The quartet navigates the street with a tension that clings to them in this night fog. The cobbled pathways open towards the heart of the city, a central plaza that houses a colossal statue that dominates its core. It is a tribute of stone to the greatest hero Valkyria had ever known, a sentinel that watches over the city.
Owen, Astrid, and Gareth make for the nearest shelter, the façade of a bakery. Its windows, supply a vantage point that affords them a view of the square while keeping them hidden. They crouch behind overturned tables and scattered chairs. Owen lays beside him spears he took from the streets. Astrid and Gareth place along their tables quivers they took, along with their bows, from the fallen in the streets.
Gabriel advances alone to stand amid the plaza. Every step echo in the quiet, making his presence well known. He stops beneath the gaze of the stone hero, looking up at the figure that towers him. He listens intently, searching for the beast movements but hears nothing.
He tilts his head upwards, addressing the effigy in a whisper that was little more than a breath, “If only you still walked among us, you'd slay that beast in an instant. You, who felled the giants that once roamed these lands before men conquered them... How would I've love meeting a giant…” His voice trails off.
Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Gabriel draws a deep breath, steeling himself. Then, in a voice higher than his already youthful voice, he calls out, "Hello!? Is anyone here?! I'm lost!" his call echoes in the streets and on the stone facades around him.
In the stillness that follows Gabriel's call, an oppressive silence descends over the plaza. It was as if the very air had grown denser, the shadows deepening. Listening, Gabriel hears the ruffle of fur on stone, and as he glances towards the noise, he sees a shadow perched above a building.
Its eyes find Gabriel, yet it stays calm, moving carefully along the edge, gauging its prey. Gabriel's heart pounds in his chest, a rapid drumbeat that covers the beast's sounds. Hiding that he knows it's here Gabriel realizes, the beast may understand that it’s a trap.
The beast shifts, and a soft clatter of debris slides down, echoing in the plaza. Gabriel turns towards the beast, locking eyes with it and recoils. He fakes a fall to the ground, moving backwards until he has his back to the base of the statue.
The creature descends, the sinewy mass of its body contracting and expanding as it scales down the stonework. Its matted, dark green fur bristling with filth. The fur is long, unkept, and tangled with the refuse of its meals. Patches of skin show through, dark and leathery, slashed by festering wounds.
Its face is a nightmarish visage, a giant rat-like countenance with an external skull that hide raw flesh below, encapsulating pale-yellow eyes. Its jaws, lined with sharp, uneven, yellowed teeth, gap open in a silent snarl.
As it nears, the stench that heralds its presence reach Gabriel, a miasma of decay that crawls to the back of his throat. The smell of death and rot, of illness that clings to the beast like an aura.
It lands on the ground with a soft thud. Its every movement release burst of its horrendous stench. The beast's eyes, glinting with intelligence, never leave Gabriel as it advances. Gabriel's hand reach for his sword, his fingers closing around the hilt, falsely shaking, or so he convinces himself as his heart pounds louder.
The creature halts, a grotesque tilt of its skull-like head showing a sudden, malignant curiosity towards the bakery's shadowed facade. Gabriel, his heart skipping a beat, contorts his features into an expression of fear. His eyes glisten, his highly pitched voice now carrying tremors, he begs, "No, not me, please…". His plea pulls the monster's attention back to him, its predatory gaze locking onto the quivering form as it creeps closer, ever silent.
It looms over Gabriel, lowers its grotesque head, ready to spring and snap his prey's neck. Owen grips on a spear, almost shattering its shaft. Owen's muscles coil, his whole body arching to funnel his strength into the throw.
The spear pierces through the mist with a whistle. It embeds deeply into the beast's malformed knee. A hideous roar shatters the silence, the beast recoils, its movement erratic.
