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CHAPTER III:

The Arrow of the Veyná

17, Flamestar 1011,

The Age of Night

34 Days until the Night of the Moon

The Great Drümmargian Wood

In the fringes of the dense forest, the towering trees swayed subtly, their leafy canopies whispering secrets to one another. A chorus of hoots and howls from the forest's hunters filled the air, as the denizens of the wood pursued their prey. A tangled web of creepers and vines blanketed the forest floor, intertwining with downed logs and moss-covered rocks, while clusters of mushrooms sprouted in the damp shadows.

The deceptive serenity of the woods was shattered in an instant as the sound of a charge let out somehwere in the distance. Clashing steel and battle cries faintly echoed through the trees. Fioran legionnaires, clad in their gleaming armor, entered into the fray against the fierce and agile Drümmargians, their war paint and tribal garbs a stark contrast to the regimented uniforms of their adversaries. Their once tranquil forest was transformed into a battlefield, where the forces of the Fioran Empire and those vestiges of the former age of The Northern League collided; In a brutal struggle for supremacy.

Just beyond the Drümmargian, or Drü line, a figure, cloaked in shadows, stalked the perimeter of a small grove. A hunter, blended seamlessly into the foliage at the edge of the battlefield. His movements were deliberate and measured. A predator, stalking its prey. Leaves rustled softly underfoot as he positioned himself, his gaze never wavering from the grove that unfolded before him. He seemed to completely fade out of view, like a jungle cat, concealing himself in the leaves. As he did, the Drü archers drew their bows, ever so-silently, taking their position behind trees as a Fioran regiment wandered into the grove, seeking rest.

A high-ranking Venganzi officer stood over his legions, showcasing his race’s superior height. Though his expression remained stoic and unfazed, his soldiers bore the weight of the raging battle, their faces etched with stress and tension. They stopped to drink a bit of water when suddenly, the sound of whistling arrows filled the air. It was like a hard hail cutting through the stillness of the grove. The drinking Fioran legionnaires fell to the ground with arrows lodged in the chest, lifeblood spilling out onto the forest floor. The Venganzi officer's eyes narrowed in response, and he quickly ordered his soldiers to form a defensive circle, shields at the ready, as more arrows rained down from the surrounding trees.

"SHIELD! WALL!" bellowed a captain, his voice cutting through the din. Instantly, the cacophony of clashing iron and wood filled the air as the legionnaires formed a protective bulwark of shields, staving off the barrage of projectiles that rained down from the forest's depths. Those who failed to fall into formation suffered the consequences; arrows pierced the unguarded, while tomahawks and hatchets brutally cracked skulls, striking terror into the hearts of the most inexperienced soldiers. The officer, uncharacteristically unsettled, was visibly unnerved.

The Drü archers had yet again launched a surprise attack, as they were known for; catching the Fioran regiments off-guard. Chaos erupted as the Imperials scrambled to defend themselves, their armor clanging and swords ringing out against the forest floor. The hunter at the edge of the battlefield watched with an unchanging expression, tracking the arrows flying true and finding their targets.

As the battle raged on, the Venganzi officer knew that they were fighting a losing battle. His legions were outnumbered and outmatched… and the Drü continued to rain arrows down upon them.

"Quickly!" he cried out. "Bring forth the falconet!" Responding to his command, a team of three legionnaires dragged a menacing, steel-crafted weapon on wheels from the back through the front of the shield wall. They deftly opened a compartment to make room for it’s barrel, pouring a velvet pouch of mystical powder into the chamber. The Venganzi officer, his sword drawn, gestured toward the trees with urgency. "Fire! Just fire!"

In a heartbeat, a brilliant red flash erupted from the falconet's barrel, accompanied by a searing jet of flame that hurtled toward the treeline. As the fireball tore through the trees, a deafening explosion resounded through the battlefield.

Bits of debris and blackened bodies soared through the air as the explosion's shockwave reverberated through the forest. Amidst the chaos, the native warriors scrambled to rescue their injured comrades. They were a sight to behold: their bodies adorned with vibrant animal furs and a kaleidoscope of paint, etched with cryptic symbols and writings. Their eclectic armor was an amalgamation of styles from across the world, it told a story of global influence. Rajhi motifs blended with thick Ishran quilts for warmth and elaborate Arlian textiles and threads, while some even donned repurposed Fioran legionnaire equipment; albeit older models. The warriors brandished an arsenal of battle axes, hatchets, and their most formidable weapon—the bow and arrow. Crafted from elder wood and etched with enigmatic runes, their bows were the embodiment of ancient power. They were among the most marvelous warriors of Etria, but that didn’t matter now; Many of them were now blackened, with the disgusting smell of burnt hair and flesh filling the air.

