Huey Loosen wasn't one to wake up late, but today, it seemed he had slept through his roosters' crowing. Luckily, his backup alarm had an unignorable boom to it.
"Huey! My god, Huey, wake up! The chickens are gone!"
His wife, Sabrina, hollered at him, her voice hitting his ear like a tin mug knocking a dozing drunk in the face. Huey's slobbering mouth lifted from his bed mat as he blinked drowsily.
"Have you looked for them?" he asked, his voice thick with sleep.
"Looked for them? They're your damn chickens, you lazy bum!" Sabrina yelled, her spit landing on his bed mat.
Huey wasn't a particularly accomplished halfling. He was a chicken farmer—a bad one at that. Born in Livendale, a small country church town, he had inherited a patch of land from his father, a veteran of Vistor's colonial wars. His mother, a dedicated chicken farmer, was the only present parent in his life. Huey had never been popular but was good at blending into the crowd. He attended the local Church of the Providence, where he met Sabrina—the woman he married but never truly loved.
Huey wasn't much to look at, even by halfling standards. His face was perpetually red and bloated, and his attempts at growing a beard never extended beyond his neck. Besides, he looked like every other halfling in Livendale.
"Huey, you're a loser," Sabrina spat. "If I had realized that when we first met, I swear I'd have never married you."
She wasn't yelling anymore. Her words were laced with cold, calculated spite.
"Listen, 'Seb,'" Huey grumbled, rubbing his eyes. "I'll get those chickens back. And even if I don't, I have a contract with a tradesman who's sworn to cover my losses." He yawned.
"Cover your losses? What is this man, a fairy? Have you been swindled?" she demanded.
"Whatever, Seb. You'll see. And when I get back, I'll have you sleeping in the barn for your intolerable belittling." Huey got up and dusted off his sackcloth clothes.
"Well, if you come back empty-handed, I'm leaving," she declared.
Not far from Livendale, a dense forest bordered the rolling grasslands and grain fields. From its shadowy depths emerged a gray-skinned wanderer, wearing a dull brown button-up shirt and red quartz sunglasses. His spiky, orange-brown hair stood wildly atop his lanky frame. Though humanoid, his stone-gray skin marked him as something else entirely.
The wanderer hummed lightly, feigning a cool demeanor as he trudged through the wheat fields, leaving behind the forest's comforting shade. The golden sea of grain stretched before him, bathed in the evening sun's red-orange glow.
At the gates of Livendale, an elderly man stood, leaning on his plow. His ragged garb was dusted with dirt, and his straw hat was caked with mud.
"How was your day, bandit?" the old man grumbled.
"Hey now! That's not very nice. I could be a pastor," the wanderer replied with a shrug.
"A pastor? That's a riot! What kind of pastor covers their eyes?" the old man laughed, pushing his hat up to get a better look at the wanderer's face.
"Alright, I'm not a pastor. But I am zealous. And I believe a vagrant should be allowed refuge, provided he bears no arms." The wanderer raised his hands to show his empty belt.
"Alright, then. If you insist, I'll need your name," the old man muttered, pulling out a thin, crumpled book.
"That would be Benson," the wanderer replied.
"And your father's name?"
"I have no father," Benson said plainly.
"What are you, the son of a virgin?" the elder scoffed.
"No. For I have no mother either. I am Benson, son of myself. Therefore, you may call me Benson Benson."
The old man gawked. "Are… are you mad!?"
"No, I'm just from Baglami," Benson replied.
"I say! You must be one of those Paladins." The old man spoke the word as though it carried weight.
"In the traditional sense, I suppose," Benson mused.
"Well then, go on through, Sir Benson." The old man's tone carried a hint of humility now.
"Ta-ta." Benson waved as he strolled into town.
Livendale's tavern was as dull as the town itself. Benson had hoped to stumble upon some excitement, but the place was nearly empty. Only one stool was occupied, where a halfling sat slumped over the bar.
Benson pulled out the stool beside him, peering over. Would he have to initiate the conversation?
"What seems to be the trouble, my good man?" he asked, waving to the bartender, who was hidden in a corner, smoking.
"The matter? The matter is my chickens, goddamn it!" the halfling wailed.
"Your chickens?" Benson inquired.
"Yes! My chickens! They're gone! All of them! If I can't get them back, I'll be without a job—and a wife—at forty-two!"
"How is your wife related to the chickens?"
"The chickens are my wife!" the halfling bellowed in a somber roar.
"My… god," Benson muttered, repulsed.
"If it was just a matter of my wife leaving me, I'd say good riddance! But my livestock being gone? That means I'll never be accepted as a suitable man. Worse, if I don't make money, I'll have to sell the house and become just another peasant laborer."