Gabriel, exploiting the creature's momentary distraction, springs into action. He sweeps his blade in a wide arc, aiming for the gnarled limbs that support the behemoth's mass. His sword bites into the sinew and bone with a sickening crunch before he pivots, darting towards his comrades. Arrows whistle through the damp air, burying themselves in the thick, putrid fur of the beast, and Owen surges forth, his blade in hands.
The monstrosity whirls, a blur of decay and fury, lashing out at Gabriel with claws that could rend stone. Gabriel throws himself to the cobblestones, feeling the rush of air as deadly talons swipe just above him. Owen's sword carves a vicious path through the matted fur, leaving a trail of dark blood that seeps into the cracks of the street.
Scrambling to his feet, Gabriel hurls his sword at an incoming attack, severing two of the creature's grotesque digits. They fall to the ground with a wet thud, even as the beast recoils with a roar that pierces their mind.
The beast, maddened by pain, thrashes with abandon. It swings its massive head, trying to catch Owen in its jaws, but he's moving too fast for the creature. Arrows pierces his flesh just under the neck, making him vomit blood through its teeth.
The clamor of oncoming soldiers appears, as a wave of enraged militiamen spills from the alleyways. Gabriel springs towards the first of them, his eyes swiftly catching Gareth's standoff with his former brethren across the square.
Owen stands alone before the faltering monstrosity. It stumbles, hissing venomously, snapping at the air in blind fury. Owen lunges, his sword poised to strike down its gaping maw, but the creature’s bite is swift, clamping down on the metal. Releasing his sword, Owen strikes the beast’s fractured jaw with brute force, shattering it completely. He wrenches the spear from its impaled knee, snapping the wood and, with frenzied thrusts, drives the jagged spear's remnants into the creature's flesh.
The beast's grip on the blade loosens, and the sword clatters to the cobblestones. The creature sways and topples, each breath a labored gasp. A soldier barrels towards Owen, but he retrieves his sword with deft precision and drives it through the attacker's chainmail. A movement behind him makes Owen whirl around, just in time to see the beast stagger and bolt, its wounded leg trailing grotesquely behind.
Gabriel faces three soldiers, each trying to claw and bite him with their bare hands and teeth. One lunges, hands reaching for Gabriel's throat. After a sidestep he tackles him, making him fall face to the ground, and finishes him with a quick blow to the neck.
The second soldier comes at him with his teeth. Gabriel blade act as a spear and the soldier impales himself through the throat. Gabriel sword is snatched from his grasp by the falling body, leaving him unarmed.
The final adversary grasps Gabriel's shirt, pulling him down. Gabriel sight turns red, gifting him immense strength. He rotates, slipping behind the soldier. Fingers entwined in the man's hair, Gabriel smashes the soldier's face into the stone ground with a force that turns bone to dust, flesh to pulp.
Gabriel lingers over the vanquished soldier, his hand still gripping what's left of his head. Primal urges flare with every heartbeat, veiling his vision in a crimson haze. Yet, a warmth appears against his chest, it beacons him to reality, forcing him to hear the fights in which the others are still engaged. Slowly, Gabriel rises, the chaos within him subsiding with every breath.
Regrouping as they finish off the remaining victims of the creature, the quartet exchanges glances. Owen surveys the darkened path, slick with the monster’s ichor, and says, "We track it to its lair."
Gabriel, with a glance at the ominous trail, responds, "But its den will be laden with corpses emanating a miasma that will get us. We should burn it from outside."
Astrid eyes flick to Gareth, askings, "Do you have whale oil stored somewhere?"
"… Yes, we do. We have some for the city's lights stored at the garrison," Gareth answers, his gaze on the fallen soldiers.
Gabriel repeats the same sentence in both languages, "Then we go to the garrison, get a few barrels and burn its lair."
The quartet navigates silently through the city with a hushed urgency. Gareth leads them, guiding them through the alleys, away from the soldiers wandering the streets. The four of them share no word, only glances to warn each other and communicate directions.
