Arthur stood at the edge of the village, his gaze lingering in the direction of the distant ruins of the magic tower. The months spent there had changed him. It was more than a shelter, it had been the closest thing he had to home in years. Yet now, as he stood there with his pack full and weapons secured, a strange weight pressed on his chest. The ruins had been his home, if only for a short while, and leaving them behind felt like leaving a part of himself.
A familiar voice broke his thoughts. "You'll be fine out there, lad."
Arthur turned to see Eamon leaning on his walking stick, the older man's face etched with an expression somewhere between pride and concern. They had grown closer during Arthur's stay, though Eamon was often brusque, he'd proven to be reliable company in a way Arthur hadn't expected.
"Thanks for everything, old man," Arthur said with a faint grin. "I'd probably still be freezing my ass off if it weren't for you."
Eamon snorted. "Don't think too much of it. Just don't go getting yourself killed before you reach the capital." The old man crossed his arms, his smirk replaced by something softer. "Take care of yourself out there. The world's not kind, and you've got a long way to go."
Arthur adjusted the strap of his pack, offering a faint smile. "I'll manage. Thanks for everything, Eamon. Really."
They stood in silence for a moment. The village was quiet, the faint smoke from chimneys curling into the morning sky. Arthur adjusted the strap of his pack, his hand lingering on the hilt of his sword. He wanted to say something more, something meaningful, but words felt clumsy in his mouth. Instead, he extended a hand.
Eamon hesitated, then clasped it firmly. "You've got the guts for what's ahead," he said gruffly. "Just keep your head straight. And if you ever make it back this way, don't forget to visit an old fool."
Arthur nodded, his throat tight. "I won't."
With that, he turned toward the road. His boots crunched softly against the frost-dusted ground, and he didn't look back until he reached the edge of the village. He raised a hand in farewell, catching Eamon's slight nod before the older man disappeared into the haze of smoke and shadows.
The path south was familiar, but the weight of leaving everything behind was heavier than Arthur expected. He glanced back once more, the ruins barely visible in the distance. He'd made them a home, but home wasn't where he belonged—not yet.
He set his jaw and pressed forward.
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As Arthur traveled south, the landscape began to shift. The dense forests of the north thinned out, giving way to rolling hills and scattered farmlands. The air was warmer here, though patches of snow still clung to shaded areas. Villages became more frequent, their thatched roofs and stone walls a comforting sign of civilization.
The roads were busier too. Merchants guided carts laden with goods, farmers herded livestock, and the occasional group of travelers moved with cautious determination. Arthur's presence stood out—his array of weapons and the oversized pack on his back drawing curious glances. Most people gave him a wide berth, though some offered polite nods, recognizing the familiar silhouette of a mercenary.
At a crossroads near a village, Arthur stopped to refill his waterskin. The village square was alive with activity. A smith worked at his forge, the rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil filling the air. Nearby, a baker swept the steps of his shop, the smell of fresh bread mixing with the scent of wood smoke. Familiar sounds Arthur hadn't heard in months.
Snatches of conversation reached him as he lingered by the well.
"More sheep gone from the pens last night," a woman said, her voice tight with concern.
A man standing beside her frowned. "Ain't no tracks, no signs of struggle. Just missing. It's like they disappeared into thin air."
Another voice joined in, lower but edged with confusion. "It's like whatever's doing it knows how to cover its tracks. Ain't no sign of it anywhere."
A third voice, quiet but insistent, spoke from the edge of the group. "Could be some sort of monster, I heard some of them can move without leaving a trace, you know. Never seen anything like it, though. Could be anything."
Arthur paused, overhearing their exchange. Monsters were pretty common in Ashlynd, but few could be found so close to the capital, and creatures that could hide their presence completely were rare. There were almost always signs: broken branches, disturbed ground, tracks in the mud. The absence of any trace felt... off. But this wasn't his concern. Not yet.
He adjusted his pack and moved on, the weight of his gear grounding him as he made his way through the village. His presence drew more attention as he continued south. A young man armed to the teeth, with a greatsword strapped to his back and throwing knives visible at his sides, was bound to turn heads. His pack, bulging with the materials he'd harvested from the Ironclaw Behemoth, made it clear he was no ordinary traveler. The wary glances of those around him were enough to remind him that he wasn't exactly blending in.
Further south, the villages grew larger, and the roads grew busier. Farmers bartered over produce, traders shouted their wares from brightly painted carts, and children darted between the stalls, their laughter rising above the low hum of conversation. Arthur moved through the crowds with purpose, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword to discourage any pickpockets.
At an inn where he stopped for a quick meal, the rumors resurfaced. A traveling merchant sitting at the bar spoke in a low voice, leaning in as though sharing something private.
"I've been hearing a lot about strange goings-on," the man said, eyes darting around as he spoke. "Not just here, but in a few of the villages to the west. Missing livestock, the same as you're dealing with here. But none of the usual signs, no tracks, no broken fences, just... gone. I even heard one village had a whole barn emptied, and not a scrap left behind. It seems to have been going on for around 4 days now."
Arthur looked up from his meal, his interest piqued after hearing its been in multiple places. "No tracks, huh?" he asked, his tone casual.
The merchant nodded, lowering his voice further. "Yeah. It's like whatever's taking them knows how to cover its tracks, or it's moving too fast for anyone to notice. Some of the locals are starting to say it's monsters, though nothing's been seen. But what could move that fast and not leave a trace?"
