Mason moved steadily along the creek, the faint sound of water always present at his side. He had been walking for a while, following the natural path of the river, when something familiar caught his attention—movement in the tall grass, subtle and almost imperceptible. He glanced to the side and spotted the dark, sleek shape of the panther again, briefly visible before it disappeared into the greenery.
It had been following him, silently and from a distance, ever since he had woken up. Mason hadn't seen it for a while, but clearly, the creature hadn't gone far. He wasn't worried—whatever its intentions, the panther had shown no signs of hostility. It was there, just out of sight, like a shadow.
Focusing on the path ahead, Mason soon noticed something else. A thin trail of smoke rising beyond the trees in the distance. That was a clearer sign of people, likely a village or camp. His pace quickened slightly as he adjusted the bag resting beneath his cloak, heading toward the smoke.
As the riverbank curved again, the terrain shifted—trees grew closer to the water, and the grass thinned in patches. The smoke became more distinct as he drew nearer. He wasn't far now.
After some time, Mason's attention was drawn to movement ahead. A group of children was playing by the river. He slowed his pace, observing them from a distance. They splashed in the water, laughing and chasing each other through the grass, their carefree energy filling the air.
Mason considered his options. They were young, unaware of his approach, but they might know where the village was, or at least provide some direction. As he moved closer, he noticed one of the children—a girl, a little older than the rest—standing apart, watching him carefully. She didn't seem afraid, just curious, but she had definitely noticed him.
Mason stopped a short distance away, making no sudden movements. There was no need to alarm them, and the girl's cautious gaze told him she was already assessing him.
Mason raised a hand in a calm wave, trying to ease any tension as the girl continued to watch him. He wasn't sure how the children would react to a stranger suddenly appearing along the river, but the girl didn't seem scared, only wary.
"Hello," Mason called out, his voice steady but not too loud. "I'm just passing through. Is there a village nearby?"
The girl, still standing apart from the others, hesitated for a moment before nodding slowly. She glanced back toward the group of children, who had begun to notice Mason now, their laughter quieting as they realized someone unfamiliar was approaching.
One of the younger boys, splashing in the water, tugged at the girl's sleeve, whispering something Mason couldn't hear. The girl nodded, her expression softening slightly as she looked back at Mason.
"Aye," she said, her voice carrying the familiar accent of the Riverlands. "Willowbank. It's up the river, not far."
Mason offered a small, appreciative smile. "Thanks," he said, taking a step forward but remaining at a respectful distance. "I'm looking for some help. Do you think someone in the village could spare some time?"
The girl studied him for a moment longer before answering. "Mebbe. Ye'd best speak ta my da—or the elder folk. They'll know more." She glanced back at the others, who were now watching Mason with open curiosity, but none of them seemed particularly alarmed.
Mason nodded, understanding her caution. "That sounds good," he replied. "I'll head that way then."
The girl seemed satisfied with his response but didn't take her eyes off him. "Be careful," she added, her tone light but serious. "Bandits've been 'bout lately."
Mason took her words seriously, nodding his thanks again before turning back toward the direction of the village. He continued along the creek, feeling the gaze of the children linger on him for a moment longer before their playful voices resumed in the distance.
As he moved further along the river, the smoke ahead became clearer, and Mason knew he was close. His thoughts drifted back to what the girl had said—bandits. He had been lucky not to run into anyone unfriendly yet, but it was a reminder that this world wasn't without its dangers.
Mason walked into the village of Willowbank, his steps measured as he followed the trail of smoke that had led him here. The village was small and simple, with cottages of wood and stone, their thatched roofs blending seamlessly with the earthy landscape. As he passed by, villagers paused in their work to glance at him, their curiosity plain.
It wasn't just his unfamiliar presence that drew their attention—it was his appearance. Dark hair was common enough, but his eyes, a rare shade somewhere between amber and gold, seemed to catch the light in a way that made people stop and take notice. He felt their stares, but none of it made him uncomfortable. It was normal for village folk to be curious about strangers, especially when they had little contact with the outside world.
The women, in particular, exchanged glances and whispered among themselves, though none made any approach. Mason noted their interest but didn't dwell on it. He continued through the village square, keeping an eye out for anyone who might be able to answer his questions.