Finally, they emerge from the confines of the constricted alleys into an expansive cobblestone quay, stretching along the port with ten protruding piers. The tang of salt and the briny scent of seaweed mingle with the stench of fish, a veil that conceals all other odors.
Dominating the quay's landscape is a formidable, towering structure of stone, a square fortress equipped with menacing ballistae, their bolts aimed towards the horizon. A gaping hole compromised the fortress's integrity on the seaside. Drawing closer they realize the perimeter is encircled by the fallen forms of Valkyrian soldiers, their bodies riddled with arrows.
The whistle of an incoming arrow slices through the tense air, the sound abruptly halted by the metallic rasp of the projectile skimming Owen's pauldron. With urgency, Gabriel's yells, "We are not contaminated!"
An uneasy hush descends, hanging heavily until a man's voice, filtering through the garrison's narrow arrow slits, orders "Approach, but keep your hands where we can see them."
Gabriel's lifts his arms, Astrid and Gareth's hands follow suit, their movements deliberately slow. Owen exhales an exasperated sigh, his posture slackening into compliance as he mimics the gesture.
They walk forward, their steps cautious as they navigate toward the gaping maw of the garrison's breached wall. Greeted by fortifications cobbled together from crates, overturned tables, and scattered chairs. Bodies lay on the side of the broken wall, killed in close combat, their eyes still bloodshot.
The same voice projects from the anonymity of the barricade, tinted now with a flicker of recognition. "Gareth?" it asks. Gareth steps closer, lowering his hands, "Yes sergeant. And these are adventurers who just bested the creature that turned the others."
"It's still alive, we came here to take barrels of whale oil and set its lair ablaze," Gabriel continues, lowering his hands as well.
The man, wearing a plate armor decorated with one silver stripe on his chest and shoulder, walks up to them. He stares down each of them, and says, "The oil reserves are in the cellar, but we trapped a bunch of them in there." He points at a descending stone stair on the room's edge.
Gabriel gazes at the soldiers behind the barricades, they are exhausted and wounded. Their blades are blunt, damaged by their long fight. From behind them he hears cries coming from young children, and moans of pains. Approaching Owen he whispers, "They trapped infected in the cellar, where their oil is stored."
Owen strides towards the staircase, it's tight, ending in a stout wooden door that's been barricaded with a chair. Gabriel queries, "Can you describe the cellar's layout?"
The sergeant looks back and forth at Gabriel and Owen, and voices, "You are not seriously thinking of going down? Beyond this door is a narrow alley of shelfs where you can't move, you'll get overrun, trampled, eaten!"
Gabriel turns to Owen. "It's a tight corridor beyond the door," he relays. Owen approaches a spearman, his hand outstretched in silent demand. Gabriel elaborates for the bewildered guard, "He needs your spear."
Under Owen's imposing shadow, the spearman's hands shake as he relinquishes his weapon. With the spear now in hand, Owen casts a glance at his kin and descends the stairs, ordering, "Stay here. I won't be long."
The sergeant's eyes, sharp and probing, fix on Gabriel. "Are you lot with the Stormbringer's mercenaries?"
Gabriel's mind races. Shouldn't their presence remain unknown? Could their identities be written in some report, leading to unintended consequences? "We've crossed paths with them, but we're merely adventurers from the north of the Isles," he says carefully. "He," Gabriel nods towards the stairs, "is a Nord and understands only their language."
The sergeant's eyes narrow, mulling over the response, then he inquires, "How old are you?"
"Both sixteen." Astrid interjects quickly.
The sergeant appraises them with a critical eye. "You seem younger. Where are you from? Alderveil, Eldruna, Isenford, Falcrest, Vale, Svalreach?"
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Gabriel sees the trap in the sergeant's question, the last name thrown out like bait. With a forced chuckle, he answers, "Vale and Falcrest? They’re not in the north. We hail from Nornshire, grew up in Alderwood. Before—"
"I'm sorry, kid," a voice interrupts, tinged with genuine remorse.
