"Who are you?" the mysterious man spoke, voice clear and composed.
Heath could tell the moment he opened his mouth—this man was a foreigner. Not native to the Bahnt'yr Lands, a thick and almost refined accent as he spoke. The words slicked together like smooth butter, yet were still far from pompous and egocentric.
"I'm Heath," he muttered, not wanting a sword to be pierced into his side. "Who are you?"
Carefully, the man, still masked by shadows, seemed to lower his guard. The tip of the sword lowered, and unexpectedly, he took a few steps closer.
"The name's Regan Oufgolde of the Caravan Company, at your service."
Heath was completely unbeknownst to him and his supposed company, though those weren't the words that stuck out to him. "Wait... you're at 'my' service? Why?"
Heath could see his face now, only a few feet separating the two. His brown hair was short and smooth, and his eyes were a light-piercing white, almost the color of fresh-fallen snow, even with the oppressive night dimming their surroundings.
More notably, Regan had seemed confused more than anything else. Their age didn't seem that far apart, possibly being only a few years older than the fourteen—soon to be fifteen—year-old Heath.
"What's the matter?" Heath murmured, commenting on his apparent confusion.
Regan didn't respond, however. Before he could, a sudden and almost heart-dropping shout emerged from the distance, Heath practically recoiling at the sound:
"We need to go! Now!"
The voice sounded urgent and raw, carrying an undertone of bass and roughness beneath it. Whatever they were doing, they were frugal on time, so much so that they were blatantly willing to shout in the middle of an eldritch-infested forest.
Instantly, two thoughts came to Heath's head; They were either professionals or dumbasses. He wasn't sure which.
"There's no time..." Regan muttered underneath his breath, sheathing his blade before beginning to walk towards the sound. "Come with me. It's not safe here."
Heath wanted to protest, still slightly untrusting towards him, but he couldn't really argue with his reasoning. Even if they were thugs or bandits, no fate they could subject him to would be worse than that of an eldritch, so reluctantly, he followed close behind.
It was only a short trek through the forest before flickering lights could be seen in the distance, all gathered within a clearing that carved out the nearby woods. Much to his surprise, it was more than just a small group—like the boy had stated, it was a caravan. Easily four to five open-roofed wagons trailed in a line, precariously stopped out in the middle of a twisting and endless stretch of dirt road.
The sight was surreal to him. Hundreds of people, more than he'd seen in his entire life, flooded the surrounding areas and rushed to reach one of the wooden wagons. Torches were so prevalent, the entire area smelled like smoke and was painted in a vicious orange hue, darkness cowering against it.
"Everyone to the wagons! We're leaving!" the same commanding voice boomed out. Regan began his march, scurrying over to the nearest one as Heath stalked behind. They didn't make it far, however, before the shouting returned, this time directed towards them. "Regan, hold!"
Amidst the roar of hurried folk and their flashing lights, Heath at first couldn't make out the figure who was speaking to them. Only when he willingly stepped forward, hulking frame towering over them, was he able to tell.
"M- my name i-"
"-Well then, who in the nine hells have you brought to us?" The man interrupted, same regal-sounding gusto as Regan, though more aggressive and pissed. The blunt of a dented hammer was brought just to Heath's chin before he could even attempt a response.
"Relax, Charms, he's not a raider. Just some kid I found stumbling in the bushes."
'Charms?' Heath thought, instinctively raising his open palms in submission. 'Is that his name?'
His appearance didn't really strike Heath as a... Charms. Actually, nobody would've thought that. He was large, bulking, slightly bronze in skin, and lacked any hair on his head. His eyes were dark and demeaning, and even his hand, which Heath initially thought was holding the hammer... was the hammer.
He still had an underlying appeal, a base level of attractiveness, but... Definitely not a 'Charms.'
Luckily, he lowered the hammer and gave a deep scowl into Heath's eyes. "Ah, fuck it. Guess you're right. Too young and too smooth to be one of 'em. Get to the cart, and quick. They'll be on top of us soon enough."
