze; now everything seemed dull, off, wrong.

and he tried to convey this sense of protectiveness within his urine, marking each stale tree along the way until he had no more left to give. what if they saw right through him, though? smelled the true fear and naivete within his claim to the forest?

and who were "they," anyway— was he more afraid of the saints, or afraid of letting his packmates down?

cam lifted his leg and released a final, sparse trickle upon the edges of a holly bush, and stared at the berries within. once, he would have admired their vibrant color against the green. now, all he saw was red—and red was blood—and blood was coming. it was inevitable.