The sergeant swivels to the soldier who had spoken, his expression inquiring, "Why?"
"Alderwood's gone," the soldier states solemnly. "Burnt to nothing, its people offered to the Woodborn by crazed cultists."
Gabriel's fingers brush across his eyes, mimicking the flash of emotion that the soldier's words should have evoked. In the heavy silence that follows, the sergeant's gaze lingers on him, filled with a newly kindled sympathy.
The moment stretches on, until the stillness is shattered by the cacophony of combat below. The clamor of armor clashing, and the heavy thuds of bodies colliding with the wooden crates and shelves. The soldier attention snaps to the staircase.
Then heavy footsteps approach from the breach in the fortress wall, drawing the eyes of all within. Into the dim light of the garrison steps a figure of imposing stature, clad in linen garments. A wide mantle of the deepest lapis lazuli flutters in the wind. His broad hat, perched atop an ochre, bald, and deeply lined head, casts a shadow over his features.
He stands taller than anyone present, a giant that might rival even Uther in height. Each breath he takes is that of a wild creature, the vapor rolling out in clouds that momentarily obscure his fierce, bloodshot gaze. In his right hand, he grips the haft of a massive two-handed axe, one head a blade, the opposite a brutal spike.
A voice rings out from an adjoining chamber, "Captain! You—" The words truncate abruptly as the speaker appears, beholding the sight of his leader. His voice falters into silence.
The sergeant, his voice a low murmur of dread, mutters, "I prayed he would stay on his boat." He commands, "In formation." His soldiers, spearmen, align themselves into a disciplined row. They form a barrier of sharpened points, cutting off all paths save for the way the captain came.
"Away, … go away," the figure growls, his voice a guttural echo that resonates with a sickening timbre. His words, tinged with an unnatural rasp, sow a seed of hesitation among the soldiers. Their formation falters as he trudges forward, his presence pressing upon them.
Off to the side, Gabriel observes him. There's a semblance of control about him that the others lack, he has no foam at the mouth, and his stance retains the dignity of a man, not the frenzy of the afflicted. In a hushed tone, barely audible, he whispers to Astrid, "Half-ogres have a formidable resilience to sickness. It's possible he's fighting off the infection."
"That's what he is. … But it won't matter if he gets killed though," Astrid says.
The sergeant's commands to advance is lost beneath the half-ogre captain's earth-shaking roar, a sound so primal it grips the very souls of those present. Gabriel feels his knees weaken, his vision tunneling into darkness. Around him, soldiers stumble and fall, one unfortunate soul meeting his end on the deadly spike of the half-ogre's axe.
Chaos reigns in the room as the soldiers retreat, their discipline shattered. A lone soldier, braver than others, lunges with his spear only for it to skid off his target's hide.
On her knees, Astrid frantically grabs vials, coating her daggers with their content. The half-ogre's second attack aims for a retreating soldier, but Gabriel intervenes, tackling the man aside in a bid to save him. He slides towards the captain's towering form and rises to slice at the beast's thigh, earning his attention.
The chase spills out onto the quay, the vast open space offering no cover, only fishing boats bobbing in the water. An axe swing from the captain sends a shower of cobblestone shards into the air, and he lumbers after Gabriel with heavy, unsteady steps.
Gabriel ducks and weaves, luring the half-ogre towards one of the boats. His plan unfolds as he leaps aboard, the vessel dips under their combined weight, rocking violently. Gabriel had hoped the motion would unseat the massive creature, but the captain adjusts, instinctively moving in rhythm with the boat.
The half-ogre swings again, and this time Gabriel's defense falters under the weight of the blow. The sharp pain in his shoulder and arm makes him backoff. When the axe buries itself into the deck, Astrid strikes, her daggers sinking into the captain's flesh. She clings to the hilt embedded in his back, dodging, and striking with her other blade.