At the center of the village, a makeshift market had been set up, with a few stalls selling basic goods—vegetables, firewood, dried meats, and simple tools. It was modest, like the village itself, but Mason saw an opportunity to learn more.
He approached a stall where a man was busy arranging vegetables—carrots, onions, and some cabbages piled neatly on the counter. The man noticed Mason and gave him a wary but polite nod.
"Need somethin', stranger?" the vendor asked, his eyes flicking briefly to Mason's unusual eyes before settling on the more familiar sight of his clothes and gear.
Mason considered his questions carefully, keeping his tone casual. "I'm new to the area. Just passing through, but I was hoping to learn a bit about the place. How far is the nearest town?"
The vendor scratched his head, his brow furrowing slightly. "Nearest town's a day's walk, maybe two. That'd be Stoney Sept, if ye follow the main road east." He gestured vaguely in the direction Mason had come from.
"Stoney Sept?" Mason repeated, trying to recall the name. It sounded familiar but didn't help him much.
"Aye," the vendor said, eyeing Mason's gear again. "But ye won't find much there these days. Ain't seen a proper trade caravan come through in a good while."
Mason nodded, shifting to another question. "Has there been any trouble in the area? Bandits, perhaps?"
At this, the vendor's face darkened slightly. "Aye… bandits've been roamin' the roads. Some say they come from the woods, others say they're outlaws from across the river. Best ye keep yer wits about ye, stranger."
Mason gave a slight nod of appreciation. "I'll keep that in mind. One more question—what about the ruling lord of this place? Who governs these lands?"
The vendor blinked, looking a little taken aback by the question. He paused, clearly unsure how to answer something more complex. "Well… that'd be the local lord, I reckon. But if ye've got harder questions, ye'd best speak to the chief. He knows more 'bout what's goin' on 'round here. Lives up yonder." He pointed toward a small house near the edge of the village.
"The chief?" Mason repeated, curious.
"Aye," the vendor nodded. "Appointed by the lord's men ta keep order in the village. He'll know what ye're lookin' for."
Mason thanked the man, dropping a few coins on the counter as a gesture of goodwill before turning his attention toward the chief's house. The village was small, and it seemed there wasn't much more the average folk could tell him. If he wanted real answers, he'd have to speak with someone who had authority.
Mason made his way through the village, following the vendor's directions to the house near the edge of Willowbank. The structure was slightly larger than the others, though still modest by any standard. The roof sagged a little in places, and the wooden door was worn from years of weather, but it gave off the impression of someone who held authority in the village.
Sitting outside the house was a man in his forties, older by local standards, given the harshness of life in rural lands. His graying hair was tied back, and his sharp, weathered eyes took in Mason's approach. He was busy sharpening a knife on a whetstone, his movements steady and practiced, but he paused when he noticed the stranger standing before him.
"Ye must be the one folk've been whisperin' about," the man said, wiping his hands on his trousers as he looked Mason up and down. His voice was rough, but there was no malice in it—just curiosity. "What brings ye ta Willowbank?"
Mason inclined his head slightly. "I'm a traveler, passing through. I've been told you're the one to speak to if I have questions. I'm trying to get a sense of where I am and who governs these lands."
The man raised an eyebrow, but then gave a short chuckle. "Aye, that'd be me. Name's Harrod, chief o' this village. If ye've got questions, I'll answer what I can. Not many folk come through here, so I reckon ye're lookin' fer a lot more than directions."
Mason nodded, accepting the unspoken invitation to sit on the bench nearby. "I am. I've been traveling for a while, but I'm not familiar with this region. What can you tell me about the nearest town and the people who rule these parts?"
Harrod leaned back, resting his hands on his knees. "Nearest town's Stoney Sept. It's a day or two east by foot, if ye follow the main road. Big enough ta have its own market, an' it's where the lord that governs these parts calls home."
Mason considered the name for a moment, though it didn't ring any bells. "And this lord, he's responsible for Willowbank as well?"
"Aye, that'd be Lord Brynden," Harrod said, his voice steady. "He governs from Stoney Sept, but we don't see much of him. His men come 'round now an' again to collect taxes an' see that we keep the peace. Mostly, though, we handle things ourselves."
