Chapter One: Shadows of the Harvest Moon

In the dimming light of autumn’s reluctant farewell, the air shimmered with a warmth that spoke in hushed tones of bygone days, while the sun, a weary and melancholic wanderer, dipped low upon the horizon. Its golden fingers caressed the undulating fields of Ëlolan, where once-vibrant greens yielded to the intoxicating embrace of amber and ochre. Leaves, in their final pirouette, surrendered to gravity’s gentle pull, each fluttering descent a fragile whisper of nature’s ephemeral beauty—a mosaic woven from the threads of mortality.

The Ranger moved through this tapestry, his black leather turnstyle boots crunched upon the earth. These boots bore the marks of countless journeys, their exterior adorned with bones to their sides. His woolen wrappings spiraled from his feet to his upper calves, embracing him in a protective shroud against his encroaching environs. Flaxen trousers were tucked within, a seamless blend of utility and grace.

As he strode forth into this fading day, he emerged from the treenline, where white oaks stood sentinel over the well trekked road to town. Before him lay Triaw—a quaint settlement cradled in the arms of twilight—its rustic charm seemingly untouched by the relentless passage of years. The houses wore fall decorations like faded jewels adorning an aging queen; teal and orange banners fluttered weakly in the breeze, their vibrancy dulled under the setting sun’s grasp. Approaching this bastion of simplicity and warmth, he noticed two guards leaning languidly against a weathered stone wall that bordered his path. Their eyes were clouded by ennui as they surveyed the festivities unfolding in the square—a symphony of laughter and music spilling forth like sweet nectar into the cool evening air. Yet their indifference hung heavy; they were but shadows tethered to their posts, too weary to engage with life beyond their station.

When the guards turned their attention back to the road, they would have seen a man with a beige cotton tunic draped over him like a soft sigh, reaching down to his knees. Over this lay a sleeveless green tunic, laced on either side with leather. And layered over that would be a leather curraiss adorned with stamped patterns and worn straps. Steel bracers protected his arms, their brandished surfaces glinting beneath the fading light, while black leather padding offered both comfort and fortitude. Brown suede gloves clung to his fingers bare, yet poised for action.

His long hair was bound in a bun by a red leather lace and a scarf encircled his neck, an ever-present guardian against sun and rain alike. At his waist hung a leather sword belt—a proud bearer of his black longsword sheathed within its embrace—while a saex rested at the center of his back.

Across his other hip dangled another belt adorned with pouches—each one filled with life’s necessities: water drawn from ancient springs and supplies gathered from the earth’s bounty. Slung across his shoulder was a rolled deer hide secured with rope and upon his back rested a leather pack that held not just provisions but memories etched in every seam.

The Ranger approached, his silhouette carved against the fading light, and the two guards stirred from their languid repose. Their postures shifted, though not entirely from duty; it was more a half-hearted attempt to appear vigilant in the face of a figure that seemed to embody both the wild and the unknown.

“Who might you be, then?” one guard drawled, his tone languorous, as if he were merely asking about the weather rather than confronting a stranger who could easily be a harbinger of trouble. His eyes glinted with a blend of curiosity and indifference, the kind that only arises when one has grown weary of their own station.

The Ranger felt an instinctual wariness coil within him like a serpent preparing to strike. He could sense their reluctance, these guardians of the town, diligent to their posts yet yearning for freedom beyond the confines of their stone walls. The temptation to cloak his identity in deception flickered briefly in his mind—a fleeting wisp of darkness—but he cast it aside. “I am a Ranger,” he replied, his voice steady yet tempered with an air of humility. “From the Eastern Woods.”

The guards exchanged glances—those furtive looks laden with unspoken words and shared suspicions. The shorter one’s brow furrowed in contemplation, as if weighing the Ranger’s words against the tales whispered around campfires and taverns alike. After a moment’s pause, he nodded slowly, an acknowledgment steeped in skepticism yet tinged with curiosity that lingered like smoke in the air. Then, the shorter guard turned and job sluggishly towards the town.

The taller guard leaned back against the cold stone wall, his posture relaxed but his gaze unwavering—a silent challenge that danced between them like shadows at dusk. “You’d do well to keep your distance until we fetch Mareg…”, the guard said without looking at the Ranger, and tossing small bits of rocks across the path in front of him.

The guard then looked at the Ranger and remained steadfastly focused on his persons, their eyes locking in uncomfortable scrutiny. “Do you often wander into places where you’re not welcome?” he asked finally, a hint of sardonic amusement lacing his tone as if he found some perverse pleasure in challenging this enigmatic figure before him.

The Ranger remained his gaze with an unwavering calmness. “Only when I seek what lies beyond,” he replied cryptically, aware that every word could be weighed and measured against the backdrop of suspicion that hung thickly in the air.

As they stood there the evening deepened around them, shadows creeping closer as if eavesdropping on their exchange. Just then, footsteps echoed from within Triaw; the shorter guard re-emerged from the near distance alongside Mareg Ōkthun—the elder whose presence seemed to command not just attention but reverence itself.

The elder met the Ranger’s gaze with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the veil of night, yet before any words could escape his lips, Mareg’s expression hardened into a grim line—a mask worn by those who have seen too much.

“You tread here at your own risk, Outcast,” he warned, his voice steady yet laced with an undercurrent of worry that resonated like a distant thunderclap. “Days grow dark; shadows creep in where once they did not linger.” His words were a portent, heavy with foreboding. “What do you seek in Triaw?”

The Ranger felt a tremor within him at this inquiry—a question that struck him as curious and unnecessary. “I come only to trade goods,” he replied, forcing steadiness into his voice, though he was afraid it would quiver with uncertainty. “Perhaps to share a hearth for one night.” He inhaled deeply, drawing strength from the fading light that bathed them both. “I mean no harm; simply a brief respite, like during the last season. Just trade some goods I have extra, gather what I need before winter.”

“You may find yourself unwelcome,” he cautioned, each word deliberate as it fell between them like stones cast into still waters. “The shadows do not reveal their intentions—only their appetites.”

