A cold wind swept through the forest, its icy fingers weaving through the tall trees, forcing them to sway in an eerie, rhythmic dance. The brittle branches that had long lost their strength to move with the wind cracked and splintered, tumbling to the forest floor with dull thuds that echoed in the stillness of the night. The wind howled through the ancient, towering trunks, its voice a low, mournful wail, as if the very woods were groaning under the weight of the coming storm.
It was a night meant for staying within the safety of solid walls, not for braving the dense, unforgiving forest. The trees, ancient and thick with age, loomed overhead like silent sentinels, their roots tangled and treacherous, hidden beneath layers of fallen leaves. Every so often, a massive branch would tear free from the withered trunks, crashing down with a thunderous roar, splintering into jagged shards on the cold, hard ground.
In a small clearing, barely sheltered from the wind's fury, a group of five men huddled around a dying fire. The flames, once strong and bright, flickered weakly against the onslaught of the wind, casting ghostly shadows across their cloaked forms. The men clutched their cloaks tighter against the biting cold, their faces hidden beneath deep hoods that obscured their features. The wind, relentless and violent, whipped through the camp, stealing the warmth from the fire and sending it scattering into the night.
The forest around them was changing, the subtle shift in the color of the leaves marking the slow transition from the warmth of late summer to the chill of early Harvestfall. Soon, nights like this would be far too dangerous for even the bravest of souls to endure. The men, aware of the encroaching dangers, watched in silence as the wind suddenly surged, snuffing out the last of their fire with a final, spiteful gust.
"This blasted wind. Try to get it going again," one of the men muttered, his voice muffled by the thick fabric of his hood. His frustration was palpable, his hands shaking slightly as he reached for the fire-starting kit.
"Never mind the fire," came a gruffer voice, cutting through the wind's howl. The speaker, a more serious figure, was slouched in the driver's seat of a horse-drawn carriage, his eyes scanning the darkened treeline. "We should probably get moving before someone catches up with us."
The other men exchanged uneasy glances, their collective reluctance evident. The thought of another long, sleepless night traversing the treacherous woods weighed heavily on them. Just as one began to voice his discontent, a sudden, loud bang resonated from within the carriage, sharp and unexpected in the stillness.
"Huh?" One of the men jerked upright, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword.
"Looks like our sleeping beauties are awake," another said with a chuckle, though there was little humor in his voice.
One of the men stretched lazily, his joints popping audibly as he cracked his neck. "Well, time to go then," he muttered, rising to his feet with a groan. The cold had seeped into his bones, making every movement a chore, but he masked his discomfort with a facade of nonchalance.
He made his way toward the rear of the carriage where the entrance to the interior was. The other men followed his lead, though not without some reluctance. They quickly packed up their belongings, stuffing their meager possessions into worn bags, and some even shook their heads vigorously, chasing away the lingering haze of sleep that clung to them.
With practiced ease, the men hefted their bags over their shoulders, their movements coordinated and efficient. They moved as one, making their way to the second carriage that stood a short distance away, its dark silhouette barely visible against the forest's backdrop. There were two carriages in total, both looking as weathered and tired as the men themselves.
One of the men slung his bag into the second carriage with a careless toss, then sauntered over to the first carriage where the man in the driver's seat remained slouched, his eyes half-lidded as he kept a lazy vigil. "I'll take watch duty with the princesses," he declared with a sly grin, his tone laced with amusement.
He strode toward the back of the carriage, his steps confident, as if he had just won some unspoken competition. Another man watched him go, a smirk curling his lips. "Lucky bastard. He did call it first," he remarked, a hint of envy in his voice.
The man who had claimed watch duty paused, pulling back his hood to reveal a face that seemed almost at odds with his demeanor. His golden blonde hair, styled in a neat bowl cut, gave him the appearance of a harmless boy, but his face told a different story. Crooked teeth, stained yellow and uneven, jutted out in a grin that was more unsettling than friendly. A thin mustache, wispy and sparse, clung awkwardly to his upper lip, and a large, unsightly mole marred his forehead, surrounded by a constellation of angry red zits. His nose was wide and flat, adding to the grotesque mismatch of features that made up his face.
He approached the carriage door, his fingers lingering on the handle for a moment before he swung it open. A soft, warm glow spilled out, emanating from a lantern hung inside the carriage. The light cast long shadows across his face, accentuating the roughness of his features, and he peered inside with a twisted grin.
"Hello, my beauties!" His voice oozed malice, reverberating through the cramped carriage like the hiss of a predator.
In an instant, his triumphant smirk faltered—thunk—as a blade, unseen but deadly, pierced clean through his chest from behind. His breath hitched in his throat, cut off by a rough hand that clamped over his mouth. His eyes widened in disbelief, his expression twisting from triumph to terror.
Inside the dimly lit carriage, fifteen captives—young girls and boys—lay bound and gagged, their muffled sobs trembling through the silence. As the man staggered, the faint flicker of lantern light revealed the thin trail of blood snaking down his torso, the only evidence of the invisible weapon lodged in him. Panic swept through the captives, who scrambled away from the rear of the carriage, huddling together in the far corner. Though their mouths were silenced, their eyes screamed, wide with confusion and horror.
