[Scene: Eastern Outskirts – Outside the Old Man's Shack]
Eron and Ashen stood before a crooked little house nailed together from mismatched wood.
Roof dented. One window shutter missing. Chimney slanted like it gave up halfway.
Eron (tilting his head):
"You think this is it?"
Ashen (dry):
"There's literally no other home out here."
As Eron stepped forward to knock—
He paused.
His eyes snapped to Ashen's neck — where a faint, glowing red mark peeked from under his collar.
Eron (sharply):
"Hey, hey—your guild mark. It's showing. You dropped the skin paper."
Ashen blinked and instinctively reached up.
His fingers met bare skin.
Ashen:
"Damn. Must've dropped it somewhere on the way here…"
Eron (irritated):
"Be careful. If anyone in town saw that—"
Ashen (deadpan):
"Well, it was on when we passed the guard."
[Author's Note: "Skin paper" — a soft, spell-treated wrap that adheres to skin and conceals guild tattoos. Blends naturally against tone. Used by Whisper's Light when traveling undercover.]
Ashen:
"You got a spare?"
Eron:
"Nope."
He glanced around, then unwrapped a cloth band from his wrist and tossed it to Ashen.
Eron:
"Wrap it. Cover the mark. We don't need old fisherman paranoia right now."
Ashen began tying the cloth as the creaky wood door behind them suddenly squealed open—
Old Man (voice raspy, behind them):
"…Who's there?"
Both froze.
Turning, they saw him:
An old man — frail, leathery, white-bearded, with one shoulder dipped lower than the other. His eyes were cloudy but sharp. He squinted.
Then he saw it — the still-faint glimmer of the guild tattoo on Ashen's neck, just before the cloth hid it.
His expression twitched.
Old Man:
"…You boys from a guild?"
Eron exhaled slowly.
Eron (internal):
He's old. Alone. Isolated.
I don't think honesty will hurt here.
Eron (gently):
"Yes. We're with Whisper's Light. We came to ask about your boat."
He stepped forward and bowed slightly.
Eron:
"It's nearly night. If you're not looking to sell, we'd be grateful if you could lend it. Just for a few days."
He met the old man's gaze.
Eron (solemn):
"I promise on the name of Whisper's Light… your boat will return in one piece. And if it doesn't—I'll buy you a better one myself."
The old man didn't speak for a moment.
Then — a crooked smile.
Old Man:
"Come in. Let's have some tea."
Eron and Ashen exchanged a glance — half confusion, half curiosity — and stepped inside.
[Scene: Old Man's Shack – Interior, Dusk]
The inside looked like a forgotten home. Wooden beams bent inward. No paint on the walls. Dusty slats where furniture used to be. A single flickering lantern hung by a rusted hook.
There were no chairs — only old mats laid on the floor like dried leaves.
The three sat cross-legged.
The tea was… well.
It looked like boiled water.
Ashen sipped. Barely.
Old Man (casually):
"So… why do you need my boat, hm?"
Eron (internal sigh):
No point hiding it now.
Eron:
"…We need it to cross the sea."
Old Man (snorting):
"That boat? It'd shatter from a sneeze if a sea beast spotted it."
Ashen glanced at him.
Ashen (internal):
He sounds so normal. Why did Basco call him a psycho?
Eron (gently):
"We just need to get to another island. That's all."
Just then — a soft clang echoed from a small cabinet in the corner. Something metallic.
The old man stood and shuffled toward the tiny kitchen space.
Moments later, he returned with three wooden plates.
Two stacked with steaming fish curry and rice.
One with half a portion.
He set the full plates in front of Eron and Ashen.
Took the half for himself.
Eron (instantly):
"Wait—don't do that. You shouldn't stay hungry because of us—"
Old Man (waving it off):
"Guests are gods in our culture. Eat."
Ashen's eyes softened.
He turned slightly, wiping them with his sleeve when no one was looking.
Ashen (internal):
…What a kind man.
They ate quietly for a minute.
Then the old man looked at Eron.
Old Man:
"…Which island are you going to, young man?"
Eron paused mid-bite.
He didn't want to lie.
Not to this man.
Eron (quiet):
"…Quinster."
The spoon dropped from the old man's fingers.
Clatter.
His entire body went still.
His breath caught — once, twice — like something jagged had wedged itself in his lungs.
His hands trembled.
His eyes glazed over.
Old Man (voice low, shaky):
"…No… no, no…"
He clutched his chest. Started rocking slightly.
Ashen froze.
Ashen:
"Eron—he's—"
Eron (getting up, panicked):
"Hey—hey, breathe. Sit back—it's okay—"
The old man's eyes darted.
He muttered things that weren't to them.
Old Man (whispering):
"They were screaming… the bells… the red tide—no, no, not again… not again…"
He gasped once, like air hurt.
Then sat still — a sweat sheen across his brow.
Silence.
Eron knelt beside him, hand gently on the old man's back.
Ashen looked on, wide-eyed, unsure.
Ashen (whispering):
"...He has PTSD."
The old man didn't speak again.
He just stared at the floor.
Mouth slightly open.