An unsettling swell rose within the Ranger; it felt as if the very ground beneath him mocked his presence with echoes of his past—whispers from long-forgotten days when he had walked among them without fear or hesitation. “Then I shall not linger more than necessary,” he insisted, though doubt gnawed at him fervently like an insatiable beast.

Mareg regarded him for a moment longer, weighing the sincerity etched upon his features against the shadows gathering just beyond their periphery. With a slight nod toward the guards—silent sentinels caught in this web of unease—he turned back to face the Ranger. “Stay close until I know all parties are well,” he instructed firmly.

The Ranger nodded in acquiescence and fell into step behind Mareg, who moved with an air of authority tempered by caution. The shorter of the guards trailed closely behind them. As they approached the town square, lanterns flickered with life, casting warm, dancing light upon the cobblestones. But the laughter he heard fluttering like fragile paper wings felt hollow, lost amidst murmurs of unease.

Some of the revelers’ faces turned toward him with expressions laden in caution—a reminder of his status as an outcast in a community woven tight with shared histories and buried sorrows. He felt their gazes linger on him, a mixture of curiosity and disdain, as if he were a specter haunting their revelry.

“Do you carry burdens beyond what the light sees?” Mareg’s voice pierced his thoughts, snapping him back to the present. The elder stood firm, every word laden with heaviness. “We all carry shadow, yet some shadows hold more weight than others.”

As the Ranger moved through the square, he took in the vibrant decorations hastily assembled for the autumn festival—garlands of dried flowers hung limply, wilting under the weight of their delivery. Each strand was a testament to the fleeting beauty of summer, now fading like the light of day. The hues of gold and crimson, once bright and lively, now appeared muted and somber, echoing the unspoken tension that lay thick in the air. The townsfolk had adorned their homes and stalls with these remnants of summer's bounty, yet their hearts seemed heavy with a weight that belied the season's cheer.

A local baker attempted to enliven the spirit with freshly baked goods, his stall overflowing with loaves of bread and sweet pastries. The sweet aromas wafted through the square, momentarily masking the unease that clung to the crowd like a shroud. Children darted between adults, their laughter ringing out like fragile chimes against a backdrop of hushed conversations. Yet even their joy felt strained, as if they were acutely aware of something lurking just beyond their periphery—a shadow that loomed larger than the flickering lanterns strung across the square.

The townsfolk lingered in small clusters, their faces tight and drawn, whispers lacing the spaces between them. The Ranger could hear snippets of conversation—a mother cautioning her child to stay close, an elder muttering about the strange happenings in the woods beyond town. He could sense the way their eyes darted nervously towards the nearest Corn Maze, its darkened mouth looming ominously at the edge of town—a gaping maw that seemed to beckon with an insidious allure.

As he wandered deeper into the heart of the festival, he caught sight of a few men standing near a weathered wooden cart adorned with fresh produce—pumpkins and apples gleaming dully under layers of dust. They spoke in low tones, casting furtive glances towards a group of newcomers who had arrived just days before—their garb distinctively foreign, their laughter too loud against the somber backdrop. The Ranger noted how some townsfolk stiffened at their approach, an unspoken tension rising like steam from a boiling pot.

The evening sun cast long shadows across cobblestones slick with spilled cider and crushed berries, illuminating faces that flickered with joy. It was as if each smile was carefully crafted to mask deeper fears; fears rooted not only in lost children but also in whispers of beasts prowling at night—creatures rumored to be drawn by an unseen force that stirred within the forest’s depths. The air grew heavy with anticipation as dusk began to settle over the town, draping it in twilight hues that mirrored both hope and dread.

He paused by a stall where an elderly woman sold trinkets—small charms carved from bone and wood, each one imbued with tales of protection against misfortune. Her hands trembled slightly as she arranged her wares.

With each step deeper into this tapestry woven from joy and fear, he felt himself becoming more entwined in its threads—a reluctant participant in a festival that held secrets as dark as its corn maze. As night began to blanket the square, laughter mingled with unease, creating an atmosphere thick enough to cut through. And somewhere amidst it all, he sensed that something was stirring—a reckoning waiting just beyond reach.

The Ranger leaned against a weathered post, adjusting the assortment of wares he had traded for and purchased throughout the day. The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows that danced across the cobblestones, while the vibrant colors of the festival faded into twilight. He held a plump, sweet fruit in his hand, its skin glistening in the dimming light. The decision loomed before him: indulge in this delightful treat now or save his coin for a hearty supper at the inn, where a warm meal and a horn of mead awaited him by the crackling hearth. He savored the thought of the warmth enveloping him, but the sweetness of the fruit was tempting—a momentary pleasure that might distract him from the chill of approaching winter.

As he weighed his options, Mareg approached him with an air of familiarity. The elder’s presence was both comforting and unsettling; he could sense a weight in Mareg’s demeanor that hinted at something unspoken.

“Evening, Ranger,” Mareg greeted, his voice carrying a blend of relief and curiosity. “Will you be staying the night? The festival has its charms, though I suspect you might prefer solitude.”

The Ranger offered a polite nod, though reluctance dripped from his words. “I’m not sure yet. I have my needs to attend to before winter sets in.”

Mareg chuckled softly, though it lacked its usual warmth. “Ah, yes. The necessities of life—food and shelter. A wise choice indeed.” He leaned against the post beside the Ranger, gazing out at the gathering crowd with an expression that flickered between nostalgia and concern. “You know, I remember when this festival was all laughter and joy. Now it feels like we’re just going through the motions.”

“Festivals can mask deeper troubles,” the Ranger replied carefully, his eyes scanning Mareg’s face for clues beneath his casual tone.

“True enough,” Mareg said, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “But tell me—have you seen any good game in your travels? I hear tales of creatures roaming beyond our borders.” His tone shifted to one of lightheartedness as he continued to speak about hunting techniques and old stories of their youth spent chasing deer through thick underbrush.