Mason listened closely, absorbing the information. Stoney Sept seemed like the next place he'd need to visit if he wanted more substantial answers. But for now, he needed to focus on the immediate area. "What about dangers on the roads? I've heard talk of bandits."
Harrod's face darkened at the mention of bandits. "Aye, the roads've been troubled lately. Bandits, outlaws—take yer pick. They roam the woods, an' Lord Brynden's men don't always keep up with 'em. Ye'd best keep an eye on the road east."
Mason nodded, appreciating the warning. "I'll keep that in mind. Has there been anything else—anything unusual—going on lately?"
Harrod gave him a long look before replying. "Depends on what ye mean by unusual. There's been talk of strange folk near the river, but that's mostly rumor. I wouldn't pay it much heed unless ye've got a reason to be curious."
Mason thought about the panther that had followed him earlier. He didn't know if it was connected to the strange folk Harrod mentioned, but it was enough to keep him alert. "Good to know," he said. "Thank you for the information."
Harrod grunted in acknowledgment. "Ye seem the careful sort, stranger. That'll serve ye well 'round here."
With that, Mason stood and offered his thanks once more. Harrod gave a nod before returning to his knife and whetstone, the rhythmic scraping resuming as Mason walked away.
As Mason stepped away from the village chief's house, he took a moment to observe the surroundings. The chief's home, though slightly larger than the others, was simple—its thatched roof sloping gently, with a few wooden beams that looked like they had seen better days. The door creaked as it opened and closed, and children darted in and out of the house, their laughter and chatter filling the air. Harrod's grandchildren, no doubt, as they ran about with the boundless energy of youth, their small feet kicking up dust as they played near the entrance.
The rest of the village bustled with a quiet energy. It was a peaceful, everyday sort of activity, the kind that comes with routine. Nearby, women gathered around the well, their soft voices mixing with the laughter of children as they fetched water or prepared food. Their chatter drifted through the air, snippets of conversation about daily tasks, small village gossip, and family affairs.
The men were busy at their own work, scattered throughout the village. Some were repairing fences or fixing the roofs of their cottages, while others were tending to small patches of farmland. The rhythmic sound of a hammer striking wood echoed from somewhere nearby, followed by the occasional grunt of effort as one of the villagers worked on mending a tool or structure. The atmosphere was that of a tight-knit community, everyone doing their part to keep the village running smoothly.
The houses themselves were humble but sturdy, built with the same rough-hewn wood and stone that defined Willowbank. Mason noticed the signs of wear on the buildings—patches of newer thatch on roofs, freshly mended stone walls—indicating that the villagers were used to doing things themselves, maintaining their homes with whatever resources they had on hand.
As he walked through the village, Mason could still feel a few lingering gazes on him. Some of the women who had been talking earlier paused to glance his way again, their curiosity about the stranger not entirely satisfied. A few men looked up from their work, but most returned quickly to their tasks, not paying him much mind after their initial wariness had faded.
Mason's eyes drifted back toward the road leading out of the village. The conversation with Harrod had given him a clearer direction, but there were still plenty of unknowns ahead. He wasn't sure what kind of dangers lay on the road to Stoney Sept, but the mention of bandits and strange folk had put him on alert.
For now, though, the village of Willowbank seemed peaceful enough. The steady hum of life, the warmth of the sun overhead, and the pleasant sounds of people going about their day created a calm atmosphere that stood in contrast to the potential dangers beyond the village's borders. Mason knew he would need to move on soon, but for a moment, he let himself appreciate the simplicity of it all.
As Mason left the village chief's house behind, he knew he'd have to prepare for the journey ahead. Harrod had mentioned the dangers of the roads, and while Mason wasn't afraid of a few bandits, he wasn't about to take unnecessary risks either. He had regeneration, which kept him in top physical condition, but there was still a lingering question in his mind: did it negate the need to eat? He hadn't been hungry yet, but that didn't mean his body wouldn't demand food eventually. For now, he couldn't afford to find out the hard way.
He made his way back toward the small market at the center of Willowbank. The stalls were modest, offering simple wares—basic foodstuffs, tools, and other goods essential to village life. A few villagers still cast curious glances his way, but most seemed to have grown accustomed to the sight of the stranger wandering through their home.