Heath queried, "Who? Raiders?"
Charms scoffed. "Eldritch, ye little shit."
Regan begged his head to the side, tempting Heath to follow. It didn't take them long to settle into the seats lining its width, huddled closely together by an odd fifteen-or-so other people. A slight ache resonated within his heart, still unused to social interaction... or interaction in general.
After being isolated with nobody but Eofa for seven years... this deeply unsettled him. The benches were too slim, legs, arms and shoulders making full contact with those beside him. Legroom was short, too, the entire central divot within the cart containing various boxes, barrels and cloth-tied goods that nearly stacked as high as his own head.
He hated it.
The smell was also peculiarly off. It wasn't bad by any means, but it was... chisled. Stained. Somehow, these dirt-covered and sweaty folk made the air smell like nothing but labor, ash and sweat.
"Teamsters, kick forward!" Heath could hear Charms shout from the leading wagon. The word was unfamiliar to him; instinctively muttering "Teamsters?" under his own breath.
"The people who hold the reins," Regan responded from Heath's side, "for us, two on each wagon." He sat just to Heath's right, eyes lingering on him as he spoke.
"Ah... thanks..." Heath replied, not expecting a response to his silent utterances. Still, as the horses bucked and kicked forward, ground beginning to move beneath them, Regan only ever glared at Heath, no expression to tell what he was thinking.
'Yeah, they'd get along alright,' Heath teased in his mind. 'Why am I getting flashbacks?'
"Why were you out there?" Regan had finally broke the silence, "Were you lost?"
He shook his head. "Not exactly... but you're not far off, either. I'm headed somewhere."
"On foot? Are you suicidal?"
He said it so casually, Heath almost didn't notice. "I had no other option, really. I was forced out."
"By who?"
"My trainer, Eofa."
"Your trainer? Are you a hunter or something?"
"...You ask a lot of questions."
"I'm curious, that's all."
His eye contact was so solid, a shiver almost constantly rattled down Heath's spine. It felt like he was being scrutinized and robbed of his dignity at every turn. "Let me ask the questions now... what are you all doing out here?"
"I told you when I met you, remember? We're porters for the Caravan Company."
"Which caravan company?"
"The Caravan Company. There's only one. It's our job to run supplies and information between the different lands, so we're pretty widespread. Honesty, it's more challenging to have not heard of us, unless you live under a rock."
Heath sighed, "A rock wouldn't be too far from the truth... but I have another question; what's stopping an eldritch from attacking us?"
Regan nodded, finally diverting his eyes and glaring straight into the woods. "I suppose you know about eldritch instinct, how most have senses similar to wolves?"
He nodded.
"Well, no wolf is dumb enough to attack a large group of heavily armed, heavily trained and heavily defended porters. That's just moronic."
For a brief second, Heath managed to catch Regan's gaze shoot off to the side, quickly following to see a detail he had somehow missed—a few of the porters weren't sitting, rather standing with various spears and swords, even a few rusted flintlocks and muskets, which most saw as too expensive to purchase.
They seemed to have a lot of questions on their minds, both Regan and Heath alike. That being said, neither knew how to form the words to ask them. As if sensing their shared thoughts, Regan blurted once more: "Just relax for a while. It'd be a while till we reach town, and there we can get that ankle of yours fixed."
"You noticed that?" Heath was surprised.
"Of course. When dealing with eldritch almost twenty-four seven, its important to take notice of wounds, no matter how minute or hidden."
"Do you have the supplies to fix it?"
Regan shook his head. "We normally would, but we're at the tail-end of our supplies at the moment. We're headed to a town just southeast of here to restock. Should be some doctors there with what you'll need, I'm sure."
"Southeast..." Heath murmured, an odd gleam forming in the back of his mind.
They were going southeast... towards Ironforge.