Yet beneath Mareg's jovial facade lay an undercurrent that prickled at the Ranger's instincts. The laughter that once rang through their conversations felt hollow now; there was something amiss in Mareg’s eyes—a flicker of worry that contradicted his words.

“Something troubles you,” the Ranger said finally, unable to suppress his curiosity any longer.

Mareg hesitated for a moment, weighing his response as if measuring each word against an unseen scale. “It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with,” he began, but even as he spoke, it was clear he was grappling with more than he let on.

“Okay,” The Ranger conceded.

With a resigned sigh, Mareg relented slightly. “The town has had its share of troubles lately—missing children and whispers of dark things lurking in the woods.” His voice dropped to a near whisper as if afraid that speaking too loudly might summon whatever shadows haunted their days.

The Ranger's brow furrowed with thought. However, listening to his fears, he shook it off and finished packing his wares.

Mareg nodded then replied, "Enjoy your time. I hope the rest of the night goes well for you, and you be one your way."

"Thank you. With any luck, it will be and you won't see me for another year."

"With any luck, indeed," said Mareg, and he stepped away to wander through the crowd of patrons. The Ranger likewise moved toward the tavern, slipping through the wary clusters of townsfolk, their eyes watchful, distant, and returning quick to their revelry.

The dim light of the tavern flickered with the warmth of candlelight. He could see tables laden with autumnal delights: golden-brown meat pies, their crusts flaky and warm; platters piled high with spiced apples and pears, their skins glistening like jewels; tankards brimming with frothy butterbeer and rich mead that sparkled under the flickering light. A few patrons nursed steaming cups of coffee, their faces illuminated by the warmth as they shared their mirth.

Festive as it was, the atmosphere was anything but welcoming toward the Ranger. As he stepped through the heavy door, the air shifted. Dozens of eyes turned toward him, conversations abruptly dying as the clinking of tankards replaced the silence—a hard drink's abrupt arrival that seemed to underline the tension in the room. The scents of roasted meats mingled with those of spiced apples and sweetened pies, filling his senses with a bittersweet nostalgia for gatherings long past.

The Ranger felt the weight of their scrutiny like a palpable cloak, the chill of their regard wrapping around him, amplifying the isolation he had tried to shake off. He presented a façade of calm, but inside, the residual sting of being deemed an outcast simmered within him, intertwining with the town's own anxieties. He stepped toward the bar where the tender watched him approach with a wry smile.

“Welcome, Ranger!” the bartender said, her voice cutting through the thick tension like a blade.

The Ranger unpacked himself to get comfortable and sat on a stool across from her. Once seated, he smirked at her and asked, “Tzena?”

She smiled and nodded. “You remember.”

"Well, yeah. It was only, what, a year ago?" He took from his pack a tankard made of horn, with a flat base of wood. “Could I get mead, please?” he asked, sliding the empty tankard across the bar.

Tzena filled it up, her movements fluid and practiced. The Ranger gave her a scrap of metal—an old coin from his travels—and she peered at it before tucking it into a pouch on her belt with an approving nod.

“You got any good stories?” she asked, leaning closer as if to draw him into her world. “Our spirits could use some traveler’s tales this evening.”

The Ranger shook his head as he sipped his mead, letting its warmth spread through him. “Something feels different this year,” he said quietly, his eyes scanning the room filled with masked apprehension beneath layers of festivity. “Even amidst all this”—he waved his hand at the food and drink.

Tzena’s smile faltered for just a moment before she regained her composure. “Ah, you know how it is—harvest time brings out both joy and sorrow.” She gestured to a nearby table where laughter erupted suddenly before fading into whispers again.

Her gaze flickered towards the door as if expecting someone to enter—a fleeting worry crossing her features before she masked it behind a forced cheerfulness. “We’ve had… some troubles,” she admitted carefully. “But let’s not spoil our revelry tonight.”

“Troubles?” The word slipped from his lips before he could stop himself. Curiosity tugged at him like an insistent child pulling at their parent’s sleeve.

Tzena hesitated; he could see her weighing her words against some unspoken rule of silence that seemed to bind them all together in this small town on the edge of uncertainty. “It’s just—” she began but stopped short when another patron called for her attention.

The Ranger leaned forward slightly, drawn in by an urge to know more even as he felt an instinctive pull back from crossing boundaries that had long kept him apart from these people—these townsfolk who had welcomed him yet remained wary.

“Perhaps another time,” she said finally, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Tonight is for celebrating what we have left.”

He nodded slowly but felt an ache within him—a longing for connection mingled with caution that held him back from delving deeper into their fears. The festivities around them continued to swell like waves crashing against shorelines; laughter mingled with distant music while lanterns swayed gently overhead.

As he took another sip of his tankard, a loud crash echoed from outside—a cacophony that shattered whatever fragile peace had settled over the tavern moments before. The Ranger's heart raced as all heads turned toward the door once more. A certain part of the celebration outside had just erupted as Mareg came through the tavern door.

The tavern buzzed with a hesitant energy as the Ranger settled into his seat, the warmth of the mead spreading through him like a welcome embrace. The locals, drawn by curiosity and the unspoken rules of hospitality, began to gather around him, their plates laden with hearty fare. A trio of men, their faces weathered by toil and laughter, slid into stools beside him, their eyes glinting with the promise of news and camaraderie.

“New face in town,” one of them said, a burly man with a beard flecked with remnants of supper. “What brings you to our humble festival? Not many wanderers dare venture this far.”

The Ranger took a sip from his tankard, savoring the honeyed flavor before responding. “I'm just passing through. I'll be gone before noon tomorrow. I thought I might enjoy some revelry before heading back into the woods.”

“He's the Outcast?” another man echoed, his brow furrowing.

“Just passing through,” the Ranger replied, carefully measuring his words.

"Oh, that's fine," one of them said. "He's just passing through, and will be gone. They all shared an awkard laugh, then an awkard silence. Finally, one of them asked, "Do you at least bring news with you?"

"I have some news, yes," responded the Ranger, glad to hear the conversation turning into a better direction. "What do you want to know?"

