Retrieve the stolen heirloom and return it to the rightful owners. Pay will be rendered upon its safe return.
Description of the item was given verbally to the contractor.
There were still some small slivers of sunlight breaking through the treetop canopy as Geren made his way through the forest. He could hear the boom of thunder that signaled the sun would soon be overtaken with storm clouds. Thankfully, he wasn’t yet very far into The Outlands, so it should just be a normal thunderstorm that was rolling in—not an essence storm like what happened in the deeper parts of the accursed lands.
The thieves he was tracking were amateurs, and he already had a good beat on their trail. It was actually somewhat fortuitous that a storm would be arriving soon. They were city thieves who were out of their comfort zone out here in the elements, and the storm would likely slow them down. Geren, however, could travel capably at regular speed regardless of the weather thanks to his years of mercenary work. Life as a mercenary had taken him all across the continent of Venterias, for better or worse.
He was born in Naj’rahn, a city located in the north of the Ismanna Desert, and spent his first nineteen years with the area as his stomping grounds. The last five of those years were as a member of the Tetrano Mercenary Company. He had signed up on his fourteenth birthday, the earliest age that they accepted new recruits. Though he had enjoyed working for Tetrano, he departed the desert to begin his adult life as an independent mercenary looking to find work elsewhere across the rest of the continent.
The next several years saw him take on jobs that sent him to places ranging from the cold north of Daienado to the dense, humid forests of Trausen to the southwest. He held a personal disdain for heavily-forested areas; there was a period of several weeks in his early twenties where he accompanied a nature-loving priest as protection on a silly journey to find a hidden shrine. The priest never found it of course. Likely because it didn’t exist, in Geren’s estimation. Now, any time he found himself journeying through a forest, the leaves crunching underfoot sounded less like leaves and more like that man’s mad ravings. Not the fault of the forests, granted, but Geren disliked them all the same.
Intimately familiar with both the Tragoe and Ulrorr mountain ranges, he held a great affection for the mountains that was a stark contrast to how he felt about forests. Many mercenaries would not take jobs that sent them to the mountains due to the increased risks involved with the unpredictable wildlife, wandering Gmaas tribes, and bandit activity—not to mention the generally unfriendly terrain itself. Geren took advantage of this, treating such jobs as low-hanging fruit from the tree of mercenary contracts he could easily pluck. It was a boon that helped him get his initial foothold starting out life as a solo mercenary after leaving the desert. Fittingly, it was a job in the Ulrorr Mountains that had later earned him the nickname Unbreakable Wolf that made him something of a folktale legend amongst Venterian citizenry. The tale was especially well-known in the country of Freleria, where he now operated his own mercenary company.
Geren had started the Last Stand Mercenaries two years ago, the name drawing inspiration from the feats that had earned him his moniker. Standing a couple inches over six feet and now twenty-eight years of age, he was in what he considered his physical prime. His muscular body, refined by the decade and a half of mercenary work, was a testament to that. It was for this reason that he still took on contracts himself to stay busy and keep his skills sharp. Life at a desk just wasn’t for him.
This particular job was supposed to be simple. A couple of local thieves stole an heirloom from a wealthy family in Davied and were caught trying to sell it in the underground market. They fled the city, heading west for the Ulrorr Mountains.
He had caught up with the pair yesterday, but a Gralbear attack interrupted their discussion on whether the item was going to be returned peacefully or taken by force. Geren fought the beast while the thieves made use of the distraction to escape. Slightly bigger than typical bears, Gralbears also bore two tusk-like horns vertically parallel to one another on their foreheads, as well as several other small spikes protruding along their backs and legs. A powerful creature in its own right, but no match for Geren. Regardless, he cursed the timing of its appearance, although he did take its horns to sell when he got back to Davied.
Sighing as the first sprinkles of rain began to fall, Geren pulled a cloak from his pack and donned it, pulling the hood up over his russet hair so that only the cloth of his headband was visible. After fleeing while he fought the Gralbear, the thieves seemed to now be moving with greater urgency after having met their pursuer.
Geren smiled to himself, wondering if they had recognized him during their brief encounter. Perhaps that was the impetus for their increased haste—they were being hunted by the Unbreakable Wolf. Of course they would work that much harder to escape.
Though the thought elicited a light chuckle from him as he crouched down to investigate some footprints, he knew that wasn’t the case. His reputation was that of a people’s fighter. Yes, he had a fancy title that sounded scary, but he did not wantonly kill—trying to only do so when the job required. He was hired to retrieve a stolen item—not kill a couple of fools. Had the pair actually realized who he was, they may have been more willing to cooperate and return to Davied peacefully. Instead, they panicked and continued their trek northeast deeper into the mountains.
