The camp was as busy as day time in Maldegrad. In turn, it was just as noisy.

Paris's shoulders screamed in pain as she fixed the makeshift strap the twine made around it. The bag of demon teeth bounced against her injured leg with each step. Why in Idis's name did she think of slinging it that way and not the other?

Beside her, Joyce equally huffed. His was more in strain and exhaustion than pain. He clenched his jaw and strode forward. Despite his best efforts, the bunch of flesh and skin only succeeded in making trenches against the soft ground and dragging him back.

At least the trellises made from dried branches stuck together were nearing now.

Their journey took an unholy amount of time. Paris lost count of the minutes (or hours) it took for them to cross the distance between the first instance of the ivory staves and the rim of what was supposed to be the camp where the colony of appeasements-turned-demon-slayers lived.

An uncharacteristic excitement bubbled in her throat the moment the first traces of tents' pinions appeared past the shroud of thorns and trunks. It only increased exponentially when the last line of trees made way to a vast clearing surrounded by trellises. There, she saw what the colony looked like at an immediate glance.

She and Joyce exchanged looks. Then, with renewed vigor ripping through their limbs, they continued their walk. Joyce found a respite on the continuous line of the barricade, cursing as he figured out how to fit the carcass through it. Paris sailed through with ease, despite the butt of the pile of fur bumping against the pointed tips of some sticks making up the trellis.

"Where to?" She turned to find Joyce grunting to tilt the carcass at an angle and tucking its legs into itself. More purple blood splashed into his clothes. By now, he looked like he was bathing with his clothes on in a vat of fermented wine.

"See that tent with a metal eagle slotted into the pinion?" Joyce said without turning. Before Paris could reply or even crane her neck to attempt to look for it, he said, "Of course, you won't. It's blocked by a lot of things."

Finally, after a bout of grunts and curses, Joyce and the carcass cleared their first hurdle. Without any additional interaction, Joyce led Paris through a set of twists and turns, going further and further into the mess of multi-colored tents.

The chatter increased the deeper they went into the camp. Children, who were either chosen as appeasements so early on and saved by the colony or born in the camp as the new generation, skirted through tent flaps and people's legs, giggling and screaming in delight at whatever game of tag they were playing. Adults, who either wore leather-plated armor or plain tunic and trousers paired with boots, milled about in their own business. Some carried buckets of soapy water. Others lugged similar kills like Joyce did beside Paris. How many hunters were there?

The sound of metal banging against metal restarted its cycle. Paris traced the source to a single tent that was thrown wide open, its flaps pinned at the tent's roof. Inside was a muscular man and woman hammering molten metal. From the looks of it, they're making a sword. The embers sparking with each of their blows sent strange euphoria in Paris's veins.

"Hey, man!" Joyce's cheerful greeting brought Paris's attention back to him. She turned to find him striding towards another tent with a wide smile on his face. Unlike the shrouded expressions he kept throwing Paris when they first met and talked, the one he flashed to the man inside another wide-open tent was unguarded. Carefree. Casual.

Like friends.

"Joyce, my man!" answered what appeared to be a butcher in Paris's eyes. His muscles bulged as he swung his cleaver down a slab of flesh which suspiciously looked like it's from a demon. Paris's stomach roiled. Were they...were they eating demons here? Was that how they survived? Was that how Paris would survive from now on?

Before she could decide to throw up on the side, Joyce hauled the carcass on the foot of the table separating him and the butcher. "I found this adolescent Xath'drahg in the Michfried area while on patrol," he said. "The kill was pretty bloody. I hope there's still something to extract from these bones."

The butcher waved his hand in the air, meat cleaver still in hand. One wrong swipe and he could chop someone's nose off. "Never mind that," he said. His voice bordered on rough and loud, grating Paris's ears. "We have a lot of use for Xath'drahg even if it's a wee babe! Gods be praised, you made it in one piece, junior!"

Paris knitted her eyebrows. Why praise the gods for something Joyce did on his own?