"I don't know. What do you got? What's going on out there? Who thinks they lay claim to these lands now?"

The Ranger sipped again before answering, “There’s a lot going on out there, yet nothing at all. The world has gone mad. Two kingdoms are laying claim to the Wilderness while they fight over it on their own lands.”

The men exchanged glances, their interest piqued. “Which kingdoms?” the burly man asked, his tone shifting from suspicion to intrigue.

“The Council of Realms and the Midori Consult are clamoring for the Arborites to launch a Wisdom Hunt after a caravan member from the Great Realm perished during skirmishes in Émmorlin,” he explained, watching their reactions closely.

“Sounds like trouble brewing,” another local chimed in, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of his tankard. “And what of Jagmeer and his tribe? I heard they severed ties with Wynthaal’s Guardians.”

“Aye,” the Ranger nodded. “Jagmeer’s invoked disputes over strategies—unrest among the Weavers is never good news.” He took another sip of mead, feeling their eyes scrutinizing him as if weighing whether he was friend or foe.

The conversation continued to flow like the mead in their tankards—quick and lively yet underlined by an unspoken tension that began to creep into their exchanges. The Ranger found himself caught in a whirlwind of voices, each man eager to share news from their corner of the world. They spoke of Lady Polalitha’s intent for gathering electors at eighty-three years old, her wisdom revered yet questioned by younger factions. “She’s seen more winters than most of us combined,” one man remarked, shaking his head. “But can she still lead?”

“Age doesn’t diminish the mind,” another countered, a hint of admiration in his tone. “If anything, it sharpens it. She’s weathered storms we can only dream of.”

The Ranger nodded, sipping his mead as they shifted topics to the decrees from High Judicator ordering the removal of driftnets in RiverUin. “Foolishness!” exclaimed a third man, slamming

his tankard down on the bar. “What do they think will happen? Letting all those other kinds through? Elves, Dwarves, Fae! It’ll be chaos!”

“Perhaps chaos is what we need,” the burly man interjected, leaning forward with an intensity that drew the Ranger’s attention. “A little upheaval might remind these nobles they’re not untouchable.”

As they spoke, the Ranger felt an unease settle over the group like a dark cloud passing overhead. The joviality began to wane; shoulders tightened and eyes narrowed as they turned their scrutiny toward him once more.

“Tell us about your travels then,” one man said, attempting to bridge the growing chasm with feigned lightness. “What grand adventures have you had out there in those wilds?”

The Ranger took a moment before responding, carefully choosing his words. “There are tales aplenty—creatures lurking in shadows, whispers of magic long forgotten.” He paused, gauging their reactions. “But mostly, it’s solitude and survival.”

“Solitude?” another man echoed incredulously. “What kind of life is that? You’re telling me you prefer the company of trees over people?”

“I like being alone,” he replied evenly.

The men exchanged glances; skepticism mingled with curiosity as they pressed him further. “I bet you do. But, you must have seen some things then,” one ventured cautiously. “Tell us about a time you faced danger.”

The Ranger hesitated, memories flooding back—nights spent battling against hunger and fear, against creatures that prowled just beyond firelight. “There was a time when I encountered a pack of wolves,” he began slowly, recalling the adrenaline that had coursed through him as he faced down those wild eyes. “They were hungry and desperate—much like men can be.”

“Did you fight them?” asked the burly man, leaning closer.

“I did what I had to do to survive,” he said cryptically.

“Survive, huh?,” another chimed in, his tone turning sharper as he studied the Ranger with renewed interest.

The Ranger raised an eyebrow but felt unease creeping back into his chest.

“You know, we hear news as well. And it's not the first season you've come here. Word travels in these parts,” said a third local with a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “You know how it is—tales grow legs and run far faster than any man can.”

The laughter around him faded into silence as they all regarded him with newfound scrutiny. The questions shifted now; curiosity transformed into something more accusatory—a probing for weaknesses wrapped in jest.

“Is it true what they say… about you being an outcast?” one man ventured finally, his voice laced with skepticism.

The question hung heavy in the air, charged with implications that sent a ripple through the gathered crowd. The Ranger felt every eye upon him now, weighing him against their own judgments and fears—a sudden vulnerability creeping into his bones like winter's chill.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain composed despite the tension crackling around them like static electricity before a storm. This was not just idle curiosity; it was an accusation wrapped in intrigue, an invitation to defend himself against shadows he thought long buried. But before he could respond further or diffuse the situation with words that might bridge their divide, Mareg approached them.

The locals immediately shifted their focus toward Mareg as relief flooded Tzena's voice when she called out for him. But even as tensions died down in Mareg's presence, the air still crackled with unasked questions lingering between them—a fragile peace hanging by a thread as Mareg approached with an easy grin that belied the storm brewing just beneath the surface.

Mareg spoke to each man, not accusingly, but just on matters of the town and the revelries. After a moment, some of them left the bar and Mareg took a seat next to the Ranger. Tzena filled up Mareg’s cup, and the two sat in silence together for a moment.

“Do you think me a harbinger of this darkness?” the Ranger asked. ”I am no threat to you or your people here..”

“Shadows thrive in light. We are cautious, Ranger,” Mareg cautioned, acknowledging the weight of the unspoken fears in the room. “We heard of why you were exiled from the kingdoms.”

“I have no intention of bringing darkness; I seek only warmth and a meal for the night,” the Ranger replied with a hint of annoyance disguising his deeper uncertainties, though tension still coiled in his gut, tightening with every swell of silence he encountered. “I am not the specter of your fears.”

“Yet here you are, drinking at our inn,” Mareg pressed, his eyes scanning the room. “You come from the darkness, back among us this season, while shadows hang over our hardest fall.”

Mareg’s gaze softened, understanding threading through their exchange. “Your presence stirs something within me,” he said, his voice low and sincere. There was a vulnerability in Mareg’s tone that disarmed the Ranger, easing the apprehension that had gripped him since entering the tavern. “I am branded by something that has transpired in the last month—a shadow that looms over us all.”