As the half-ogre's attention draws on Astrid, Gabriel seizes his chance. He snatches up the mooring rope and wraps it around the captain's legs. Each loop hampers the creature's movement more, his breaths growing ragged and strained.
Gabriel anchors himself behind the mast, pulling with all his might. The ropes constrict, entangling the half-ogre's legs until a final pull topples him backward. Gabriel works quickly, winding the rope around the mast and the captain's arms, binding him. Astrid joins him, her rope lashing lower, entwining the half-ogre's body until he's ensnared in a cocoon of cordage, his roars of fury diminishing to grunts of exertion.
Gabriel, wrenching his axe free from the captain's weakened grip, strides back to the garrison, with Astrid at his heels. Over the sound of their hurried footsteps, she voices her concern, "Your arm, we need to care of that wound?"
"It's nothing," Gabriel dismisses, his tone denying the pain.
They step through the breach in the fortress wall, their arrival met with a heavy silence. The soldiers gathered there watch them with wide eyes, their faces etched with shock.
The heavy door to the cellar creaks open once more, and Owen emerges, his armor a canvas of blood streaks. Catching sight of his siblings, he asks, "What happened?!"
Gabriel meets his brother's gaze, "We dealt with the ship's captain. Stopped him from killing everyone and secured him to a fishing boat. Hopefully, he'll come through this rage."
A soldier, his face etched with trepidation, descends the shadow-clad stairs to the cellar. The door creaks open, unleashing a palpable wave of dread. Moments later, he reemerges, his complexion ashen, bile rising in his throat until he retches it onto the cold stone floor.
The cellar door hangs ajar, revealing a grotesque tableau. Twisted corpses lay strewn across the blood-soaked corridor. Their armors are warped and torn asunder, pierced by both blades and fists. The air, thick with a coppery tang and acrid stench sips into the garrison.
Owen gives back the spear to its owner, blunt, dented, and slightly bent. Turning to Gabriel he says, "There's like twenty or thirty barrels, could you get some of them to help carry some?"
Gabriel turns to face the soldiers, their faces still shocked. "We need volunteers," he starts, his voice firm. "We sent the beast back to its lair, and we want to burn it there. We need arms to carry barrels of oils. It's our best chance to ensure it doesn't kill anyone else."
The sergeant says, "I have to stay here, to keep the civilians safe. But I will lend you Gareth and each of those here who want to follow you." Gareth and six others quickly gather around Gabriel and Astrid, including the one Gabriel saved. "Good luck, I hope we'll see each other again," the sergeant adds.
The group retraces their steps, weaving through the streets back to the plaza. Owen takes the lead, with Gabriel watching the rear. At the plaza the ground is still scarred with the beast dark blood, a vile ichor that leads them to a cemetery. The place, built away from the city, recks of death and decay. The trail passes through the large, broken gate of a crypt.
Pausing at the threshold of the desecrated tomb, they are overwhelmed by the cocktail of putrid stenches that sears their lungs and stomach. Somewhere in the depths below, they can hear the not so distant, pained screeches of the beast.
One by one, they roll barrels to the stairs' edge. Most of the barrels are upended, their content gushing forth to pool in the darkness below. They work in silence, save for the soft slosh of oil and heavy breathing.
When only a few barrels are left they toss them along the empty ones into the abyss. The screeches from below grow in intensity, a cacophony of rage and pain that comes for them.
Owen lights a torch, and with a swing of his arm, launches it into the oil-soaked pit. A roar of fire erupts from the hole, the force of the explosion cracking the crypt's exterior. The heat is intense, blistering, turning the crypt into a fiery cauldron. The stone walls turn black, covered in smoke.
They step back, shielding their faces from the unbearable heat, their eyes reflecting the blazing inferno. Yet, Owen and Gabriel stare at the horizon, each toward different directions. Owen asks, "You see something?"
"No yet." Gabriel answers, looking for any pile of smoke that would indicates another entrance.