"What makes you say that?" Benson smirked.
Huey suddenly straightened. "Unless… aha! I know exactly what to do!"
The bartender finally dragged herself over, pointing her thumb at the shelf. Benson gestured toward the top-shelf bottle. She shook her head. He sighed and pointed to a bottle of malt behind her. She grabbed it and poured a glass.
"So, you're not from around here, are you?" Huey asked, leaning closer.
"Oh, interested now, are we? My name is Benson Benson. And yours?"
Huey grinned. "Huey. Huey Loosen." He knocked back a drink. "Alright, here's the deal, partner. I know outsiders like you don't have anyone to look out for but themselves. That toughens a man up, makes him keen to the forests. So how about you help me find a tradesman? He moves my eggs through the eastern mountain pass to Tabnoth. Seems like he's been selling food to those damned refugees there." Huey's voice trailed into a mutter as his gaze drifted.
"And what makes you think I'd help you, Mr. Loosen? That's a long way from here," Benson asked, swirling the golden syrup at the bottom of his glass.
"Eight gold pieces." Huey's eyes were cold as iron.
"Done!" Benson shot up, slamming a few copper coins on the bar before turning to leave.
"Well now, Huey," the bartender mused, swiping the coins into her pocket. "Seems like the soldiers of old haven't disappeared entirely."
"Agatha… do you think my dad was like that man?" Huey asked, raising a glass of milk to his lips.
"Sure, why not, Huey?" she said, walking out the back door.
Benson could feel the air growing colder, and the world seemed bigger than ever. Afternoon was drawing to a close, but he refused to rest—he had to traverse the forest before he could safely set up camp. The grain fields were now cast in a dull gray filter, the rays of sunlight glazing the valley with a warm orange and white glow. The forest atop the hill appeared almost mystic, its deep brown trees marked with patterns that resembled ancient canyons and gorges.
As Benson entered the woods, the sunlight barely pierced through the treetop canopy. The air was thick with humidity, and the ground beneath his boots shifted from dry dust to a soft graveyard of leaves.
He walked for another hour before the faint sound of whispering reached his ears. His pace quickened, drawn toward the source. The voices grew clearer, but the words remained tangled, slurred together and punctuated by eerie soprano notes that rang out between sentences. The sound was less haunting than it was irritating. Benson rarely panicked in the face of the supernatural—not because he was all-powerful, but because his mind was often completely void of fear.
He didn't talk to himself, aloud or silently, nor did he imagine outcomes before acting. He simply did whatever felt right in the moment. And that was precisely why he never escaped a dangerous encounter without a significant skirmish.
Standing in the forest ahead was a nymph, her body slouched, her frame wilting. Benson slowed to a halt just a few feet away from her.
"Well, thank Providence! I never thought I'd come across a haggard nymph. But seeing as I'm benevolent, if you could direct me to your tree, I can put your soul to rest in peace," he said with a swagger.
"CURSES! Damn curses!" the nymph shrieked before lunging at him.
"Goodness. I'm sorry to have offended you. I take it you're not in your right mind?" Benson quipped, dodging with a quick sidestep before shoving the nymph from behind. She stumbled but quickly regained her balance, turning to face him with seething rage.
Raising a hand, she clenched her fist. Vines of green light burst from the ground, wrapping around Benson's limbs before coiling tightly around his neck. He sputtered, gasping for air as he clawed at his pocket to no avail. From the corner of his eye, movement flashed between the trees—a figure darting forward.
WHOOP! THUD! The vines around Benson's throat vanished.
"Aghuurck! Ahh… well, if it isn't the hero from the folk tales, jumping around the forest to save travelers at the last moment," Benson wheezed.
"Silence, you imbecile!" snapped the figure, clad in chain mail with a surcoat and a steel bucket helmet.
"Ah, stoic too," Benson teased.
"I was investigating the source of the nymph's corruption," the figure said, voice sharp with frustration. "But you had to go and get yourself killed, didn't you?"
"I wouldn't have died. It would've been a minor setback."
The knight let out an exasperated sigh, but before either could say more, they turned back to where the nymph had fallen—only to find the corpse was gone.
"I can't believe I let myself get distracted," the knight muttered, sheathing his longsword before dashing back into the forest.
Benson scoffed. "That glorified tin man and his oversized letter opener will be back soon enough," he muttered before continuing on his way.
By nightfall, he had made it out of the forest and into the grasslands. He set up camp not far from the main road but kept his fire low—those who lingered too close to the roadside often found themselves at the mercy of highwaymen.