The wind swept across the barren hills, carrying the sharp scent of damp earth and the coppery tang of blood. Devon stood motionless, his brows knitted in suspicion, as a stout figure emerged from the swirling fog.
The man, draped in layers of colorful ornate robes, moved with a nervous energy, his breath puffing in quick, visible clouds in the chilly air. His round face glistened with sweat despite the cold, and his eyes darted about, wary of the shadows.
"Allow me to introduce myself," the man said, bowing so low his robes brushed the muddy ground. His voice, a deep, melodic baritone, carried an elegance that bordered on comical, as if he were performing for a grand audience rather than a lone swordsman.
"I am Councilman Werba of the County of Tandor. I've come to find you, Devon, for I am in dire need of your help."
Devon's hand lingered on the hilt of his sword, his eyes narrowing as he studied the man.
Slowly, he sheathed the blade, the metallic scrape echoing in the quiet. "Help with what, exactly?" he asked, his tone gruff but curious.
Werba straightened, his expression a mix of relief and urgency. "I assure you, my intentions are honorable, but we've had… a misunderstanding."
Devon's jaw tightened. "A misunderstanding? Is that what you call attacking my carriage?"
His voice carried a sharp edge, his gaze flicking to the overturned wagon behind him, its wheels caked in mud.
Werba's hands shot up, palms open in a placating gesture. "No, no! That was not my intent!" he stammered, his polished demeanor faltering.
"The intel we received warned that these lands are treacherous. My men were trained to strike first to protect me. Their goal was merely to subdue the most important figure—you—in case of an ambush.
It's a precaution, you see, to ensure terms for negotiation. That's why they hesitated when no further threats appeared."
Devon crossed his arms, his face unimpressed. "That's a coward's strategy, not an honorable one. Because of your men, one of mine is wounded."
The system's Neural chat informs.
'Councilman Werba is impressed by you +100 supremacy points.
Werba's eyes widened, snapping out of his earlier look of admiration. "Yes, of course, we'll tend to him immediately!" he promised, gesturing to one of his guards, who scurried off to fetch supplies. "But please, allow me to explain further."
'Of course he is.'
Devon raised an eyebrow, his patience thinning. "While you're at it, where's the boy?"
"Luka, you mean?" Werba turned and called out, his voice ringing through the fog. "Young squire!"
From the mist, a lanky boy with tousled hair and wide, eager eyes sprinted toward them. "Lord Devon!" Luka exclaimed, nearly tripping over a rock in his excitement. "This man's from the big city!"
Devon's lips twitched into a half-smile at the boy's enthusiasm. "So you said you're from Tandor?" he asked, turning back to Werba.
"Yes, indeed," Werba replied, puffing out his chest. "And whoever told you Traventis Land is independent is mistaken."
Devon's expression darkened. "Traventis has been free for generations."
Werba shook his head, his tone patient but firm. "I dare say it hasn't. Traventis was exempted from political ties because its settlers ventured so far from Tandor. It seemed independent, but your people have paid dues to the city for ages. Your mineral resources are sent yearly to Tandor as part of an ancient agreement."
Devon's eyes narrowed, processing the words. "Alright, little man from the big city," he said, a teasing edge to his voice, "what business do you have with me? I'm in a hurry, and I've got personal matters to attend to in town."
Luka snickered at the "little man" jab, covering his mouth to stifle a mischievous laugh.
Werba, undeterred, clasped his hands together. "I am Councilman Werba," he repeated, as if the title alone carried weight. "I understand your urgency, but I beg an audience.
I can see there are three wrongdoers in the back of your wagon, awaiting justice. I can accompany you to Traventis Town and ensure they face their due—jail time, community service, whatever you deem fit—as long as you hear me out."
Devon glanced at the wagon, where the bound figures of the wrongdoers slumped against the wooden slats, their faces sullen. "Fine," he said, his tone begrudging. "You can tag along. But don't expect me to make it easy for you."
Werba's face lit up. "Splendid! Guards, reveal yourselves!" he called, his voice brimming with theatrical flair.
The fog parted as Werba's guards stepped forward, shedding their dark cloaks. Beneath, their uniforms erupted in a dazzling array of rainbow hues—vibrant reds, blues, and yellows that seemed absurdly out of place in the grim landscape.
Each guard bore a thin, ornate sword embroidered on their chest, glinting faintly in the dim light. Devon's lips twitched, and Luka let out a choked laugh, unable to contain himself.
"What a… lovely choice of color," Devon said, his voice trembling with suppressed amusement as he fought to keep a straight face.
Werba beamed, oblivious to the mockery. "Yes, Tandor prides itself on its fashion. We take it very personally." With that, he gestured grandly toward the wagon. "Shall we?"
Devon shook his head, still chuckling, and climbed aboard the wagon. Werba followed, settling beside him as Luka scrambled into the back. The horses snorted, their hooves thudding against the rocky path as they set off toward Traventis.
Inside the creaking wagon, the air was thick with the scent of leather and damp wood.
The rhythmic clop of hooves and the occasional jolt of the rocky road filled the silence between Devon and Werba.
The councilman shifted in his seat, his robes rustling as he leaned forward, his expression earnest.
"The matter is simple, yet dire," Werba began, his voice low and conspiratorial. "After the gold mine incident, you, Devon, were the only survivor. Or so the reports say."
Devon's eyes flicked to Werba, his interest piqued despite himself. "So what about it?"
Werba leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "The Dark Orcs, as the streets of Tandor now call them, are deadly creatures. No one has survived their attacks—except you. You faced overwhelming forces in that ambush and walked away."
Devon raised an eyebrow, his tone skeptical. "Oh, really?"
"Yes!" Werba said, his eyes wide with conviction. "The Dark Orcs grow stronger with killing intent under the cover of night.
Even Tandor's greatest knights struggled to subdue them during their last assault."
Devon leaned back, crossing his arms. "So you're saying these creatures attacked me during the expedition?"
"Precisely," Werba replied, nodding vigorously. "There were reports of strangers in the hills, sending bolts of fire. Is that not correct?"
Devon's brow furrowed as he recalled the chaos of that night—the searing heat, the screams, the acrid smell of smoke. "There were fiery arrows, if I remember right."
Werba shook his head, his expression grave. "Not arrows, young lord. These beasts spew fire and acidic substances from their mouths, capable of melting stone."
Devon blinked, processing the words. "And you're saying I survived all that?"
"Yes!" Werba exclaimed, his voice rising with fervor. "That's why I sought you out. I need your help to liberate Tandor before this plague spreads further."
The wagon hit a particularly rough patch of road, jolting them both. Devon's lips twitched, and then, unable to hold it in, he burst into laughter.
Tears streamed down his face as he clutched his sides, the absurdity of the situation overwhelming him. "Thank you, Councilman," he gasped between chuckles. "I haven't laughed this hard in ages."
Werba blinked, clearly puzzled, but before he could respond, the guard at the front of the wagon called out, "We've arrived!"
At that moment, a faint chime sounded in Devon's mind, accompanied by a translucent display that flickered before his eyes like a ghostly heads-up display.
[Phase 1 of quest complete.]
[Phase 2: Find Chief Tanister]
Devon's laughter faded, his face shifting into a slight frown as the weight of the message settled over him.