The blade shimmered briefly as blood coated it, then vanished into thin air, leaving the man gasping for life, his strength ebbing. He clawed at his chest, fingers desperate to grasp the weapon, but it was no use. His body slumped heavily to the floor, discarded like a broken doll. His final breath escaped in a wet gurgle as his lifeless form hit the wooden boards of the carriage.
Suddenly, a figure materialized in the narrow doorway. The gasps of the captives faltered as they took in his scaly skin, a pale sandy yellow marked with jagged red stripes that ran along his muscular frame. He was a Lacertian, cold-blooded yet calm, his yellow eyes gleaming in the dim light. He raised a clawed finger to his lips in a silent command for the prisoners to quiet down.
Terrified, they obeyed, their breaths ragged but muted, their gazes locked on the reptilian stranger who had slain their captor. The wind whistled outside, rattling the carriage, as if nature itself were holding its breath.
Outside, the cold wind snapped against the dark forest, sending a chill through the leader of the band, who sat atop the lead carriage. His hood had been blown back, exposing his grim, sleep-deprived face. He rubbed his tired eyes and cursed the creeping danger of staying too close to town. His gut told him they should have moved sooner.
He sighed deeply, his breath misting in the frigid air. "Y'all ready over there?" he hollered toward the second carriage.
There was no response. The men in the other carriage stuck their heads out, confusion etched on their faces. One, a rotund man with a greasy bald head and flushed cheeks, teetered in the cold, clearly drunk. Before he could utter a word, an arrow whizzed out of the darkness and sank deep into his skull with a sickening crack.
"What the hell!" The leader sprang to his feet, adrenaline surging through his veins as his eyes darted toward the tree line. His heart pounded as he scanned the pitch-black forest, shadows shifting unnervingly around him.
"Boss, what was that?!" Two more men leapt from the second carriage, their weapons drawn, fear gripping their faces.
"Take cover!" he barked, unsheathing his sword with a cold metallic hiss. "We've got company."
No sooner had the words left his lips than a second arrow sliced through the air, aimed directly at him. He barely dodged it, rolling to the side with cat-like reflexes. The arrow buried itself into the wood of the carriage, quivering with lethal intent.
Deeper within the forest, cloaked in the night's shadows, a young archer scowled, her red hair catching the faint moonlight. Her hand trembled on the bowstring, her teeth gritting in frustration. She nocked another arrow, her amber eyes locked on her target with deadly focus.
The other two men, instead of taking cover within the relative safety of the carriage, leaped out, swords drawn and nerves on edge. They took position behind the carriages, their eyes scanning the dense, shadowy woods, using the wooden frames as makeshift shields against the unseen archer. Their mission was clear—protect their leader at all costs.
"Earth magic: Mud Grab," a cold voice rang out, slicing through the night like a distant whisper of doom.
Before they could react, their swords clattered to the ground, and a thick, heavy mass of mud engulfed their heads. The dense earthen balls constricted tightly around their faces, cutting off their vision and air. Panic set in as they clawed at the hardening mud, nails scraping and cracking in a desperate struggle for survival. Their muffled grunts filled the air, but it was futile. The mud, under the control of a skilled caster, solidified swiftly, turning their faces into suffocating prisons.
After a brief yet agonizing struggle, both men collapsed to the ground, their bodies twitching before finally going still. All that remained were their lifeless forms, heads encased in solid mud, now just eerie, silent monuments to their failed escape.
The leader, still alert and alive, darted away from the carriage just in time to avoid the next mud-grab spell that shot toward him. He knew this magic well—Mud Grab was typically a low-level spell used to immobilize foes by their feet. But whoever was out there had twisted it into something far deadlier. With precision and control, the caster had turned it into a weapon to suffocate opponents by the face. The leader's heart raced, his mind calculating his next move. The spell wasn't difficult to break, but attempting to free himself from it would blind him momentarily—leaving him vulnerable, a sitting duck in enemy territory.
He crouched low, sword at the ready, surveying the pitch-black forest around him. He couldn't see his foes, but he could feel their presence—watching, waiting. At least two, he guessed, though the true number could be more. He swallowed hard, the night air biting at his skin.
If the driver of the second carriage is gone, he's likely dead. He quickly assessed his situation, his thoughts a whirlwind. And the one who got into the back of my carriage? Dead too. Which means... four enemies? Maybe more. He ran through the list of possibilities, motives, and strategies, the weight of the situation settling in his chest.
The ground beneath his boots was cold and unforgiving, but his mind was sharper than ever. His options were dwindling fast, but he wouldn't go down easily. Not without taking a few of them with him. He clenched his jaw, preparing for the inevitable showdown.
A voice, calm and mocking, broke the silence. "You must be the leader of this group. Oh, apologies... your group."
From the shadows, a man stepped into view, his movements slow and deliberate. His posture was strong, his presence commanding, and yet... there was no fear in his stride. His sword remained sheathed, a sign of his confidence, or perhaps arrogance.
The leader tensed, recognizing immediately that this was no ordinary foe.
"Why don't you tell me who you are... and what you're doing with those innocent people in that carriage?" the man asked, his tone conversational, almost taunting. As he stepped into the moonlight, his face became visible—strong features framed by a familiar, well-kept beard that glistened in the silver light.
This was no stranger. This was Fregran Lockheart, the renowned leader of the adventuring and mercenary party, The Falling Grin.