The Ranger felt the weight of Mareg’s words, sensing the gravity of the dilemma settling upon their shoulders. It was a fear that sparked beneath the surface, threading them into an alliance against the unseen—each heartbeat paired with the promise to confront their collective dread.

Mareg continued, his eyes searching the Ranger's face for understanding. “Just last week, a child stumbled out of Butter’s Corn Maze, near death. When we rushed to help her, she spoke of another child still trapped inside—Felna. They had been playing together when something attacked them.”

The Ranger’s heart sank as Mareg’s words painted a grim picture. He could feel the tension in the room tighten like a noose around their throats. The tavern patrons listened intently, some leaning closer to catch every word.

“We all know what happened next,” Mareg pressed on, his voice thick with emotion. “The elders are divided on how to proceed. Some want to go into that maze and retrieve Felna’s body; others argue it should be burned down—purged of whatever darkness resides within.”

The Ranger's horn was empty. Tzena, listening in on their conversation, noticed and grabbed the mead, which the Ranger politley declined. "Do you know who hurt them?”

Mareg shook his head solemnly. “The baker, Thoren, is in our custody. His wife went missing some time ago, and he came forward with this information willingly after Felna was found.” A murmur rippled through the crowd at the mention of Thoren's name.

“People are saying things,” Tzena interjected, her brow furrowed with concern as she wiped her hands on her apron nervously. “Accusations are flying—some believe he had a hand in both his wife’s disappearance and these children’s fate.”

“None can prove it though,” Mareg added quickly, glancing around at the anxious faces surrounding him. “There's a lot of conflicting information that prevents a clear picture of what happeneed." He sighed deeply before finishing his though. "But fear breeds suspicion like weeds in a garden.”

The Ranger felt a knot tighten in his stomach as he listened to their discourse; he could see how deeply rooted their fears were, festering beneath layers of grief and uncertainty. He wanted to speak up—to offer some wisdom from his travels—but found himself hesitating.

“Leaving Felna in there feels wrong,” Tzena said softly, her voice trembling with sorrow as she leaned against the bar for support.

Mareg’s expression hardened as he considered her plea. “But sending more lives into that maze? We cannot risk it,” he insisted, his tone resolute yet trembling under the weight of authority.

“But what if we do nothing?” she asked. “What if we let fear dictate our actions? Don't we owe it to Felna's family to at least try?”

The Ranger sat back, observing as emotions flared and subsided around him like flames licking at dry wood. He could feel their collective grief intertwining with their fears; it was palpable in the air—a storm brewing just beneath the surface of their fragile camaraderie. Memories of his own past flickered in his mind—dark and twisted moments that he wished to forget but could not escape.

As Mareg they sat in silence, Tzena nodded towards the Ranger as he was staring ay his empty horn, fidgeting with it on the bar. “What do you think? You’ve probably seen more than any of us… What would you do?”

The question hung heavy in the air as Mareg turned toward him—expectation mingling with apprehension. He felt the gaze bore into him like arrows seeking a target; looking for guidance from someone who walked on the fringes of their world.

“I…” he began hesitantly, but before he could gather his thoughts or share any insight, Mareg interrupted him again.

“Let us not burden our guest with our troubles,” Mareg said firmly but gently. “He is not here to bear our grief.”

Yet even as he spoke those words, Mareg's own expression betrayed an unspoken plea for help—a yearning for clarity amidst confusion that resonated deep within him.

In that moment of silence that followed, tension coiled tightly around them like a serpent ready to strike; they were teetering on the edge of despair and hope alike.

The soft glow of candlelight flickered around them as shadows danced across walls adorned with fading memories—the laughter of children echoing faintly like distant chimes in an empty hall.

As they stood there suspended between action and inaction, fear and resolve—the Ranger felt an urge rise within him to speak out against this tide of uncertainty before it swept them all away into darkness. But before he could find his voice or share any wisdom gained from years spent wandering through shadowed woods and forgotten paths—he heard laughter erupt from outside followed by shouts echoing through town.

A commotion stirred beyond the tavern doors—an urgent reminder that life continued outside even as they grappled with their own demons within these walls.

Inside, the Ranger grappled with the reality of the situation. The townsfolk’s fears were justified, yet a flicker of something deeper stirred within him—a pull toward action. “If I were to go into that maze, would you accept that?” the Ranger pondered aloud.

There was only silence as an answer. Tzena looked at Mareg to respond, and Mareg looked at his tankard, as if the answer would sky itself in what was left of his butter beer.

The Ranger continued, “I would be willing to go into the maze and retrieve Felna's body. It would mean no further loss for your people if I were to go. I can go in, get her, and come back,” The words tumbled from his lips, a bold declaration that reverberated through his instict to not get involved.

Mareg’s skepticism was immediate, his brow furrowing as he regarded the Ranger with a mix of disbelief and caution. “Some say the maze, only being the size of Toryoa’s lot, would be easy enought to navigate to get the child; simply 10 minutes or so. However, our elders, and have our town, are willing to burn it down out of fear.”

The Ranger was a bit lost to this response. It was neither an answer, nor seemed to give any more information to the situation. Mareg realized this and elaborated. “We hold teh baker in custody because some of us beleive there is something else in the wild; a beast. Some say there is something ferocious that took the baker’s wife and the children. Not to mention other less significant events within the last month.”

The Ranger gestured with his hands as if to say, “So what?”

Then Mareg continued, “You may be risking everything for a presumed corpse?”

“I understand,” the Ranger exclaimed without changing his tone. “It seems a simple enough task. I am capable of handling myself if there is something out there. It is easy for me, and low risk to you, but very important and must be done.”

Mareg looked at him for a moment, then with a wry smile asked, “What’s in this for you?” His voice was laced with a protective instinct, a desire to shield his people from deception.

The Ranger met Mareg’s gaze, the weight of his own desperation evident. “If doing this means so much to this town, then I would do it. In return, I wish for something simple: to use this town as a trade hub. A place where I can rest, eat, and trade without harassment… and not just once a year.” The admission hung in the air, revealing a longing for connection, for belonging, that had long been buried beneath the weight of his status as an outcast.