"Haven't seen her before," the butcher jerked his chin at Paris. She felt both attention fall on her. With a brush, she placed the pile of fur in front of her chest. Never mind that her ass was still hanging out for everyone to see behind her. Then again, there didn't seem to be anyone who cared. "New one? Swear these days was just a blur. When was the last time we had new doves?"

Doves? Was that what they call newbies like her?

Joyce chuckled. He reached out and patted the butcher's muscular arm. They stood at equal height but next to the cleaver-wielding man, Joyce looked so scrawny. That, and his hair looked shades lighter against the man's dark brown hair. A mustache covered the butcher's upper lip, making it hard for Paris to lip read what he was saying. It's a miracle Joyce was able to understand the butcher's garbled way of talking.

"That was over a year ago. Sweet Celine was gone now," Joyce said without much hint of remorse. It was just a fact and not something he believed he should dwell on. "Poor girl didn't even last a month."

Paris's throat tightened. Not more than a month? What would happen to her, then? Was she the one who would break the record of spending the shortest time here?

The butcher slammed his cleaver down, the sound of metal sticking into the wooden chopping board making Paris flinch. "Let's hope this one lasts more than that, eh?" he said.

"I'm right here, moron," Paris snapped. "Talk about me when I'm not within earshot."

Instead of being offended, the butcher's mustache arced into a smile. "I like the spike of this one," he said. "They've sent in a good one this year, right, Joyce?"

Joyce glanced at Paris before turning back to the bigger man. "We'll see about that," he said. "I'll leave you to it then," he jerked his chin at Paris. Now that his burden was lifted off him, his gait was somehow taller, prouder. "Come on."

Without much choice, Paris strutted after him.

"Who was that?" Paris asked.

Joyce hummed before turning back to the direction they just left. "Oh, that?" he said. "That's Milliam. Resident butcher and healer."

Paris blinked. She couldn't resist whirling back to stare after the muscular man who went back to chopping demon meat. At his feet lay Joyce's kill. Another hunter was already making his way towards the table.

"That guy's a healer?" Paris asked. She didn't bother hiding the amusement in her voice.

Joyce shrugged. "Why not?" he said. "Thanks to him, we had ways in treating minor and some major injuries that may or may not be related to hunting demons. I bet," he lowered his gaze to the angry, red blotches peppering Paris's exposed arms and chest. "He had something to soothe those burns too."

"Of course, he does," Paris muttered under her breath as Joyce led her to another tent. This one had its flaps drawn and clipped shut, sending mixed signals. Judging from the homely color of the cloth used for the walls—a lovely shade of faded yellow—it was supposed to invite people over. With the flaps shut and the creepy silence lurking from the inside, it told Paris to not have anything to do with it all her life.

It was both memorable and forgettable. Paris doubted a thing could be both at the same time, yet here they were.

"Here we are," Joyce gestured to the flaps as if hearing Paris's thoughts and repeating it out loud. Then, he screamed against the barrier of cloth. "Joyce to enter. I have the new appeasement with me."

"Go ahead," answered a muffled voice from the inside. It sounded feminine.

Joyce drew the flap back with two fingers, still coated with dried flecks of demon blood, and signaled Paris to follow with a roll of his eyes. Together, they ducked into the tent. There, a large table greeted them. On the four chairs laid behind it sat a set of robed men and women, all looking at her from head to toe like they're about to pronounce her fate not a minute too soon.

"What's your name?" the woman to Paris's leftmost side said. She wore a black-rimmed spectacles, hiding her blue eyes behind its glare. Her straight, blond hair was pinned up in a rigid ponytail, showing off her large forehead. Just the presence of pointed ears would convince Paris she was part of the legendary tribe of Panzelena popular in the myths.

It occurred to her that she was being asked a question. She ducked her head at them. "Paris, ma'am," she said, for once adopting a mild tone. "Paris Lerring."

The woman didn't say anything back.

"Where did you find her?" a man with slicked back dark hair asked from beside the blond woman. His piercing dark eyes and tanned skin gave him a shroud of mystery. Or something.

