Valerius remained unmoved by the captain's deferential question, his expression as stoic and unreadable as a weathered stone. He gave a slight, almost dismissive shrug of his neatly attired shoulders. "A momentary distraction, Captain. Nothing more," Valerius stated, his voice calm and even, betraying no hint of concern. "Our intelligence indicates this Oakhaven village possesses, at most, two individuals of Tier 2 capability. Against the current strength of our group, they are… insignificant." He paused, his sharp gaze meeting the captain's. "However," Valerius continued, a subtle emphasis on the word, "it would be wise for you to ensure your men remain disciplined. Carelessness, even on a small scale, can lead to unforeseen complications. And incurring Master's displeasure over such trivialities is an outcome best avoided, wouldn't you agree?"
A flush crept up the captain's thick neck, his earlier imposing demeanor shrinking under Valerius's cool gaze. He nodded quickly, a little too eagerly. "Yes, Master Valerius. Absolutely. It won't happen again. I'll see to it personally. The men will be kept on a tighter leash." He seemed to visibly deflate, the bluster he'd shown his subordinates entirely absent now.
The "Captain," a man named Gregor, was the nominal leader of this band of adventurers, a motley crew hailing from the sprawling, grimy frontier trading city of Jarnborg. Gregor himself, along with his core of seven trusted companions, were all Tier 1 Professionals – a rough assortment consisting of fighters, hunters and one less-than-scrupulous hedge-sorcerer. They had bolstered their numbers with a dozen or so common poachers and sellswords picked up along the way, men whose loyalty extended only as far as the next promised payment. In terms of raw numbers, their combined force could likely overwhelm a small, isolated village like Oakhaven. However, their current endeavor was not one of open conquest. They were here on a specific contract, hired through the ever-composed Valerius to perform a delicate task for his powerful, unseen Master—a task that Valerius had repeatedly stressed required subtlety and discretion above all else. Starting a war with the local Baron was definitely not part of that discreet approach.
"I'll… I'll not keep you further then, Master Valerius," Gregor said, bowing again, perhaps a little lower than necessary this time. He then backed out of the tent, eager to escape the older man's unnerving presence.
Once outside in the relative anonymity of the bustling, snowy camp, Gregor let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. A moment later, a lean, hard-bitten man with the keen eyes of a predator approached him. This was Roric, Gregor's second-in-command and a Tier 1 Hunter. Roric leaned in, his voice a low whisper meant only for Gregor's ears. "Hey Cap, quick word! So, Lyra's been at her scrying thing again. And get this, she thinks she's nailed down the direction of the... item. Says the strongest signals are coming from uphill, towards that little village we went past yesterday!" Gregor felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. That was the last thing he needed – more complications involving the locals.
Gregor ran a hand over his face, his gaze sweeping over their makeshift camp – a collection of damp tents and sputtering fires amidst the endless, oppressive white. He shivered, and not entirely from the cold. "Gods, I hate this weather," he muttered, mostly to himself, kicking at a drift of snow. "Give me a noisy Jarnborg tavern, a mug of something warm and strong, and the press of a thousand bodies. Anything's better than this dead quiet, this bone-freezing air, and all this… this blasted white." He longed for the constant thrum of the city, a stark contrast to the silent, snow-covered forest that seemed to swallow every sound.
He turned his attention back to Roric, his earlier frustration hardening into a grim resolve. "Alright," Gregor said, his voice low and decisive. "The item is the priority. Can our… quieter friends," he gave a slight nod towards a pair of shadowy figures lurking near the edge of the camp, known for their thieving skills, "escort Lyra up there? Get a precise location, silently. No contact, no alarms. Just find it." He paused, and a cruel light glinted in his eyes. "And Roric, tell the lads to be ready for a scrap. If these villagers get any bright ideas, or if this whole 'quiet job' blows up in our faces and we're looking at ruined reputations or, gods forbid, wanted posters… well, then we'll just have to show 'em. Make sure they learn damn well what happens when they get in our way."
Roric nodded. "Possible, Cap. But Lyra says if we wait for the full moon—less than two weeks—she can do more than just scry. She reckons she can summon an apparition, bind it to a cursed trinket, and have it lead us straight to the prize. No guesswork, direct route." Gregor grunted, frustrated by the delay in this frozen hellhole, but a magic-guided path was tempting and more reliable than his clumsy thieves. "Fine," he bit out reluctantly. "Tell her to prepare her ritual. But Roric," his voice hardened, "double the lookouts. No more surprises. We wait, but ready."
* * *
Meanwhile, hours later and miles deeper into the southern woods, Borin moved like a silent ghost. The heavy snow hadn't hidden the poachers' trail from his Ranger's eyes; a broken twig, scuffed moss, and the faint, unfamiliar scent of campfire were clear signs. He navigated the dense, cold forest, his fur-lined boots barely whispering on the snow. The only sounds were dripping meltwater and the rustle of unseen creatures. He knew he was close; the signs were fresher, the camp's scent stronger.