The Ulrorr mountain range ran from north to south and acted as a somewhat natural border between Freleria and the country of Daeinado. Bordering Daeinado to the north and the Ulrorr to the northeast sat the Northern Outlands, where the thieves’ new path had led them straight into. Geren estimated that he had crossed the border himself about an hour prior. There was a subtle shift in the energy in the air that an untrained traveler may not have noticed.
Prior to this job unexpectedly bringing him here, Geren had only ventured into the Outlands himself on three past occasions. Once to the Southern Outlands that bordered the country of Garreghais to the southeast, and twice to the Northern. He had seen enough in those travels to know his limits on how deep he was comfortable going. Stories told of the terrible beasts that roamed the lands, unexplained magical disruptions in the environment, and curses that would befall those who stayed too long.
Some people, an ignorant Geren several years younger included, didn’t take the tales seriously. They assumed that they were exaggerations and myths perpetuated to keep people from exploring the Outlands and discovering great treasures hidden within them. The rumors of such treasures known as Architect Relics existing in the Outlands didn’t help matters, inciting many a greedy soul to venture forth—or hire someone else to—and try to procure such items for themselves.
Underestimating the warnings during his first foray into the lands, Geren had accepted an offer to be part of a group who journeyed there for a lucrative contract. He discovered that, in a dreadfully humbling experience, the stories were true. Only he and three others from the company of thirty-five that were hired to throw their lives away on a foolish search for treasure had returned. He now held a sense of respect for the Outlands along with their dangers and secrets.
As for the thieves, he was confident that they would get cold feet and turn around—and he would be there to greet them when they did. Having confirmed the footprints were the same boots as those he’d seen so far in his tracking, he stood up and continued forward, moving aside some low-hanging branches as he walked. The boom of thunder sounded again, this time much closer. Geren thought it odd that he hadn’t seen any lightning in the sky beforehand, but perhaps it was just the canopy blocking his view.
A few minutes later, Geren found himself in a small clearing where the trees were not clustered as tightly together. More thunder roared overhead, this time properly accompanied by a flash of lightning that briefly illuminated the overcast landscape before him. Good timing—the light had made it easier to spot what looked like a scrap of cloth caught on some knee-high brambles. Geren walked over and kneeled down to inspect it. It was the same color and material as a similar shred of clothing he had found earlier.
He rubbed the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. They’re still going, huh… These boys are made of tougher stuff than I thought. Even though we’re just on the outskirts, most people are too afraid to even step foot in the Outlands, much less keep pressing onward once they’re here. Or…
He laughed to himself, pocketing the cloth scrap. These two don’t even realize where they’re at, and I’m giving them way too much credit.
Geren surveyed the rest of the area from his kneeling position, and was surprised to find three sets of footprints heading in different directions. Moving to inspect each of them, it was clear that the thieves had retraced their steps back to the clearing at least once in an effort to confuse Geren with a fake trail. Possibly twice. Geren didn’t rule out the possibility that two of the sets were fake, with only one being real—one thief following the other’s steps on the third, actual path.
Whatever trails are fake will likely go for a good while, so I would have to follow them to find out. I hit the dead end, then I come back here and try again. They’ll have time to make more good ground on me if I pick wrong. Similarly, though, they must have spent some precious time setting up this little maneuver… so it would be a huge advantage if I just followed the correct trail.
Putting his hands on his hips, he looked from one trail to the next in a repeating clockwise fashion as he pondered. What are the possibilities here? Two fake paths, with both of them on the same one, hoping I guess wrong once or twice on the other two? Only one fake path, with them splitting up to increase the chances that at least one of them escapes?
If it’s the latter… the kid with the stolen item would have taken one of the paths to the side. Better chance of turning back around and getting out of here that way. His partner would be hoping to possibly lose me and then group up later. They made a gamble that I’d be forced to play the odds. No matter what I pick, even assuming the guarantee that one of the paths that branch to the side is correct, the best odds I have on a guess are fifty-fifty.
He let out a snort of amusement, cracking a mischievous smile. They may be dumb kids who are in over their head, but they do still have the skills that helped them operate as thieves in the city. Seems they’re learning how to utilize those skills out here in the wilderness. How 'bout that? Me chasing these boys has ironically been a good learning experience for them! Maybe I’ll see if I can set them straight and hire them myself. Their history is mostly clean. Just petty thievery. Could speak more to their circumstances than the types of people they are. If I provide the right situation where they can use their talents in a healthy manner and get paid for it... everybody wins, right?