Time drags on, marked only by the gradual subsiding of the flames. Eventually, the fire dies down, leaving behind a silence punctuated by the subdued crackle of cooling stone. And long minutes after, the smoke finally clears out.
With a new torch flickering in his hand, Owen walks down the stone steps, cautiously stepping into the tomb’s charred remains. Gabriel follows closely, the light of the torch casting elongated shadows that dance upon the walls of a large, communal tomb.
Sealed sarcophagi dot the place, their surfaces blackened by the fire, standing amidst piles of ash and bone. Each mound is the remnants of a victim, mixing ash and bones.
Owen halts before one pile, his attention caught by a charred skull nestled atop a ribcage. Its shape is grotesquely distorted, reminiscent of a rat, but swollen to the size of a large hound.
"It had offspring," Owen murmurs, his voice hinting with relief. "We've done a good thing here today. Stopping them now, before they could infest other cities."
Gabriel's thinks of a jest to mock his brother, but his thoughts are halted by a loud, sick, cough. A shadow uncoils in the depth of the tomb, larger in size than the beast they faced. It screeches with enough strength to shake the walls and charges forward.
The crypts exterior bursts apart as the creature shatters it in its path. Owen is held between the creature jaws, wide enough to ensnare his chest.
The soldiers, witnessing the abomination that towered before them, fell a visceral fear clawing at them. The creature that emerged from the shadows is a monstrosity beyond their darkest fears, a behemoth whose burned fur still holds the charred corpses of its victims.
Owen strikes with his gauntlet, each blow chipping away at the beast's skull, fragments flying with every hit. The creature snaps its monstrous jaws in fury, only to miss as Owen rolls away. It lashes out wildly, catching a soldier's head instead, his body running a last step before collapsing to the ground.
Owen readies a strike at the beast front leg but staggers. His hand clutches his chest where crimson blood slips through the joints of his armor, his breaths becoming ragged gasps of pain.
Where the beast laid unconscious Gabriel sees the remains of the one they fought. He runs back up the stair to see the beast trampling a soldier. They scatter in panic, unable to regroup, while Astrid's arrows fall harmlessly off the creature's thick hide.
The beast, eyeing Gabriel, lunges with a primal ferocity that shakes the earth. But its maw crashes into the ground, thwarted by Owen's desperate grip on its tail. His boots dug into an ancient tombstone that cracks under the strain.
Spinning to confront his foe, Owen meets the beast's gaze, his own eyes now a terrifying display of savagery. He slips beneath its guard, his sword slicing a devastating wound across its underbelly, spilling forth a vile black ichor that seeps into the dirt.
As the creature rolls in agony, Owen seizes a fallen soldier's spear and with the strength of a ballista, drives it deep into its shoulder. The beast, in its death throes, charges towards him, gaping jaws ready to snap him in half.
In a moment that seems suspended in time, Gareth flings his spear towards Owen's feet. Owen catches it in reflex and charges forward. With a wild cry, he thrusts the spear through the creature's open maw, sliding beneath its collapsing form.
The beast lies motionless, the spear protruding from the back of its skull. Owen stays on the ground, unmoving, his breaths labored. Gabriel joins him, stripping him of his helmet. Dark creases appeared along his neck, growing towards his head. Fumbling in Owen satchels with trembling hands, Gabriel pours the contents of the cure-all potion down Owen's throat, following it with his own healing potion,
In the charged silence, Gabriel remains by Owen's side, eyes locked on his brother's face for any sign of recovery. Owen's voice, raspy but resolute, breaks the quiet. "If this is it, make sure I get my tattoo for slaying this monstrosity. I'll not face the others without proof of my victory."
Gabriel's response is swift, his voice cracking with emotion, "You'll get it yourself, and there'll be many more to come."
Suddenly, a foreboding rumble emanates from the depths of the crypt. The smaller beast, its fur charred, blood and smoke billowing from its maw, limps into the night. Fixated on the brothers, it charges with the last of its strength. The air vainly fills with arrows and spears as it bites Gabriel.