Mareg’s expression softened as he understood where the Ranger’s baseline was. “Trade, shelter, and safety—a fair exchange for you to face what we fear to confront. If you prove yourself, we’ll honor that.” His voice held a mixture of hope and skepticism, a fragile bridge forming between their disparate worlds.

The Ranger felt a surge of relief at Mareg’s words but knew that the path ahead was fraught with peril. Just as he began to contemplate his next move, Mareg leaned closer, his tone shifting to something more serious. “But you must go tonight.”

The Ranger raised an eyebrow. “Tonight? I would rather go first thing in the morning.”

“No,” Mareg insisted firmly, shaking his head. “It must be done tonight.”

“Why?” The question slipped from the Ranger’s lips before he could stop himself.

Mareg sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. “Because of the elders’ decision. They’ve agreed that if nothing is resolved, they would wait until after the celbrations, then the next morning they will burn the maze. They believe it will scare off whatever darkness lurks within those walls. Then they could investiage.”

The Ranger felt a knot tighten in his stomach at the thought of entering that dark labyrinth under cover of night—every instinct within him screamed caution. Yet he understood Mareg’s point; they were standing on the precipice of an irreversible decision.

“I don't know. Suddenly, I'm wondering if you are trying to lure an outcast into the middle of a field. What if I go in there and don’t come back?” he asked quietly. Mareg chuckled, not expecting this response, but understanding where the Ranger was coming from. “That's not the case,” Mareg replied earnestly.

"He's right," Tzena pleaded. "There's nothing like that going on."

"And do I know that?"

"You won't", responded Mareg bluntly. “There's nothing I can do to provide that to you. You just have to trust that I am a poor old fool that wants to get a dead little girl back to her family to say goodbye. They should kiss their daughters forehead, not a heap of ashes."

It was silent for a moment longer, but Mareg continued, "But if you succeed—if you bring back Felna —you will earn our trust. It's only an oppurtunity for you.”

The Ranger took a deep breath, weighing his options against the backdrop of flickering candlelight and anxious whispers surrounding them. He was used to this, in a way. There had been many a times when he was busy on his homestead and a creeping reminder that he was Outcasted and hated would come into his mind, as if the threat of forgetting was concerned with being forgotten, and would revive itself, twisting his guts in anxiety. He reminded himself that there may come a day where the threat to hurt him was made real, and that he would have to face it.

“I’ll do it,” he said finally, resolve hardening within him like tempered steel. “But I need your word that my safety will be respected when I return.”

Mareg extended his hand toward the Ranger—a gesture steeped in both camaraderie and solemnity. “You have my word as an elder of this town; if you bring back the body of Felna herself, you will be welcomed here.”

With that agreement hanging in the air between them like an unbreakable bond forged in fire and fear, the Ranger shook Mareg's hand firmly. The took held for a moment. Then Mareg excused himself, "Thank you, Ranger. I suggest you get your things ready. The sooner we deal with this, the better." He stood and made himself ready to leave, "Tzena. Thank you, and good evening. Would you take care of his room and his affects, please? Ranger, I'll meet you at the mouth of the maze when you are assembled. I am going to inform the other elders of the plan."

As he stepped away from the bar and headed toward the door, the weight of the situation steeped into the Ranger. He played with his horn a bit longer while he processed everything he heard. He smiled to himself, and Tzena look at him a bit cross. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," the Ranger dismissed. "Just, fate, is all."

Tzena nodded, then asked, "I can bring your stuff to your room and you can get yoursefl together. Are you ready?"

"Yes", the Ranger said, pushing his horn toward Tzena. "But first, how about another horn of mead?"

***

The Ranger stood at the mouth of the corn maze, a gaping maw framed by the vibrant hues of autumn. Pumpkins, their carved faces twisted into grotesque grins, lined the entrance, their cheerful decorations now an unsettling contrast to the somber reality that loomed over the town. Garlands of dried corn and colorful leaves hung limply from the entrance, swaying gently in the chilling breeze, whispering secrets of the past that felt all too heavy in the present. The only remainder of the day was a slightly lighter darkness in the western sky; to the east was only an impenetrable shadow, signs of storm clouds heading in.

Flanked by Mareg Ōkthun and another eldar, the Ranger, with his Longsword worn at his waist, along with his leather Curraiss, saex, and steel grieves, felt the weight of their silent support pressing against him. Their expressions mirrored his concern over the complexity of the task—a mix of concern and hope. Mareg’s weathered face bore the lines of worry, while the other elder fidgeted, his eyes darting toward the maze as if it were a living creature ready to pounce.

The Ranger steeled himself, taking a moment to absorb the scene before him. “Are you sure you only need a child’s body from in there?” the Ranger asked. “I’m still not quite understanding what’s so hard about it.”

Mareg leaned closer with a seriousness returned to his expression. “We’ll give you some time. Like you said, this shouldn’t take long. But if it does—or if we hear something…” He let the unsaid words linger, the unspoken fear hanging heavy between them.

“Yeah, just don’t forget,” the other elder said. “There are wolves in this area. if you hear howling, it’s better to be ready!”

The Ranger nodded, acknowledging their concern, a flicker of gratitude warming him amidst the chill. He took a deep breath, grounding himself as he prepared to confront the shadows that awaited him. “I’ll be back before you know it. Just keep the light on for me.” His attempt at reassurance was earnest, though a tremor betrayed the uncertainty that gnawed at his resolve.

With determination coursing through him, the Ranger turned toward the maze, his heart pounding in rhythm with the weight of the task ahead. The festive decorations quickly faded from view as he stepped into the corn maze, the laughter of earlier celebrations replaced by an oppressive silence that swallowed him whole. The air, once filled with the sweet scents of baked goods and spiced cider, now carried a chill that seeped into his bones—a reminder that summer's warmth was fleeting, giving way to autumn's creeping chill.

