You return the friendly smile, feeling the tension ease slightly now that you're officially invited in. "Lead the way," you say, falling into step beside the lead guard as they usher you through the sturdy wooden gate.
As you pass under the archway, the atmosphere changes. Inside the palisade, the sounds are different – muffled conversations, the crackle of hearth fires, perhaps a crying baby somewhere. Villagers who had presumably taken shelter during the attack now peek out from doorways or windows, their faces etched with fear that slowly turns to curiosity, then open astonishment as they see you. They stare unabashedly at your strange black clothing, your different features, and likely the grime and blood still clinging to you despite your quick wipe-down of the dagger. Whispers ripple through the small crowd that gathers at a safe distance. They saw the fight, or at least heard it, and now they see the result – dead goblins outside, and this stranger walking with their guards.
The lead guard seems aware of the stares but ignores them, focused on escorting you. "The Elder's house is this way," he grunts, leading you down the main dirt track running through the village center. It's wider here, flanked by simple but sturdy-looking houses made of timber and daub, most with thatched roofs.
Remembering your state, you address the guard politely, "Before I meet the Elder... I'm rather covered in goblin grime. Would it be possible to quickly wash my hands and face? I wouldn't want to track this mess into their home."
The guard glances back at you, then nods curtly. "Aye, that's fair. Respectful." He points towards a large wooden trough near a stone-lined well in what seems to be a small central square. "Use the basin there. Water's clean."
He stops a respectful distance away, gesturing for his men to keep the curious villagers back while you quickly head over to the trough. It's filled with cool, clean water, likely drawn recently. You splash water onto your face and hands, scrubbing away the worst of the dirt and sticky goblin blood. It feels refreshing, clearing your head slightly.
As you dry your hands on your already-dirty sweatpants, your mind races, quickly discarding and refining potential stories. Amnesia? Too suspicious. Mercenary? Might make them wary. You need something plausible that explains your skills, your lack of resources, and your 'mission' comment.
, focus. Build on the tracking story. 'I was part of a caravan guard, heading... somewhere far. Attacked days ago. Bandits? Monsters? Doesn't matter. Lost everything – companions, gear, money. Barely survived. Been living rough. Saw the goblin tracks near the cart today. Felt responsible, had to stop them before they hurt others like my group was hurt. A personal mission of sorts.'
It feels... okay. It explains your combat ability (guard), your lack of possessions (attack survivor), your presence here (following path/survival), and the 'mission' (personal vengeance/duty). It paints you as capable but unfortunate, perhaps deserving of some aid without seeming like a complete charity case or a dangerous unknown. It avoids complicated lies about employers or bounties. Yes, that feels like the best approach.
Feeling slightly more prepared, you walk back over to the guards. "Thank you," you say simply.
The lead guard nods again. "This way. Elder Rowan is waiting." He turns and leads you towards one of the larger, slightly better-maintained houses near the center of the village.
Just as you approach the Elder's house, a commotion erupts from further down the track, near where the smithy is located. A woman screams, followed by loud shouts and the distinct, angry bellow of what sounds like a very large man. "Get back here, you little thief! By the gods, I'll tan your hide!"
The lead guard groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Not now, Borin," he mutters under his breath, clearly exasperated. He glances between the Elder's door and the source of the shouting, torn. The sounds of a chase – running footsteps, more shouting – seem to be getting closer.
You pause, turning your attention away from the Elder's door towards the escalating ruckus. Down the dimly lit main track, perhaps thirty meters away near the warm glow spilling from the open front of the smithy, the scene unfolds rapidly.
A large, powerfully built man with soot staining his leather apron and face – undoubtedly Borin the smith – is lumbering down the track, his face flushed red with anger. He's roaring threats, waving a meaty fist. Ahead of him, darting with surprising agility, is a small, ragged figure. It looks like a young boy, maybe ten or twelve years old, thin and dressed in little more than patched trousers and a torn tunic far too large for him. He's clutching something small and dark tightly in one hand as he weaves through startled villagers who quickly jump out of his way.
"Give it back, you worthless rat!" Borin bellows, his voice booming through the village. "That was payment for the Miller's tools!"
The boy glances back fearfully, nearly trips over a loose stone, but recovers and keeps running, heading directly towards the central square where you, the guards, and the Elder's house are located. He looks desperate, eyes wide with panic.
The lead guard, Torvin (you overheard Borin yell his name in frustration earlier), sighs heavily. "Daelin, you fool boy," he mutters, stepping forward slightly as if to intercept the child, but clearly reluctant to get involved in what seems like petty theft, especially with you, the village's savior, standing right there.
The other militia members look equally uncomfortable, glancing between their leader, the oncoming boy, and the furious smith hot on his heels. Other villagers are either scattering or watching with expressions ranging from disapproval to amusement. It's a disruptive, slightly embarrassing village squabble happening right at the moment of your formal introduction.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
The boy, Daelin, is only about ten meters away now, still running pell-mell, eyes darting around for an escape route. Borin the smith is closing the gap, huffing and puffing but still dangerously angry. The situation is about to collide right where you stand.
You deliberately step back slightly, pressing yourself closer to the wall of the Elder's house, making it clear you have no intention of intervening in this local dispute. Getting involved now could alienate someone, and your priority is securing food, shelter, and information from the Elder. Let the local guards handle local problems.
The boy, Daelin, spots the lead guard, Torvin, stepping forward slightly. Seeing his path blocked by the guard and with the furious smith closing in behind him, Daelin jinks sharply to the side, trying to dart past the Elder's house into a narrow alleyway beside it.