Its body lifts in the air as Gabriel holds what's left of his jaws apart, acting as a lever. With a violent spin that sends himself flying Gabriel twists, the sickening snap of the beast's neck reverberating in the cemetery.
The lifeless form of the creature crashes to the ground, and Gabriel stumbles back, clutching his chest. Darkness creeps into the edges of his vision, the world slipping away from him.
But a hand, firm and warm, rests on his shoulder, anchoring him to the present. Owen's voice, clearer now, cuts through the encroaching shadow, "Hey, you all right?"
Gabriel's vision clears to reveal Owen kneeling behind him, the ominous black lines of infection retreating from his skin. With a sob of relief, Gabriel embraces his brother. "Thank Edonna, you're healed," he weeps.
Owen's chuckle is warm and grounding. "No, thank you. The gods had nothing to do with me surviving that. But you, you sent that thing flying. That was all you."
A hush settles over the battlefield as Astrid makes her way to the brothers' side. Around them, the soldiers tend to the wounded and the fallen, their movements slowed by fatigue. Owen eases himself onto the ground, a gesture mirrored by Gabriel. They lie there, side by side, as the aches of their exertion and the adrenaline of the fight begin to ebb away, leaving a deep-seated pain in every joint and muscle. The cool ground beneath them serves as a small comfort to their bruised bodies, and for a moment, all they can do is breathe.
With the first light of dawn casting a pale glow over the city, the trio makes their way back to the quay. News of their triumph over the monstrous scourge has already begun to filter through the streets. Soldiers, previously hunkered down, now emerge, rallying to round up or kill the remaining afflicted.
As they progress, the atmosphere in the city shifts. Merchants and townsfolk, previously shuttered away in fear, now emerge, offering tokens of gratitude. They approach Owen with offers of food and gold, a thanks in a language he understands. Meanwhile, Gabriel and Astrid linger slightly behind, purposefully keeping a lower profile to avoid drawing too much attention.
Upon reaching the quay, they see the ship's crew aiding their captain, who has been untied and is now making his way toward his vessel. Noticing the trio, the half-ogre pauses and directs his gaze at them. "I gather you're the pair of, commodities, in need of passage across the bay. My thanks for preventing further bloodshed," he articulates with an unexpected grace.
Owen extends a hand, passing a rolled parchment and a weighty pouch of coins to the captain. "We plan to set sail shortly, so finish any final farewells and come aboard," instructs the captain as he strides towards his ship.
Gabriel's gaze lingers on Owen. "So, I guess this is farewell," he murmurs, his voice carrying the weight of the moment.
Owen crouches down to be eye-level with Gabriel and Astrid, his expression softening. "This isn't goodbye, just a see you later. We'll reunite in Stormwatch. Until that day, I wish you both the best of luck. Stay safe," he imparts, his words a blend of command and care.
Astrid's voice is firm, yet her eyes betray her emotions. "We love you. Take care of yourself brother," she replies, managing a smile.
Owen stands, a wry smile touching his lips. "At last, I'm free of you two," he quips, his attempt at humor veiling his own reluctance to leave. "Now, to find the nearest inn and sleep for days." With a final nod, he turns away, his imposing silhouette gradually blending with the morning light.
With measured steps, Gabriel and Astrid head towards the ship. The captain, a towering figure, strides over to them, his presence commanding. "In your quarters, you'll find attire from Vale. Stay clear of the deck unless you've got sailing skills. Understood?" he states with an authoritative tone.
Both Gabriel and Astrid nod, their voices synchronizing as they respond, "Understood, captain." Their reply echoes with a mix of respect and compliance.
The ship begins to sway gently, signaling its departure. Gabriel and Astrid, settled in their cabin, catch glimpses of the shoreline receding through the small portholes. The land drifts away, and with it, the certainty of return, as they embark upon a voyage that may well be a one-way journey.