Through the Encampments

Far from the city’s towering silhouette, Anaxi and Arc descended from its outskirts into the sprawling network of encampments and villages that radiated outward. The roads were rugged and twisting, remnants of old-world infrastructure now overgrown with stubborn weeds and flanked by makeshift shelters.

Each encampment told its own story of survival. Closest to the city, clusters of tents huddled together amidst crumbled concrete, their inhabitants working tirelessly to gather scraps and repurpose forgotten materials. Smoke curled lazily from fire pits where people cooked sparse meals, and the chatter of bartered deals carried through the air.

Arc’s sharp gaze swept over the scene as they moved, its form a silent sentinel beside Anaxi. “These settlements cling like moss to a dying tree,” Arc observed, its voice devoid of judgment.

Anaxi nodded, their eyes scanning for signs of danger. “Moss grows where it can. Doesn’t mean it’s weak.”

As they pressed farther from the city’s shadow, the encampments gave way to villages like Ashvine—more structured, more self-reliant. Here, the landscape opened into patchwork fields and groves of trees, where families worked side by side to cultivate the land. Small canals diverted water from streams to irrigate crops, and children carried woven baskets of supplies toward communal stores.

The Creche’s influence was unmistakable. Along the way, Anaxi spotted towering constructs repairing bridges and clearing debris, their movements efficient and methodical. Yet the villagers worked alongside them with a wary detachment, acknowledging their presence only when absolutely necessary.

“Fascinating,” Arc murmured, tilting its head as it observed a Creche deftly reshaping a collapsed wall with tendrils of shimmering material. “They reshape chaos into structure, yet the humans seem blind to the artistry.”

“It’s not artistry to them,” Anaxi said. “It’s survival.”