The sun had barely risen when Aric left Windfall behind. The village was nothing but a distant memory now—a place of warmth and safety that had been shattered in a single night. The road ahead was long and uncertain, but Aric knew he had no choice. His father's final words echoed in his mind, driving him forward: *"Find the others… the world depends on it."*
He tightened his grip on the medallion hanging from his neck, its cool surface a constant reminder of the responsibility he now carried. The artifact was simple in appearance, a circular disk of polished silver engraved with intricate runes. But Aric could feel the power thrumming beneath its surface, a subtle energy that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.
The journey to Greyfall, the largest city in the region, took several days. Aric had only heard of the city in passing, from merchants and travelers who spoke of its bustling markets, towering walls, and endless opportunities. It was the kind of place where an aspiring adventurer could make a name for themselves—if they had the skill and courage to survive.
Aric's thoughts were interrupted as the road crested a hill, and he caught his first glimpse of Greyfall. The city sprawled across the landscape, surrounded by high stone walls that gleamed in the morning light. Tall spires and towers rose above the rooftops, and even from a distance, Aric could hear the faint murmur of activity within. Smoke from countless chimneys curled into the sky, mingling with the morning mist.
As he approached the city gates, Aric marveled at the sheer scale of the place. Dozens of travelers, merchants, and guards bustled about, their voices blending into a cacophony of noise. The gates themselves were massive, wrought iron reinforced with thick oak, flanked by guards in gleaming armor. They eyed the newcomers warily, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.
Aric hesitated as he neared the gate, his heart pounding in his chest. He was just a simple villager, far from home, with nothing to his name but a mysterious medallion and his father's last wishes. But he knew he couldn't turn back. Steeling himself, he approached one of the guards.
"Excuse me," Aric said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I'm looking to join the Adventurers' Guild. Could you point me in the right direction?"
The guard, a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek, gave him a once-over. "Adventurers' Guild, eh? You're not the first farm boy with dreams of glory to come through here, and you won't be the last. Head straight down the main road, take a left at the fountain, and you'll find it. Just don't get yourself killed before you've earned your first coin."
Aric nodded, offering a quick thanks before moving past the gate. The city's sights and sounds overwhelmed him at first—merchants hawking their wares, street performers juggling flaming torches, and the scent of spices and roasted meats drifting through the air. Greyfall was alive, a stark contrast to the quiet, peaceful life he had known in Windfall.
Following the guard's directions, Aric made his way to the Adventurers' Guild. The building stood at the heart of the city, a large stone structure with banners fluttering from its battlements. The entrance was flanked by two statues of armored knights, their visages stern and imposing. Above the doorway, a wooden sign bore the guild's emblem—a sword crossed with a staff, surrounded by a laurel wreath.
Taking a deep breath, Aric pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped inside. The interior was warm and inviting, with a large hearth crackling in the center of the room. The walls were lined with weapons, shields, and maps, each one telling a story of past exploits. Adventurers of all kinds filled the hall—warriors in heavy plate, roguish figures in dark leather, and mages with flowing robes and intricate staves. Their voices filled the air, exchanging stories, rumors, and challenges.
Aric approached the counter at the far end of the room, where a stern-looking woman with silver hair sat behind a desk, quill in hand. She looked up as he approached, her sharp eyes taking in his appearance.
"New recruit?" she asked, her voice brisk.
"Yes," Aric replied, trying to hide his nervousness. "I'm here to join the guild."
The woman nodded and pulled out a ledger. "Name?"
"Aric. Aric of Windfall."
"Any prior experience?"
Aric hesitated. "Not much, no. I've handled a sword, though, and I can hold my own in a fight."
The woman raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. She scribbled something in the ledger before sliding a small copper badge across the counter. "Every adventurer starts at the Bronze rank. Prove yourself, and you'll move up. Fail, and… well, you won't be the first. Your first assignment is posted on the board. Good luck."
Aric took the badge and nodded. "Thank you."
The woman's expression softened slightly. "Stay alive, lad. The world's more dangerous than you can imagine."
Aric left the counter, his heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and fear. This was it—the first step on his journey. He walked over to the assignment board, where dozens of parchment sheets were pinned, each detailing a different task. Some were simple—clearing out wild animals, escorting a caravan, or retrieving lost items. Others were more dangerous, involving raids on bandit camps, hunts for dangerous beasts, or explorations into the unknown.
One job caught Aric's eye: **"Escort Needed for Caravan to Blackstone Pass."** It was a simple enough task, but the mention of Blackstone Pass, a notorious route through the mountains, made it clear that danger lurked ahead.
Aric reached for the parchment, but before he could take it, a hand snatched it away. He turned to see a tall figure leaning against the board, a smirk on his face. The man was lean and wiry, with dark hair that fell over his eyes, and pointed ears that marked him as a Beastfolk—a race known for their agility and sharp senses. His clothes were a mix of leather and cloth, with a dagger strapped to his side.
"Sorry, kid, but this one's mine," the Beastfolk said, flashing a grin. "You'll want to start with something easier. Maybe chasing down lost chickens?"
Aric bristled at the jab but held his tongue. "I'm taking that job," he said firmly. "I can handle it."
The Beastfolk raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Bold words for a newbie. Tell you what—how about we team up? You can tag along, and I'll make sure you don't get yourself killed. Sound fair?"
Aric hesitated, eyeing the man warily. He didn't like the idea of relying on someone else, but he also knew that taking on such a task alone was foolish. "Fine," he said. "But I'm pulling my weight."
"Of course, of course." The Beastfolk extended a hand. "Name's Fenrir. Best rogue in Greyfall, and soon to be the best in all of Veridor. And you?"
"Aric," he replied, shaking Fenrir's hand.
"Aric, eh? Well, let's see if you can keep up, farm boy."
With their agreement sealed, the two left the guild and made their way to the caravan's rendezvous point. The merchant who hired them, a rotund man named Harlon, was already waiting with his guards and wagons. He eyed Aric and Fenrir with a mix of suspicion and relief—clearly, he was expecting trouble on the road ahead.
The caravan set off at noon, the wagons creaking as they rolled down the cobblestone streets and out of Greyfall's gates. The road to Blackstone Pass was long and winding, cutting through dense forests and rugged hills. The journey was uneventful at first, with the only sounds being the clatter of wheels and the occasional bird call.
As they neared the pass, however, the atmosphere changed. The trees grew taller and darker, their branches twisting into unnatural shapes. The air grew cold, and a heavy fog began to roll in, obscuring the path ahead. The guards tightened their grips on their weapons, their eyes darting nervously from side to side.
Fenrir moved up beside Aric, his voice low. "This place gives me the creeps. Keep your eyes peeled. Bandits aren't the only things that haunt these woods."
Aric nodded, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The medallion around his neck felt heavier, as if reacting to the dark presence that seemed to permeate the air. He glanced at Fenrir, who was scanning the treeline with a practiced gaze. Despite his carefree attitude, it was clear that Fenrir knew how to handle himself in dangerous situations.
The fog thickened as they entered Blackstone Pass, the road narrowing between steep cliffs. The sound of the wagons echoed off the stone walls, creating an eerie atmosphere. Every crack of a branch, every rustle of leaves, set Aric's nerves on edge. He could feel the tension in the air, a sense of impending danger that made his heart race.
And then, without warning, it happened.
A shrill whistle pierced the air, followed by the sound of arrows whistling through the fog. The lead wagon lurched to a halt as the driver cried out in pain, an arrow