The ghost silently observed as Beowulf came out of the spokesman’s house and continued on. His condition seemed to be better than before, as he was now walking without taking support, although the limp still persisted.
After taking care of the monstrosities heading towards the mountain, it had continued to watch Beowulf. The sentient being had half expected that he only cared for gold and would leave the town, without engaging with the greater monstrosity and at that time the ghost would have killed him.
But he didn’t.
Instead he played the fool’s gambit, which nearly resulted in his death.
The ghost had intended to remain a bystander, but the boy had intervened. The boy had no chance of success, but he confronted the monstrosity, and surprisingly, came close enough to a victory.
The ghost couldn’t help itself but interfere at that point.
Why? It didn’t understand that either.
Its behavior had been deviating.
Beowulf was now walking through the streets, the ghost also followed him, not letting him out of its sight.
Azlan stopped and looked at two dead bodies at the side, they were of a man and a little girl. Nearby, a woman holding a baby was sobbing quietly, miserably trying to hold in her tears. The woman lifted her head and looked at Beowulf.
He turned his gaze away and continued on.
Why was he afraid to meet her gaze? Perhaps he blamed himself for how the situation turned out.
The town people were now all gathered up, some mourning the people they lost, some discussing about measures to take care of the bodies, because there was a chance the dead bodies could morph into a lesser monstrosity. But most just stood there, with hollow eyes, as if deprived of any life. They all stared at Beowulf as he passed.
The being continued to observe him.
[Beowulf, I do believe that you did the best you could. And I do concur it was the most logical thing to do.]
It thought to itself.
[But I also wonder, could there have been another way?]
[Would the outcome be different, if you never had arrived here? Or was it inevitable?]
The people needed someone to blame, someone they could direct all their sorrow and anger towards.
[You undoubtedly saved them, yet you will only be scorned in return.]
An ending where no one is the victor.
A fate befitting of a wendigo.
--------------------------------------
Beowulf’s movements became a sluggish after exiting the town. He had been in a haste to get out of Morvest.
He could faintly hear something’s footsteps.
“What do you want?” he asked. “Have you finally decided?”
[...I do not wish to kill you. I will most likely be exiled due to my actions in any case.]
“I see”, came a reply and he carried on.
He took a few steps and then promptly stopped.
“Why are you still following me?” he turned his head.
The giant snow leopard’s ears swiveled slightly.
[Whoever I decide to follow is my own free will.]
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Beowulf stared at its icy blue eyes for a moment.
“Do what you will”, he turned his head back and continued on.
As long as it didn’t try to tear him apart, he didn’t care what the being did.
He had a faint idea about where he should be headed next. But he would have to make a stop somewhere between to recuperate, this situation was unforeseen after all.
Azlan was lost in such thoughts when he noticed someone sitting a few meters away, leaning their back against a tree.
It was Viglaf.
His arm was now bandaged up, a flimsy job, but better than nothing.
Upon noticing Azlan approaching, Viglaf tried to get up but he motioned him to stay put.
He had Beowulf’s bag laying right next to him, he handed it over to him.
“I figured this would be the place to talk to you peacefully”, Viglaf had a forlorn look on his face.
It had only been a day and yet he seemed different to Beowulf.
No, he had been this way from the start, it was Beowulf who had misjudged him in haste.
Beowulf remained silent.
“I wanted to return this to you”, he took off the emerald pendant from his neck. “Here”, he put his hand towards him.
Beowulf looked at the pendant for a few moments and then kneeled on one leg and closed Viglaf’s hand into a fist and returned it to him.
“This is a Bewitched Item, it once belonged to someone close to me”, he explained. “You can keep it, so that one day when you’re hunting monstrosities, it can save you”.
“But you told me that I can’t do that”, Viglaf replied with a surprised tone.
“I... was wrong. Physical attributes are important against foes but what it boils down to in the end is the will”, he continued. “In a moment of crisis, hesitation equals death”.
On the verge of losing consciousness, he had caught sight of Viglaf trying to push the logs onto the monstrosity, Viglaf had conquered fear and had taken action.
“Can I come with you?” Viglaf asked.
Beowulf gazed at the pendant.
“I suppose so, maybe when your arm is all healed up. Until then, take care of the pendant. When I return for it, at that time perhaps you can come with me”, Beowulf answered.
“I will take care of it until then”, there was a faint smile on Viglaf’s face.
“Maybe if you were in my shoes today, the outcome may have been different”, Beowulf wondered.
Viglaf stayed quiet but then he remembered something.
“Ah- I almost forgot, I have something for you”, he said as he searched his pockets.
Something for him?
Beowulf was a little intrigued.
“Here”, he thrust his hand forward. On top of his palm there was a single silver coin. “This is something from the child you saved alongside me. He wanted you to have this”.
A single silver coin, Beowulf couldn’t help but smile slightly.
“His mother was very thankful to you, she was the one who bandaged my arm up”, Viglaf explained. “Beowulf, you might have not saved everyone, but there are still people who wouldn’t be alive right now without you”.
“I will accept it”, Azlan said while standing up. “We do love coin after all”.
“Will your wound be alright?” he was referring to the affliction.
“Wendigo can’t catch the infection, they are immune due to the essence. It’s one its effects”, he explained.
“I see”, Viglaf held out his arm, and Beowulf grabbed it and helped him up to his feet.
“Alright then, take care Beowulf”, Viglaf bid him farewell.
“Stay safe”, Azlan gave him a pat on his shoulder and turned around towards the forking path.
----------------------------------------------------
After a few minutes of walking, he was at the branching path. One road led to the misty valleys and the other elevated path continued alongside the mountain. He wasn’t in a state to traverse the mist, so he chose the higher path and stepped towards it.
[So, you are not choosing the misty path.]
The being remarked.
Azlan ignored it and continued on, for the road ahead was long.
As he traveled, he could see the mist surrounding the lower areas down below. And in front, he could see mountains and hills in the distance, all under a grey horizon as far as eye could see.
The year is 299, of the 5th age.
The threat of the mist lurks all over Forsa, it shrouds nearly everything, reducing once brimming cities to an abode of solace.
The Bewitching Ones have begun a long pilgrimage, their motives and destinations unknown.
The Alves have all but vanished, their Everlasting Magik and Constructs lost to time, their enchanted forests now homes to other beings.
The monstrosities continue with their mindless sacrilege, spreading despair and terror.
Many millennia have passed since the sudden disappearance of The Beowulf Clan. There has been since no sign of their return, they remain lost while Mountaliya slowly crumbles.
The Nocturnal have been given free rein. The far north-east corner of Mountaliya has fallen to some of their organized kind, and their territory yet still expands.
The Ornics remain silent and downtrodden.
The Nomadic Tribes continue to wander the land, searching for their long forgotten cities.
The four high houses of Mountaliya are forced to swallow their pride and kneel before the Ashen King.
In these times, having hope and faith in salvation isn’t just a way of living.
Indeed, it is the only way of living.
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