As he ventured deeper into the maze, the wind rustled through the cornstalks, creating a symphony of whispers that danced around him. The leaves, tinged with gold and crimson, swayed gently as if warning him of the shadows lurking within. Above him, gray and silver clouds drifted across the sky, partially obscuring the moon but allowing shards of light to pierce through like watchful eyes. The stars twinkled faintly in alignment with the moon’s ascent, their distant glow serving as a reminder of countless stories woven into the fabric of night.

The Ranger pressed on, navigating through narrow paths lined with towering stalks that loomed like sentinels—silent witnesses to his journey. He felt a strange juxtaposition within himself; each step forward was a blend of trepidation and resolve. This maze represented more than just a physical challenge; it was a labyrinth of his own making—an embodiment of his past choices and present hopes. As he pushed through some cornstalks that had grown wild and unruly, he felt a flicker of determination ignite within him. Perhaps this was his chance to reclaim something lost—to find redemption not just for himself but for those who had suffered because of him.

The feeling of impending danger sharpened his senses, and with each step, he steeled himself against the darkness that loomed ahead. He recalled Mareg’s words—the promise of acceptance if he could uncover the truth hidden within these twisting paths. It fueled his resolve; perhaps he could forge a new identity from the ashes of his past.

As he moved deeper into the maze, shadows danced at the corners of his vision. The night was alive with activity: rustling leaves whispered secrets; distant hoots of owls echoed like mournful cries; and somewhere nearby, a fox yipped in playful defiance against the encroaching darkness. Yet beneath it all lay an unsettling quiet—a palpable tension that hung in the air like fog waiting to be disturbed.

Finally, he stepped into a clearing where moonlight bathed the space in a silvery glow, illuminating the corn stalks that loomed like sentinels on either side. The air thickened with an eerie stillness that wrapped around him like a cold embrace. His heart pounded in his chest; each beat echoed the tension that clung to the night, amplifying the silence that seemed to whisper secrets of the lost.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, allowing himself to breathe deeply—the crisp air filling his lungs while memories surged forth unbidden: laughter shared among friends long gone; fleeting moments of joy overshadowed by regret; choices made in haste leading to isolation. But now there was purpose—a flicker of light breaking through layers of darkness.

With renewed peace, he opened his eyes and scanned the clearing for any sign of Felna or clues about what had transpired within these walls. The shadows shifted around him as if urging him forward.

As he stepped in and scanned his surroundings, he found what he was looking for, and it gripped him. There, lying motionless on the ground, was the still form of Felna. The oppressive silence of the clearing enveloped him, a palpable dread settling in his gut as he approached her. The sight of her small frame, so lifeless and cold, sent a wave of despair crashing over him.

Dropping to his knees beside her, the Ranger's hands trembled as he brushed her hair away from her face. The pallor of death marked her features, and his heart sank deeper with the knowledge that she had been gone for some time. The reality crashed down on him, mingling despair with a searing pain of loss that felt like a dagger to his heart.

He fought back tears, his breath hitching in his throat as he inspected the area around her, but the clearing offered only silence, a void that echoed the absence of joy.

“No child should experience so much fear and pain before meeting such a fate,” he choked out, his voice thick with emotion. Tears welled in his eyes, reflecting the weight of his sorrow and the anger that simmered just beneath the surface. He felt rage boiling within him, directed at the creature that had taken her and the shadow of darkness that had seeped into the town.

Suddenly, a gentle breeze stirred through the clearing, rustling the corn stalks and carrying with it an unsettling sense of foreboding. The flickering shadows danced eerily, and the Ranger's gaze snapped upward. A knot tightened in his stomach as unease washed over him. The shadows seemed to deepen, and he could feel the air grow heavier, thickening with the scent of danger that hung in the night.

From within the shadows created by the corn maze, a silhouette emerged, moving with a predatory grace that was both terrifying and captivating. It was a wolf; a large wolf, with its eyes glowing a menacing gold in the dim moonlight as it stepped forward, muscles rippling beneath matted fur.

Fear surged through him, but he quickly channeled it into focus. Drawing his longsword from its scabbard, the steel glinted ominously in the moonlight as he faced the creature.

The wolf snarled, revealing sharp, glistening fangs as it crouched low, muscles coiling like springs. It lunged forward, the clearing echoing with the sound of sheer power, and the Ranger’s heart raced in response.

A fierce energy built within him as he prepared to engage in a battle that would determine his fate. The Ranger tightened his grip on the longsword, the weight of it a potent reminder of his commitment to reclaiming his place in this world.

The air was thick with tension as he caught sight of the beast—a hulking figure emerging from the shadows, its fur bristling under the moonlight. The wolf’s muscles rippled beneath its pelt, and its eyes glowed with an otherworldly hunger. With a low growl that reverberated through the clearing, it charged at him with explosive speed, paws pounding against the earth like thunder.

There was nothing between them now, and instinct kicked in as the wolf lunged forward, aiming to latch onto him with its powerful jaws. The Ranger sidestepped just in time, executing a Wrath Strike. He swung his sword in a wide arc, connecting with the wolf's flank and sending it skidding past him. The impact reverberated through his arms, but he held firm; the beast was quick to recover, circling back with renewed ferocity.

With great power in its massive paws, the wolf pivoted sharply before charging again, its low growl morphing into a snarl that sent chills down the Ranger’s spine. He steadied himself, adopting a defensive stance—his feet planted firmly apart and his sword held high, ready to intercept whatever came next.

The wolf lunged once more, jaws snapping dangerously close as it aimed for his throat. In a fluid motion, the Ranger executed a series of rapid strikes—one-two-three—using precise thrusts and slashes that kept the wolf at bay. Each movement was calculated; he used footwork to maintain distance while ensuring his blade remained poised for offense or defense.

With the wolf momentarily deterred, the Ranger seized the opportunity to go on the offensive. He thrust forward with deep and powerful movements, aiming for vulnerable spots along the creature's flanks. His blade sliced through air with deadly intent as he aimed for its chest and shoulders—strikes meant to weaken rather than kill outright.