At one of the stalls, Mason saw a variety of medieval breads laid out in baskets. The loaves were thick, heavy, and coarse, likely made from barley or rye, and would keep for days if not longer. Perfect for travel. He approached the vendor, a woman with sun-weathered skin and a pleasant, straightforward manner.
"Lookin' for bread, are ye?" she asked with a faint smile.
"Aye, how much for one of these?" Mason asked, pointing to a particularly dense-looking loaf.
"Three coppers," she said, wrapping the bread in a cloth.
Mason handed over the coins, appreciating the simplicity of the transaction. As he turned to leave, he spotted another stall with vegetables. He moved over to inspect what was on offer—onions, carrots, and some root vegetables that looked like they'd hold up for a while on the road.
"I'll take a few of these," Mason said, picking up a bundle of carrots and a couple of onions.
The man behind the stall, an older fellow with a wiry beard, weighed the vegetables in his hand. "That'll be four coppers."
Mason nodded and paid the vendor, adding the vegetables to his bag. He wasn't sure how long the road to Stoney Sept would take him, but it was better to be prepared. He didn't want to rely on finding food along the way, especially with bandits or other dangers potentially lurking in the woods.
As he continued browsing the market, Mason's eyes were drawn to a stall selling small pelts and simple leather goods. The vendor had a few fox pelts, rabbit furs, and even some scraps of leather that could be useful in a pinch. Mason approached, eyeing the goods with interest.
"These pelts, how much?" Mason asked, gesturing toward a set of small rabbit pelts, their fur still soft and well-maintained.
"Depends on the pelt," the vendor said, scratching at his beard. "A rabbit pelt's five coppers. Fox'll run ye a bit more—eight coppers."
Mason considered his options. The rabbit pelts were small but well-treated, and they could serve various purposes—patching up clothes, creating a blanket for warmth, or even bartering if needed. He handed over the coins for a couple of rabbit pelts and placed them in his bag, nodding his thanks to the vendor.
As he continued through the market, Mason took note of the other goods available. There were handmade tools—simple iron knives, hammers, and nails—alongside baskets of woolen yarn and linens for sale. Another stall offered clay pots and wooden utensils, while a butcher down the lane had salted meats hanging from hooks, curing in the open air. It was all practical, no-nonsense fare for the villagers, a reflection of the hard, rural life they led.
With his bag now stocked with food and some useful supplies, Mason felt more prepared for the journey ahead. The sun was still high in the sky, and while he could spend more time in the village, he knew that lingering too long might attract more attention than he wanted.
With his bag now stocked with bread, vegetables, and pelts, Mason turned his attention to the tools and weapons on display at the market. He had no weapon on him, and while his regeneration could help with injuries, he knew better than to travel unarmed. Bandits were one thing, but there were likely worse dangers lurking on the roads ahead.
His eyes settled on a stall selling simple iron tools and weapons. Among the assortment of hammers, nails, and small farming tools, Mason spotted a collection of basic daggers. They weren't anything fancy—just practical blades with wooden handles and iron hilts—but they were exactly what he needed for the road.
He picked up one of the daggers, feeling its weight in his hand. The blade was sharp enough for basic defense or survival tasks, and the craftsmanship, while rough, was solid.
"How much for the dagger?" Mason asked the vendor, a grizzled man with a leather apron and a quiet intensity about him.
"Six coppers," the man replied, glancing at Mason with a practiced eye, sizing him up.
Mason handed over the coins, feeling the weight of the small blade settle into his hand as the vendor wrapped it in a bit of cloth. Tucking the dagger securely into his belt, Mason nodded in appreciation before stepping away from the stall.
With the sun still bright overhead, Mason felt ready to move on. His supplies were in order, his cloak secure, and now with the dagger at his side, he was better prepared for whatever lay ahead. The villagers had provided what they could, but Mason knew he wouldn't find all the answers he sought here.
He adjusted the strap of his bag, feeling the steady rhythm of his steps as he made his way out of Willowbank, the quiet village fading into the distance behind him. The road ahead was uncertain, but the path was clear. Stoney Sept was his next destination, and whatever lay between here and there would have to be faced head-on.