He crested a small, snow-covered ridge, peering through a thicket of young firs. Below him, in a sheltered hollow, he could just make out the dull canvas of a few tents, a thin plume of smoke rising from what was likely their central fire. He was about to move to a better vantage point, to get a clearer count of their numbers, when a flicker of movement to his left caught his eye. Before Borin could fully react, a figure clad in dark, mottled furs erupted from the snow-laden bushes, a short, wicked-looking blade glinting in the dim forest light as it arced towards his side.
Instinct, honed by years in the harsh wilderness, screamed danger. Borin twisted, his own hunting knife, already half-drawn from its sheath at his belt, coming up in a defensive block.
Metal shrieked as the poacher's blade met Borin's knife. The attacker, quick and surprisingly agile despite the snow, pressed the assault.
But Borin, far stronger, held his ground easily, the initial impact barely registering.
With his free hand, Borin scooped a handful of loose snow from the bark of a nearby pine and flung it directly into his assailant's face. The poacher, startled and momentarily blinded by the cold spray, flinched back, a choked gasp escaping him. He clearly mistook the harmless snow for some kind of debilitating powder or poison, his eyes wide with sudden fear. Giving up his attack, he stumbled backwards a few paces, trying to clear his vision.
Borin was about to press his advantage, to subdue his disoriented attacker, when a sharp, piercing whistle cut through the quiet forest air from the direction of the poachers' camp. Already on high alert, Borin didn't hesitate. He slid back, using the thick trunk of an ancient oak for cover, his eyes scanning the dense treeline. "Show yourselves!" he bellowed, his voice a powerful roar that echoed through the snowy woods. "Or are you all cowards, hiding behind ambushes and cheap tricks?"
As if in direct response to his taunt, the distinct sounds of a hurried, angry charge erupted from the direction of the poacher's camp – the crunch of multiple boots on snow, the clatter of weapons, and guttural shouts. Borin swiftly unslung the heavy longbow from his back, his movements economical and precise. He nocked an arrow, his senses straining to pinpoint the approaching threats through the dense trees. Just as he was drawing the string taut, a different, more commanding shout cut through the din from the camp: "Hold! I said hold, you bloody fools!"
The charging sounds faltered, replaced by grumbles and the shuffling of feet. Cautiously, Borin peered around the edge of the oak. A gaunt but wiry figure, wrapped in a thick fur cloak over worn leather armor and hefting a heavy, two-handed cudgel, was striding purposefully towards him. Two other men, similarly robed in furs but with less substantial armor padding, flanked him slightly; one carried a short sword and a battered round shield, the other sported a pair of wicked-looking twin axes. The other poachers seemed to be making way for the cudgel-wielder, and a prickle of Borin's Ranger's intuition, a sense honed by countless encounters in the wild, told him this was their leader.
The guy with the cudgel stopped a good twenty paces from Borin's hiding spot, his buddies hanging back a bit. He cleared his throat, loud enough to hear in the quiet woods. "Hey there, Ranger!" he called out, his voice a bit rough but easy to understand. "Sorry 'bout my guys gettin' a little… antsy. They're new around here, kinda jumpy, ya know?" He even tried a smile, though it looked a bit forced. "No need for all this fightin', right? Can't we just call it a misunderstanding and let it go?"
Borin didn't trust the man's easy tone or his forced smile for a second. Years spent navigating the dangers of the White Peaks had taught him that a predator was often most dangerous when it feigned peace. Still, an open battle with an unknown number of armed men wasn't his preferred outcome either. He slowly lowered his bow, the arrow still nocked but no longer aimed directly at the leader. He remained partially concealed behind the oak, his body coiled and ready to bolt or fight if the situation turned sour.
"Misunderstanding or not," Borin called back, his voice firm and carrying, "these woods are under the protection of Baron Ashworth. His decree forbids poaching here. You and your men need to pack up and leave." He kept his tone even, though internally he doubted they'd comply so easily. Still, it was the proper first step, the official warning.
The leader's face, partially obscured by the shadows of his fur-lined hide helmet, seemed to crease further, though the strained smile didn't quite leave his lips. "Poachers, is it, Ranger?" he called back, his voice still attempting a conciliatory tone. "Ah, there's the misunderstanding. We're a mercenary company, see? Just traveling through these mountains. Had to make camp here for a bit – some of our companions took ill, can't be forced to travel in this weather, not in their condition."
Borin snorted internally. Mercenaries with sick companions? It sounded like a load of bull-elk droppings. But he was outnumbered, and the initial ambush, however clumsy, had shown they weren't afraid to draw steel. Escalating this now, alone, would be foolish. He needed to regroup, inform Hemlock of their numbers and apparent leadership. They might indeed need to send for the Baron's men. "See that they recover quickly then," Borin said, his voice still hard. "And see that your 'company' stays clear of Oakhaven and its hunting grounds. Baron Ashworth doesn't take kindly to uninvited guests disturbing the peace." With a final, lingering look at the leader, Borin began a slow, deliberate retreat, never turning his back fully, his senses on high alert for any sign of treachery.
The leader watched him go, the forced smile finally dropping from his face to be replaced by a thoughtful, almost predatory expression. "Of course, Ranger," he called after Borin's retreating figure, his voice smooth again. "We'll be on our way as soon as our companions are fit. And we certainly wouldn't dream of hunting in the Baron's protected lands."