The barkeep wiped a glass, looking up at the merchant. "Monsters again? Or maybe it's bandits, they could be smart enough to cover their tracks. If it's happening in more than one place, it's got to be something bigger than just a bear or wolves."
The merchant shrugged, looking troubled. "Could be. Could be something no one's seen before. I'm no expert, but I've been around a few places, and this? This I have never heard of."
Arthur chewed thoughtfully, processing what he'd heard. The merchant's words were unsettling. Multiple villages were affected, and no signs were left behind... it sounded like something dangerous was moving through the region. But it wasn't his job to investigate mysteries unless there was a pay for it.
He finished his meal in silence, the hum of conversation around him continuing unabated. The merchant's suspicions were unsettling, but there was nothing concrete yet to act on. Still, he'd keep his eyes open. Something about this didn't sit right.
As he left the inn, Arthur glanced up at the sky. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows over the road ahead. His thoughts returned to Luminara, to the city where his real journey would begin. The mysteries of the wilds could wait. For now, the road stretched before him, and he intended to make the most of the remaining daylight.
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The forest thinned as Arthur emerged onto the outskirts of a large town, its quiet streets bathed in the silver glow of the moon. A stone archway marked the entrance, weathered and cracked by years of wind and rain. Beyond it, the faint glow of lanterns lit the paths between thatched cottages and simple wooden structures. Smoke curled lazily from a few chimneys, carrying with it the faint smell of roasting meat and fresh bread.
Arthur's steps slowed as he crossed into the village proper, his boots scuffing the cobblestone. The weight of his pack pressed heavily on his shoulders, but the sight of life and warmth stirred a faint sense of relief. The road had been long, and though camping didn't bother him, the promise of a hot meal and a roof over his head was too good to ignore.
The town square was quiet, most of its residents tucked away for the night. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, and a pair of men lingered by a wagon, their low voices carrying on the cool breeze. Arthur's small arsenal of weapons drew a few glances, but no one approached him.
While walking he passed by quite a few shops, all closed, but the smithy drew his attention. The place was big and from what he could see through the windows seemed to be high quality, he would have to come back in the morning to see about renting the place, he had sketched out a couple of ideas for what to make with the Behemoth materials.
He made his way toward the inn, a squat building with a sign swaying gently in the wind. The faded lettering read "The Green Barrel," and the warm light spilling from its windows was as inviting as the scent of stew that wafted out when he pushed open the door.
Inside, the inn was modest but well-kept. A few townsfolk sat at scattered tables, nursing drinks or talking in low tones. A fire crackled in the hearth, its glow casting flickering shadows on the walls.
Arthur approached the counter, where a stout man with a thinning beard was polishing a mug. The innkeeper's eyes flicked to the sword on Arthur's hip before settling on his face.
"Need a room?" the man asked, his tone cautious but not unfriendly.
Arthur nodded and set a few coins on the counter. "And a meal, if there's any left."
The innkeeper swept up the coins with practiced efficiency, nodding toward an empty table near the fire. "You're in luck. Stew's still hot. I'll bring some over."
Arthur thanked him and dropped into the chair, letting his pack slide to the floor with a heavy thud. He stretched his legs out, feeling the tension ease from his shoulders. It wasn't much, but the simple comfort of sitting somewhere warm and safe was enough for now.
The innkeeper returned with a steaming bowl of stew and a hunk of bread, placing them on the table without comment. Arthur dug in, the rich flavors of meat and vegetables reminding him just how hungry he was.
As he ate, Arthur let the quiet murmur of conversation wash over him. It didn't take much effort to pick out the dominant topic.
"Another farm lost stock last night," one man muttered, leaning forward as though trying to keep his words contained to the table. "How many does that make now? Four? Five?"
"Seven," corrected another, his tone sharp. "And it's not just livestock anymore. Garret swore something came scratching at his shutters after dark—his dog won't go near the yard."
The first man shook his head. "Seven nights. That's too long for this to be wolves or even a pack of coyotes. They wouldn't go this long without someone seeing something."
"No tracks," a woman at the table added grimly. "Nothing left behind. It's like the damn thing just vanishes. I don't know how anyone's supposed to sleep with that hanging over us."
Arthur kept his head down, focusing on his meal as the unease rippled through the room. Monsters weren't rare enough to warrant outright panic in Ashlynd, but something that eluded even basic tracking for days on end? That was enough to stir worry, even in a town this close to the capital.
He finished his stew and leaned back in his chair, letting the warmth of the fire seep into his bones. The talk of tracks and missing livestock was none of his concern, for now at least. He had enough on his plate without chasing rumors.
The innkeeper approached as the room began to empty, wiping his hands on his apron. "Your room's upstairs, second door on the left," he said. "Breakfast is at sunrise if you're up for it."
Arthur nodded in thanks and hefted his pack, climbing the creaking wooden stairs to the second floor. The room was small but clean, with a simple bed and a single chair by the window. He set his pack and weapons down carefully, his sword always within reach, and took a moment to glance out the window. Whatever awaited him, be it in the capital or along the way, he intended to face it armed and ready.
Tomorrow, he'd visit the smithy and start laying the groundwork for new equipment. For tonight, though, he allowed himself a rare moment of rest. The journey was far from over, and he would need every ounce of strength for the battles yet to come.