Borin the smith, seeing his quarry about to escape, puts on a final burst of speed. He lunges, not at the boy, but manages to snag the back of Daelin's oversized, ragged tunic. The cloth rips, but Borin gets a firm grip. He hauls the boy back violently. Daelin cries out, stumbling and falling to the ground. The small, dark object he was clutching flies from his hand and skitters across the dirt, landing near your feet. It looks like a small, crudely made leather pouch, heavy enough to make a soft thud.
"Gotcha, you little thief!" Borin snarls, looming over the frightened boy who scrambles backwards on the ground. Borin raises a massive hand as if to strike.
"Borin! Enough!" Torvin snaps, stepping forward decisively now that the chase is over and violence is imminent. "Hold your temper! There's no need for that!"
The smith hesitates, his hand still raised, breathing heavily. He glares down at the boy, then glances at Torvin, then briefly at you – the stranger who just saved the village – standing silently nearby. His anger seems to war with a sudden awareness of the audience. He slowly lowers his hand, instead grabbing the boy roughly by the arm and hauling him to his feet.
"He stole payment, Torvin! Right off my bench!" Borin growls, shaking the boy slightly. "Trying to run off with honest coin!" He then spots the pouch near your feet. He stalks over, snatches it up, and checks the contents briefly before stuffing it into his apron pocket. He shoots you a quick, slightly embarrassed glance before turning his glare back to the now-sniffling Daelin.
Torvin sighs again, running a hand through his hair. "Alright, Borin, take him home. We'll sort this out later. Elder Rowan is waiting for our... guest." He nods towards you, clearly eager to move past the disruption.
Borin grunts, still looking furious, but seems to accept Torvin's authority. He gives Daelin a final shove towards the direction of the smithy. "Get moving, brat. Your father will hear about this." He follows the boy, casting one last resentful look over his shoulder before disappearing back down the track.
The small crowd of onlookers disperses quickly now that the drama is over. Torvin straightens his tunic and gestures towards the Elder's door, his expression apologetic. "Apologies for that disturbance, stranger. Village troubles. Now, Elder Rowan awaits."
He pushes open the simple wooden door, revealing a warm, lamp-lit interior, and gestures for you to enter.
You step over the threshold, leaving the brief chaos of the village square behind and entering the relative calm of the Elder's home.
You follow Torvin through the doorway into Elder Rowan's home. The air inside is warm and smells pleasantly of woodsmoke, drying herbs, and something savory simmering. Compared to the utilitarian simplicity you glimpsed in other dwellings, this house feels slightly more substantial, though still modest. Woven rushes cover the packed earth floor. Simple wooden furniture – a sturdy table, several stools, a pair of carved armchairs near the central hearth – is arranged neatly. Bunches of dried herbs hang from the rafters, and a few shelves hold clay pots and what look like rolled scrolls or parchments.
In the center of the room, dominating the space, is a large stone hearth where a low fire crackles merrily. A cast iron pot hangs over the flames, bubbling gently and releasing a mouth-watering aroma of stewed meat and vegetables. Your eyes are immediately drawn to it, the sight and smell intensifying the gnawing hunger in your stomach. You can't help but stare for a moment, swallowing unconsciously.
Sitting in one of the armchairs near the hearth is an old man. He looks ancient, his face a roadmap of wrinkles, framed by wisps of thin white hair. Yet, his eyes, nested deep within those wrinkles, are surprisingly sharp and intelligent. He's wrapped in a thick woolen blanket despite the warmth of the fire, suggesting a frailty common to advanced age. He holds a simple wooden cup in his gnarled hands. This must be Elder Rowan. He watches you enter, his gaze calm and assessing, taking in your unusual appearance and, likely, the direction of your hungry gaze towards his cooking pot.
Torvin steps forward respectfully. "Elder Rowan," he begins, his voice formal now, "This is the stranger who aided us against the goblins. He… intervened decisively." Torvin gestures towards you. "He says he tracked the band here after they caused trouble down the path."
Elder Rowan turns his keen eyes fully upon you. He doesn't speak immediately, simply observing you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. He glances briefly towards the simmering pot you were just eyeing, a faint, knowing glint in his gaze, before looking back at you.
"Welcome to Oakhaven, stranger," he finally says, his voice thin but clear, carrying an unmistakable air of quiet authority. "Torvin tells me we owe you a significant debt. It is rare indeed for someone to stand against nine goblins, let alone defeat them so thoroughly, especially their Hob leader and Shaman." He takes a slow sip from his cup. "You fight like a man trained for war, yet you wear clothes unlike any I have ever seen, and..." He pauses, letting his eyes drift towards the pot again before meeting yours. "...you look like you haven't seen a square meal in some time."
He gestures with a slight nod towards an empty stool near the hearth. "Sit, sit. Tell us who you are, and how you came to be on our doorstep at such an opportune – or perhaps dangerous – moment. And Meredith," he calls out, raising his voice slightly towards a closed door at the back of the house, "Fetch another bowl. Our guest is clearly famished."
You hear movement from behind the door, and a moment later it opens. A middle-aged woman with kind eyes and hair streaked with grey emerges, wiping her hands on an apron. She glances at you with open curiosity but nods obediently to the Elder, turning towards a shelf to retrieve a wooden bowl and spoon.
The invitation to sit and the promise of food are exactly what you needed. You move towards the offered stool, giving the Elder a respectful nod. "Thank you, Elder Rowan. For your welcome, and your generosity." You sit down, the warmth from the hearth immediately pleasant. Now is the time to deploy your prepared story.
Time: Evening (Approx 7:15 PM)
Date: 01/05/1042
Status:
- Health: Healthy
- Hunger: Starving -> Very Hungry (Anticipation of food makes it keener)
- Thirst: Slightly Thirsty