Though they typically favored stealth and the element of surprise, the current stage of the battle called for a more overt approach. The Drü warriors charged into the fray, drawing their axes, lances, maces, and swords; their battle cries and guttural yelps filled the air. It was a cacophonous symphony that announced their unrelenting spirit and fierce determination.

For a thousand years, the peoples of Drümmarg were elusive and enigmatic. Despite their insularity, they were avid traders from their singular trading port of Baersk. There, they exported leathers, gemstones, and other equipment both for agriculture and war, but mostly they kept to themselves. By far, some of the most valuable items in the world were a Drü Bow and an Drü Arrow. Arborest, the capital, lay hidden deep within the heart of the Drümmargian Wood, its location confounding even the most experienced travelers; it was notoriously difficult to reach. The winding path leading to the city after following the crownroads north would seemingly vanish after several miles, giving rise to a unique industry: pathfinding.

Drü pathfinders could often be found frequenting inns, pubs, and taverns across the Northern League. These skilled guides could be hired to lead clients through the most treacherous and impenetrable terrains around the world, but their services were in highest demand among merchants seeking passage to Arborest, or dignitaries hoping to attend the enigmatic Drümmargian court. The pathfinders served as the vital link between the secluded city and the outside world, their knowledge and skills bridging the gap between the inscrutable Drümmargian people and their curious neighbors. Their prices inflated massively, as many of them returned home to defend Drümmargfrom the insolent Fioran betrayal; their damned invasion, loosed from the pits of Umbraneth itself.

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With a thunderous roar, another fireball burst forth from the falconet's barrel, slamming into a nearby cluster of trees and spewing ash and embers into the already polluted air. A rare look of satisfaction crossed the Venganzi officer's face as his troops regrouped, forming a more robust and impenetrable formation. The rain of arrows and tomahawks gradually subsided, and the legionnaires seized the opportunity to advance.

As they marched forward, the soldiers trampled over fallen bodies, their heavy boots began crushing the lifeless forms beneath them. For those unfortunate enough to still cling to life, swift and merciless sword thrusts from the legionnaires ensured that their suffering would not endure beyond the opening salvo of the brutal conflict. The Fioran legion, emboldened by their officer's leadership, pressed onward into the heart of the battle.

The figure's hands moved with expertise, effortlessly drawing back the bowstring until his fingertips grazed his mask. Softly murmuring an ancient incantation, he imbued the arrow with a captivating, magical aura that pulsed in rhythm with his words. As he steadied his breath and steeled his nerves, his aim was unerring and deadly.

The arrow itself was a work of art, crafted from white yew and adorned with intricate gold carvings and accents. Lacking a traditional metallic arrowhead, its tip had been masterfully whittled down to a razor-sharp point. To the eye, considering the environment, one would think it was simply another Drümmargian arrow… but even to Drü eyes… it would appear odd. Poised and ready, the skilled archer prepared to unleash the enchanted arrow upon its unsuspecting target.

The officer, oblivious to the looming threat, continued to shout orders to his soldiers, rallying them to surge forward in the heat of battle. The white arrow soared through the air, a streak of shimmering energy that sliced through the tumultuous scene, its path unwavering. Unaware of the impending danger, the officer persisted in barking orders to his troops, spurring them to press forward amidst the chaos of battle.

In a split second, the enchanted arrow struck its target, and the Venganzi's body shuddered. His eyes widened, and he shrieked a low-pitched cry which raised in pitch and then tapered off. In an instant, it burst into a red cloud which then gave to seeping, black particulate matter, falling to the ground like powder snow or volcanic ash.

The once-bold legionnaires, their morale shattered by the officer's sudden and inexplicable demise, faltered in their advance. Confusion and fear spread through their ranks like wildfire, and their once-disciplined formation began to crumble. No lyban of either belligerents had never seen a Venganzi fall in battle; or at all. As the Drü forces pressed their advantage, the Fiorans found themselves overwhelmed, their resolve wavering.