But then, with an unexpected agility that belied its size, the wolf vanished into the corn maze, slipping between stalks like a shadow. The Ranger hesitated for just a moment before instinct kicked in; he didn’t want to follow it into that labyrinthine darkness.

Suddenly, a howl erupted from within—the sound was unlike anything he had ever heard before: haunting and filled with primal rage. The wolf reemerged from the corn maze, now towering on its hind legs like some grotesque hybrid between bear and wolf. Its massive form loomed over him, muscles coiling like springs ready to unleash fury.

The Ranger quickly adjusted his stance, positioning himself to counter this new threat. He steadied his breath and focused on maintaining distance as he prepared for another charge.

The wolf lunged again with terrifying speed. The Ranger used his longsword not just as a weapon but as a means of control—keeping it extended between them to maintain distance and avoid those powerful swipes of claws that could easily tear through flesh. His sword was not meant to block those strikes; instead, it served as a barrier that forced the creature to reconsider its approach.

With another move forward from the beast, the Ranger saw an opening—a chance to strike decisively. He shifted into the aggressive posture From Above, using gravity and momentum to drive his sword downward into an exposed flank of fur and muscle.

The blade found purchase deep within the wolf’s side; it howled in pain—a sound reminiscent of a dog yelping—before recoiling violently away from him. Blood seeped from the wound as it staggered back, momentarily stunned by the force of impact.

Seizing this moment of vulnerability, the Ranger pressed forward again—striking several more times at its abdomen with precision and determination. Each thrust found its mark until finally, with one last desperate gasp for breath, the dire wolf collapsed onto the cold, wet ground littered with leaves.

The struggle faded from its eyes as it lay there gasping for air—a once-mighty creature now reduced to stillness beneath him. The Ranger stepped back slowly, panting heavily as adrenaline coursed through him like wildfire. He felt both triumph and sorrow mingling within; this poor creature had lost to his blade.

“I can’t believe… it’s over…” the Ranger breathed heavily, his eyes widening in shock as he saw the creature finally quiet. The adrenaline slowly ebbed from his veins, leaving him breathless and shaken. He stood over the fallen beast, the weight of what he had just done settling heavily upon him.

Turning away from the fallen werewolf, the Ranger approached Felna’s body once more, his heart a tangle of grief and anger. He considered what to do; to bring the wolf back, or the child first? Or to leave them both, describe what had happened, and try to convince the elders to arrange other to come with him. After a deep breath, he looked up at the moon to allow his mind to clear. “I made the arrangement for the girl,” he said to himself aloud. He looked down at the little girl’s body, so still and cold on the earth.

“Now, let’s bring you home,” he whispered, his voice soft yet filled with a determination born from sorrow and loss.

Just before he was about to kneel and scoop up the girl, the looked back at the beast. Standing still as he could, he studied the werewolf’s features; fur now dulled and matted with dirt and blood. The ferocity he had just faced seemed to clash with the vulnerability of the being before him.

As he watched a moment more, something strange caught his eye; the werewolf seemed to quiver slightly, the fur rippling as if stirred by an unseen force. His brow furrowed in confusion, and he stepped closer, breath caught in his throat as he tried to discern whether he was imagining things. “Is it my mind playing tricks?” he wondered, holding his breath, almost afraid to blink.

The transformation unfolded before him in startled silence. The werewolf’s form began to shrink and shift; the thick fur receded, and the body morphed, revealing human features beneath. Moonlight flooded the scene, illuminating the unsettling metamorphosis as the figure of the beast gave way to that of a woman, her features anguished. His heart raced, both in fascination and dread, as he witnessed the impossible.

As the transformation completed, the Ranger found himself staring at a naked adult female lying lifeless on the ground. He leaned down to inspect her body, searching for anything that might reveal her identity. He found a dark spot; a birthmark of a rather asymmetrical shape right upon her left collar bone. What was also dreadfully apparent was the body bore severe lacerations from his sword, cruel reminders of the fight. The clouds no longer obstructed the Moon, allowing its light to glisten on her skin, heightening the surreal nature of the moment. “You were cursed… but what led you to this?” he thought, the air around him thick with unresolved anguish.

Momentarily brushing aside the horrific sight, he felt a deep sorrow welling up inside him. Amongst the remnants of the werewolf’s form, he found a belt around her waist. Tears of empathy brimmed in his eyes, the loss sharp and poignant.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, tears spilling down his cheeks as sorrow enveloped him, acknowledging the loss of innocence both in Felna and the woman before him. This moment of grief propelled him to confront the complexities of life, death, and the shades of morality that haunted his journey.

Wiping the tears from his cheeks, the Ranger tore himself away from the lifeless form of the dire wolf, that fearsome beast now reduced to a mere husk of shadow and sinew. A tumultuous tempest of relief and sorrow swirled within him, a maelstrom that threatened to engulf his very soul. The battle had been fierce, a clash of primal forces beneath the indifferent gaze of the moon; yet this victory, so hard-won, felt but a hollow triumph—a fleeting echo in the cavernous chambers of his heart. With a heavy heart burdened by unutterable grief, he turned his attention to Felna, the innocent child whose fate now rested precariously in his trembling hands.

He unfurled his cloak, that once-proud mantle tied about his back—its fabric soft and worn, imbued with memories of warmth and protection now rendered somber by the weight of loss. With trembling hands, he wrapped Felna within its folds, cradling her fragile form as though she were spun from gossamer threads or glass, delicate and irretrievable. The weight of her small body pressed down upon him like an anchor forged from despair, dragging him inexorably into an abyss where grief reigned supreme.

As he stepped toward the outer edges of the clearing, the crunching of his boots upon the fallen leaves sounded like mournful whispers echoing through a desolate tomb. He moved into the cornstalks that swayed in the near-autumn breeze—a ghostly dance beneath a canopy of stars that seemed to watch with hollow eyes. With each step he took, he faded away into the shadows, leaving behind only the fading echoes of his footsteps—waning sounds that surrendered to the emptiness that enveloped the clearing like a shroud.