Reaching under his rain cloak and into a pocket cut into his jerkin, Geren pulled out a small circular stone. To the naked eye, the stone looked like little more than a regular rock—although an abnormally smooth, rounded one. Its true identity was that of a rune that had been traced with a spell. A life-detecting spell, in this case. One specifically to search for the presence of human life so he didn't receive any false signals from wildlife.
A common tool utilized all across Venterias by soldiers, mercenaries, hunters, artisans, and even regular citizens, runes carried small traces of magic within them bestowed by an original caster. The spell a rune carried depended on what type of magic the original caster used, leaving a trace of their essence in the rune that allowed anybody else to activate the spell within by channeling their own essence into it. This was a very useful tool, allowing magic users to cast magic they normally could not, with a variety of practical applications.
This feels like cheating when I’ve refrained from using magic to track them up until now, but I can’t afford to go the wrong direction and waste anymore time.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Geren held the rune between the index finger and thumb of his right hand. Channeling essence within the magic circuits throughout his body, he let some of it flow through his fingertips and into the small stone. It shattered soundlessly as if smashed by an invisible hammer in a soundproof bubble. The pieces quickly began dissolving into nothingness as the spell within was cast.
Surveying the area once again, a faint blue cloud of fog now lingered in the air above the set of footprints that headed east. It was a strange sight as the cloud did not react to the gusts of wind that were buffeting foliage nearby, merely existing solely within Geren’s vision. As Geren moved around the clearing, the small cloud blinked in and out of existence, re-appearing at the proper spot to indicate which direction he should go based on his new position.
That way, huh… Guess they decided to stick together. Alright then, time to move.
Geren passed through the cloud and it once again disappeared, then teleported in front of him. This continued for several moments as he forged onward, the sounds of twigs and leaves crunching underfoot—he swore he could hear that priest's voice of several years ago with each step—and mixing in a natural rhythm with the pelting rain. Then, Geren realized that he had missed something initially. Being someone else’s magic, he wasn’t quite familiar enough with it to catch it at first, but he noticed it now. The life signal was faint… and it was only one life.
A brief knife of panic stabbed his chest. Was one of the thieves dead, in that case? Had they somehow tricked him, and one got away? Gritting his teeth, he unsheathed his sword—a longsword with a hand-and-a-half hilt—and increased his pace to that of something between a jog and a run. Sword in his right hand and ready to chop away at any thickets or hanging tree limbs that would dare get in his way. Left hand tucked in a pouch under his rain cloak, a flash rune at the ready in case anybody or anything decided to surprise him.
The fog of life detection from the magic in the rune dissipated after about five minutes, but Geren no longer needed it. His path had not changed thus far with the small cloud continuously reappearing directly in front of him each time he passed through it. He would keep pressing in this direction until he found what was giving off the signal.
Faint shadows materialized around his blade as he began to channel his own magic now that the magic from the rune had expired. He hadn’t wanted to dismiss the life detection abilities too early, but now that he knew he was on the right track, better to have his defenses ready to go if needed.
Another five minutes. The rain was still falling, but it had considerably lessened and the storm clouds had begun to scatter, providing a welcomed increase in visibility as the scene transitioned from near-black to something more of a pale gray. Geren was beginning to wonder why he hadn’t caught up yet, but he assumed that the range of the spell must have simply been greater than he realized. If the target was still moving, they wouldn’t have been holding to such a straight path when the blue cloud was signaling their location. Whoever and wherever they were, the source of the signal was stationary at least.
Geren stopped, pausing to make sure his senses weren’t tricking him. Something that smelled like rusted iron was mixing with the earthy aura of moisture lingering in the air from the rainfall. Was that… the smell of blood? He began to proceed again, but at a more measured pace. Back to a tree, peer around, press forward to the next tree, and repeat. He did this for several trees, scanning his surroundings carefully. He was wary of both the source of the smell and anything else that could be lurking in the shadows. The smell was getting stronger now, for better or worse.
Then he found it, sitting against the other side of a tree he rounded. The body of a man, back to the tree and head leaned back with eyes gazing upwards towards nothingness. Crouching down to investigate further, Geren realized something—this man was not one of the thieves.
