Weeks stretched into months within the scarred shell of Starbreach. The initial frantic energy of rescue and recovery slowly curdled into the grim grind of long-term survival. Progress on clearing major thoroughfares was agonizingly slow. Food distribution, initially organized, became sporadic as scavenged supplies dwindled. Power, where available from Boltar's salvaged generators or sputtering Versari efforts, was rationed strictly. Hope, once a defiant ember, flickered low, choked by dust, hunger, and the constant gnawing uncertainty.
The adaptable, individualistic spirit of the Versari, their strength in innovation and rapid change began to fray under the sustained pressure of catastrophe and deprivation. Grumbling in ration lines grew louder. Arguments over salvaged materials became sharper, sometimes escalating into physical confrontations quickly broken up by weary volunteer patrols. Graffiti started appearing overnight on relatively intact walls, crude symbols of dissent, slogans blaming the unseen city leadership hiding in fortified bunkers, and increasingly, targeting perceived 'outsiders'.
Lights Out For Outsiders!
One stark message read, painted near the entrance to a sector housing refugees from destroyed neighbouring settlements.
Aetherium Failed Us - Power To The People!
Proclaimed another, scrawled across the shattered facade of a former energy hub.
The Sorcerai camp gradually became a focus of suspicion. They had their own light, their own purified water, their seemingly self-sufficient haven amidst the widespread scarcity. Whispers circulated.
The shift was palpable. Glances from passing Versari turned colder, less welcoming. Offers of trade for Mireia's purified water became demands laced with resentment. Patrol routes near their camp sometimes encountered small groups of sullen Versari who dispersed quickly but left behind an air of menace.
One night, the tension snapped.
Seren was assisting Mireia cataloging the last of their dwindling medicinal herbs when shouts erupted from outside the camp entrance. Not the usual sounds of the ruined city, but angry, focused yelling. Ferran and Gravus, near the reinforced entrance, exchanged uneasy glances.
"Give us the water!"
A rough voice roared in the common tongue, amplified by desperation.
"Share the light, Sorcerai! Or we'll take it!"
"Go back!"
Ferran yelled back, his voice firm, placing himself squarely in the entranceway.
"There's nothing here for you! We share what we can spare, you know this!"
A rock clattered against the reinforced doorframe. Then another. More voices joined the first, a small mob fueled by hunger and rumour.
Flareon, who had been attempting to meditate near the back, trying to regain some semblance of inner balance, surged to his feet, his eyes blazing.
"Scum! Ungrateful filth!"
He spat, starting towards the entrance, fists clenched.
Mireia intercepted him, putting a calming hand on his arm.
She urged, her voice low but firm.
Boltar appeared beside them, his hand crackling faintly with contained lightning.
He stated grimly.
Outside, the shouting intensified. A heavy object slammed against the entrance barricade Ferran and Gravus had constructed.
"Open up!"
"Don't hide behind your magic!"
Gravus stepped up beside Ferran, planting his feet firmly. He didn't shout, but raised his hands slowly. The ground just outside the entrance vibrated subtly, a low rumble felt more than heard. A silent, unmistakable warning. Do not cross this line.
The subtle display of power seemed to give the mob pause. The shouting faltered slightly. After a tense standoff lasting several minutes, punctuated by muttered threats and the occasional thrown piece of debris, the crowd gradually dispersed, melting back into the ruins, leaving behind only the echo of their anger and the heavy weight of mistrust.
Inside, the Sorcerai relaxed slightly, but the atmosphere remained charged. They strengthened the entrance wards. The camp, once a refuge, now felt like a besieged bastion. The scars of the attack weren't physical, but they ran deep, fracturing the tentative peace and revealing the dangerous instability simmering just beneath the surface of the broken city.
...
The city's central authority, whoever remained of it, operated from fortified bunkers deep beneath the relatively stable ruins of the administrative district. Their pronouncements, relayed sporadically by the Information Dispersal Unit criers, felt increasingly disconnected from the harsh reality on the streets. Decrees about resource allocation rang hollow when distribution networks were shattered. Promises of restoring essential services seemed like empty platitudes when vast swathes of the city remained dark and choked with rubble.
"Bunker rats!"
Became a common, bitter epithet hurled at the passing criers.
"While we starve, they feast on emergency stores!"
"Where's the leadership? Hiding while the city crumbles!"
Discontent festered, moving beyond whispers and graffiti. Organized scavenging gangs, initially focused on survival, grew bolder, their methods more brutal. Disputes over territory, salvage rights, or the last remaining caches of uncontaminated food erupted into violent clashes in the ruined streets. Makeshift barricades went up not just around camps like the Sorcerai's, but around entire neighbourhood blocks, manned by grim-faced Versari defending their scant possessions against perceived threats, internal or external.
The thin veneer of civic order cracked, then shattered. Looting of less damaged sectors became rampant. Isolated acts of violence escalated into open street brawls. The volunteer patrols, exhausted and demoralized, struggled to maintain even a semblance of control, often finding themselves outnumbered or simply ignored.
One evening, a large food distribution point, supposedly managed by the central authority's agents, was overwhelmed. A desperate, hungry crowd surged past the overwhelmed guards, tearing down barriers, fighting over sacks of grain and nutrient paste. The resulting riot lasted for hours, spreading through several blocks, leaving behind shattered stalls, injured bodies, and the smoldering wreckage of makeshift shelters caught in the crossfire.
Flareon and Ferran, returning from a tense patrol near the riot's edge, arrived back at the Sorcerai camp grim-faced.
Ferran reported, wiping soot from his brow.
Flareon leaned heavily against the wall.
He spat contemptuously.