Paris was about to open her mouth to answer but Joyce beat her to it. Rather, it seemed like he was the one being asked. He just saved her from a lifetime of shame. "Michfried," he said. The woman stiffened, causing alarm to flicker to Joyce's face. He ducked his head in reverence. "I know it brings back bad memories. I'm sorry."

The blond woman shook her head. "I should be ashamed of how it still affects me even now," she said. "What's the status in Michfried?"

Joyce pouted, looking to the left in thought. "Not a lot of demons in sight," he said. "I was able to track a Xath'drahg as it chased our dear Paris here. I killed it. Jumped from a tree and all. I did see traces of a colony of Jezer'thokth heading towards Guidstrange."

A curse flitted from another man's lips. Paris whipped to a man with a hood on despite being indoors. It covered his bald head and much of his scarred face. "So it's in Chapine's designation," he said. "Any news or correspondence from him?"

Joyce shook his head, his light brown hair bouncing against his forehead. "If Sewel's in trouble, he'd reach out," he said. "If he hasn't, it's safe to say his team is still holding out. Thankfully, one of our colonies is nearby."

"That's a relief, at least," the blond woman said, blowing a breath and massaging her temples. Aside from sitting here and talking to hunters, what else was supposed to be stressing them? Then, the woman clapped her hands and smiled at Paris. "Welcome to the colony, Paris," she said. "Forgive us from extracting the latest reports from Morrows. He'll lead you to a place where you can get a fresh change of clothes and where you can drop the pelts and the teeth. Good job, everyone."

Joyce moved to usher Paris out when the hooded man spoke. "And make sure you train her to swing a sword the right way," he said. Then, with his voice dropping into a threatening edge, said, "We don't want another Celine."

Paris turned to Joyce expecting to find some sort of emotion in there. Fear, anger, guilt—anything. What greeted her was a wall of indifference. Who was Celine? Why did she keep getting mentioned since Paris got here?

"I'll make sure of that, Elder Langeron," Joyce ducked his head once more and gripped Paris's arm. He basically dragged her out of the tent. "Thank you for your time."

"Oh, give Paris a place to stay," the blond woman called out. Paris began to think she must be a mother with how much she cared about Paris's wellbeing. "I hear Josin's tent still has one room left after her tentmate walked out on her."

Joyce nodded, a little more vigorously. His grip around Paris's arm tightened, his steps turning frantic. Hurry before they dump a ton of instructions and commands on him, he seemed to be sending through Paris's veins. So, Paris let herself be tugged away.

That night, after downing enough bucketfuls of spring water over her head, she collapsed into a cot laid out for her upon Joyce's order to Josin, her new tentmate. Her quick bath wasn't enough to wash the dirt and stains of blood off her nails and her hair but it was to remove the rusty stench of sweat and demon entrails. Her muscles ached and throbbed, her leg injury stung more than ever. The water seemed to agitate the skin around the wide gash.

Now dressed with a thigh-length and long sleeved tunic and a thin undergarment for her legs, she curled up on the cot. She tucked her hands beneath her head at the apparent lack of pillows. There were no blankets either. She supposed she'd have to earn them when she'd have enough demons killed. Was that how this colony worked?

Josin, the sweet girl who liked to sharpen swords too much, had stepped out to find dinner for the both of them. She had accepted Paris warmly as soon as Joyce left Paris in her care. When she saw the huge gash in Paris's leg, she gasped. Then, she bustled around the tent in search of something to disinfect it. When she found none, she said she'd drop by Milliam's on her way to dinner.

When the sun had set, there wasn't really any difference with the amount of light seeping through the gritty canopy. The wind might have gotten colder or the camp might have been filled with more sound of wood crackling against blazing flames.

Paris closed her eyes. This was her new life now, no matter how she refused to accept it. A few hours ago, she already considered herself dead and done for. But for some miracle, she was still here. Was still breathing. Who would've thought?

So, she was going to do what she knew to be the best choice for someone in her situation.

She slept.