If not one the thieves… who is this, and why is he in the Outlands? And why is he dead… what killed him?
Looking the body over, Geren identified the likely cause of death. Two large wounds ran parallel to one another on the man’s torso, as though he had been slashed. The blood was still wet.
This is recent… And those wounds—some type of clawed beast possibly? They certainly exist out here. Well whatever it was, it wasn’t hunting him or looking to confirm a kill with a final blow, at least. Seems like he was able to move enough after being wounded to find a place to sit down and die.
The clothing he wore caught Geren’s attention as well. Though now soaked in blood from the two slash wounds, the man had been wearing a white robe of some sort that was donned over a collared shirt and simple trousers. No armor, which Geren found strange for anybody who would be traveling in these lands. Perusing the dead man’s belongings, he also found no weapon. And no personal items of any kind. Even more odd.
Seriously… who were you?
Shaking his head, he resigned himself to being unable to solve that mystery just yet as he stood up. The thieves were his target, and he’d yet to locate them. Back to work then. He turned away from the body and brought his blade back at the ready in preparation to continue forward. Pulling his left hand from the pocket beneath the cloak, he went ahead and activated the other life-detection rune he had brought with him. The hazy apparitions blanketing his blade faded away as the magic from the rune began to take effect.
Just as earlier, the blue fog-like cloud materialized in his vision and hovered over the blood trail the dead man had left behind on his traipse to his resting place. Still just the one signal, and still in that same direction. He began to head that way at the same deliberate pace as earlier, moving from tree to tree in a careful manner.
It wasn’t long before he found a second body slumped against a thicket of bushes like an overworked farmer who fell asleep on a bale of hay. A large gash in the woman’s midsection had spilled red paint across the canvas of green leaves. She wore the same strange attire as the previous person had. Another trail of blood marred the dirt, signifying that she had originally been wounded deeper into the forest.
Geren moved on cautiously, speculation buzzing around his head like a bothersome fly. Whatever was responsible could be nearby—it could even be the source of the life signal. An Outlands raider, perhaps. One of the thieves may have turned on his friend, deciding to keep the stolen item for himself. That wouldn’t explain the other bodies, though. Neither of the thieves were killers.
His speculation trailed off as he spotted what looked like another corpse. It was lying face-down some twenty paces away. He could see that the person was not wearing the white-robed attire of the first two bodies he had found. Getting closer, Geren saw another set of parallel gashes like earlier rent across their back.
He flipped the body to lie on its back with his boot. A lifeless face stared up at him—one he recognized. It was the younger of the two thieves; Geren guessed the boy must have been in his late teens. He gritted his teeth and pressed a closed fist to his forehead, disappointed in himself. Had he caught up to them sooner, this wouldn’t have happened. It didn’t make sense to think that way—he knew that—but the feeling pervaded his conscience nonetheless.
Breathing out, he pushed the guilt away and began to check the boy for the item that started this whole mess. He found it in the small sack strapped around his waist. A goblet made of silver and adorned with beads of orange topaz and red rubies around the rim—the colors of the family it belonged to.
Poor kid... He didn’t deserve this. He thought while he closed the thief’s eyes. Apologies I can’t give you—or those other strangers back there—a proper burial. I just don’t have time, and this isn’t necessarily the place. That’s… something you risk when you venture out here.
Geren found himself frowning as he stowed the item away in his own traveling sack. An object of such rich vanity and no practical use was the reason for the loss of a perfectly good life… and that bothered him. Heirloom retrieved, but for what purpose? Perhaps if he hadn’t taken the contract in the first place, the boy would still be alive. Had he and his friend been able to…
That’s right. The other thief. Geren had nearly forgotten about him. The blue cloud was still hovering a few feet away near some thick bushes between the trees that obscured the path forward. Someone was still alive. Though the job itself was now technically complete, Geren still had work to do.
Facing towards the signal, Geren ran forward, sword in hand. He figured there were two possibilities for who the life signal belonged to. It was either the other thief—which meant that at least one of the boys would come back alive—or it belonged to the killer of the thieves and the other strangers. He was equally excited for both prospects for entirely different reasons.
He cleaved most of the foliage in the path with his sword and leapt over the remnants, escaping the treeline and entering a large clearing. The scene that came into view was not what he expected. Skidding to a halt, he looked around, dumbfounded and unsure of how to react to the butchery that lay before him. There were even more bodies; he didn’t care to count how many. The rain made sense now. Nature knew what had happened—or was currently happening at the time of the storm’s beginning, depending on when this occurred—and had begun weeping for the lost lives.