With growing desperation, the legionnaires cast furtive glances at one another, a silent consensus forming among them. As if on cue, they began to retreat, their steps hesitant at first, then growing more frantic. The legions scrambled back through the treacherous flaming wood, their armor clanking and position abandoned, as they sought to escape the resurgent onslaught.

Indeed, shortly after, the haunting sounds of the warriors' battle cries filled the air. It drove the legionnaires further into disarray. In a disheveled mass, they fled the battlefield, leaving behind their swords, shields, and javelins — and most importantly, their fallen.

As the last embers of the fire hissed and died under the gentle caress of the evening rain, the hunter moved cautiously through the charred remains of the battlefield. The scent of burnt wood and damp earth filled the air, a stark contrast to the putrid smell of death that had poisoned the area just hours before. The memory of the battle was as if the shouts and thrusts of steel were still reverberating.

His boots crunched softly on the scorched earth, each step a testament to the precision and skill that had brought him to this moment. All of Etria seemed to hold its breath, the very air charged with tension as the hunter drew ever closer to the spot where the Venganzi officer had fallen. He could feel the weight of countless eyes upon him, the spirits of the slain watching his every move, eager to see if he would succeed in his quest.

With each step, the hunter's senses sharpened, attuned to the faintest whisper of movement or the merest glint of white yew amidst the wreckage. The rain drummed a steady rhythm against his skin, a counterpoint to the pounding of his heart as he neared his goal. He knew that time was not on his side, that every moment he spent searching for his arrow increased the risk of discovery by the enemy.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the hunter's keen eyes spotted the telltale glimmer of his prize, half-buried beneath a pile of smoldering debris. His fingers closed around the blackend, broken arrow, the familiar touch of the enchanted weapon was nigh-recognizable. He snapped what was left of it, which caused a faint magical vapor to eminate from it. The weapon had served him well, its magic helping to ensure his prey’s demise, but he could not afford to linger much longer.

The hunter cast one last glance around the desolate battlefield, his eyes lingering on the lifeless forms of the fallen. A somber almost reverberating, roaring silence hung over the scene, a mute testament to the horrors of war and the high price that had been paid on both sides. The hunter turned away, his steps quickening.

He stood tall and regal as he surveyed the bloodied grounds one last time, his imposing figure towering over the field. His slender build suggested a grace and athleticism that belied his considerable strength. He wore a cloak of pelts, its luxurious fur shimmering in the sunlight. It draped over his shoulders and cascaded down his back, lending him an air of wild, untamed energy.

But it was his mask that truly captured the attention of those who gazed upon him. A curious creation, it was fashioned from a blend of exotic metals, its intricate design suggesting a foreign origin. The mask bore the marks of a tribal culture from the North, its intricate patterns and symbols hinting at a rich and storied history. It had two horns like that of an ox, and only slits for eyes before the long and narrow face-guard began.

The hunter moved with a fluid grace, his movements almost feline in their agility. He carried himself with a confidence born of long experience, and his piercing glow of a gaze, visible only through the slits in his mask, seemed to survey the world with a deep and abiding understanding. Despite his formidable presence, the hunter seemed at ease in the natural world, as if he were a part of it. And clearly, his skill with a bow was masterful, and by slaying a Venganzi who were known for their wits… it was clear his ability to track prey through even the densest forest was unparalleled.

As he made his way through the battle-parched forest, a hushed voice called out to him. The hunter turned to see a Drü warrior, his bow at the ready, his gaze fixed on the towering figure.

"W-who are you?" the warrior demanded, his tone edged with suspicion. Drawing the string back further.

The hunter met the warrior's gaze, his expression calm and measured. “Rest, and do not be afraid,” he replied. "In the name of Yol, I saw an opportunity to strike, and I took it. That enemy will no longer do harm to you or your people."

The warrior eyed the hunter warily, then lowered his bow slightly. "You… look like… but… you… you are not of our wood!?" he observed. "Are you on our side? Or theirs!?"

The hunter stood, towering over him… it seemed as if he had a faint glow about him. He tilted his mask, showing only his mouth. He smiled. When he did so, it seemed as if there was a flash of light.

"No. But I have come.”

The warrior braced himself in the flash of light, When it subsided and his vision cleared, he scanned the area, searching for any sign of the enigmatic stranger. But the hunter had vanished, leaving no trace of his presence behind.

He too was gone.