By the Architects… What happened to these people? There’s just… so many. For what purpose were this many people even here in the Outlands to begin with?
He bit his lip and bowed his head, closing his eyes. Memories of the thirty-one men who perished on that foolish voyage several years ago began flashing through his mind.
“That’s right… there doesn’t have to be a reason. Not a good one at least.” He muttered to himself.
Looking up, he took in the sight of the carnage in all its gory detail. There were at least twenty corpses. All wearing similar clothing as the couple he had found earlier. Except for one—the other thief. Their brown and black attire stood out amongst the robes of the strangers like a coffee stain on a white shirt. He began to stalk forward, keeping a close eye to the blue mist that hovered in the right of his peripheral vision. It was no longer straight ahead—whoever was still alive amongst this slaughter was in that direction, not moving.
Moving from one body to the next, most had similar wounds. Large slashes, same as the previous bodies. He did find that some had been stabbed or skewered, however. So whatever did this… a beast’s claws could certainly both slash and puncture. A raider with a sword could as well. It didn’t tell him anything definitive.
He carried the second thief back to where he had found the first just a bit prior. They deserved to be together, though their time had already passed and he wouldn’t be able to actually bury them. It provided him some slight solace in any case, strange as that was. He didn’t know these other people or what their story was, but he knew of this pair. Just dumb kids from the city who got in over their heads.
He returned to the clearing and looked towards the direction the life signal had been previously. The magic had expired while he transported the body, but while active, it hadn’t moved. Logic would dictate whatever it was would still be there.
Readying his blade just in case it was a raider or brigand, he walked over to the treeline on that side of the clearing. Putting his back to the tree, he took a quick glance around the corner. No sign of anyone. He rounded the tree and began to walk forward again—that was when he saw it.
“No…” He shook his head in disbelief, then screamed. “No!”
A small body some hundred feet away, curled up amongst some shrubbery that blanketed the base of a tree. The sight caused Geren’s brain to suddenly forget reason, and his sword fell from his grip as he began to run. He took his rain cloak off, then fell to his knees in a running slide when he reached the child.
It was a human child—a boy. Geren estimated he must have been 8 to 10 years old. He swaddled the boy in his cloak and picked him up to examine him. Covered in blood, but… thankfully most of it didn’t appear to be his blood. He was wounded, yes, but nothing life-threatening. Geren could patch him up. The boy was alive. Small, short breaths and a faint heartbeat confirmed as much.
“So it was you…” were the only words he mustered from his lips as tears began to roll down his cheeks and he realized that this small bundle was the source of the life signal.
One of the other victims must have saved the boy somehow. Geren was beyond thankful. If there was to be a survivor, thank the Architects that it was a child at least.
Heading back through the clearing, Geren took what items he could that would assist him in his journey back to Davied. Some rations, a pair of twin swords, some trinkets made from what appeared to be parts of various Outlands beasts, and a dagger with a jeweled pommel. He admitted that most of the items wouldn’t necessarily assist his journey back, but they may sell for a decent amount. Having just recently started his own mercenary company, he was technically a fledgling business owner—every little bit of income helped.
Geren turned around and took one last look at the tragedy. He wished he could do more, but there was nothing to be done at this point. The slaughter had been recent—within the last hour or two, he guessed. Had he just gotten here sooner…
Sighing, he looked to the sleeping child he held in his arms. At least there was one survivor.
This whole situation is… strange. Especially… He looked past the bodies to the other side of the clearing.
Well… None of that is my concern now. I need to get this child to safety, out of the Outlands. Maybe when he wakes up, he can tell me what he remembers. We can figure out what to do next after that.
However, the child did not wake up. Not immediately, at least. He slept for the entire journey as Geren carried him out of the Northern Outlands, back through the Ulrorr Mountains, and even after their arrival back in Davied. He then continued to sleep in one of the recovery rooms at Geren’s mercenary headquarters. In total, the boy slept for two weeks from the time Geren had found him.
When he finally awoke, Geren asked his questions. He received no answers, however. The boy remembered nothing of the events that transpired, where he was from, who his family was, or even his own age. With such a strange situation, Geren decided that it was best that he take him in himself. Due to his age being unknown, Geren split the difference in his original eight-to-ten years old estimate. He and the other members of the Last Stand Mercenaries agreed to assume that the boy was nine. His birthday would be the day that he had been found.
There was one thing that the child could remember, however. His name.
His name was Lyght.