Satisfied with your preparations, you decide to head out towards the direction of the smoke. You take a few precautions and choose a roundabout path that would take you a whole day to reach the encampment — to make sure your trail won’t be traced, just in case the ones you encountered proved hostile.

There were a few predators on the way, mostly wolves and those annoying crimson bats during the night. Your bearskin cloak made a few predators pause in their tracks but a few wolves ventured to attack. Compared to the bear, the wolves were weak. However, a couple of wolves managed to surprise you by breathing out cold ice-like projections.

“I hate cold,” you say out loud as you walk. You instinctively know it’s something you can’t easily defend against. You manage to get an additional two orbs from the frost-breathing wolves. The normal wolves had none — giving credence to your hypothesis that the orbs are the source of the beasts’ magical abilities. Even without orbs, you make an effort to skin the wolves and walk away with four additional pelts on your shoulder.

You reach the campsite but it is empty. You see signs of use and deduce a party of five — probably a hunting party. The signs are clearly humanoid — this makes you a bit hopeful. At least there’s hope of interacting with being with two arms and two feet compared to say — slime or ooze-like existences.

Marks made on the surroundings as well as the burnt wood indicate the use of tools — most probably something metal. You find a few traps near the area. Simple tension traps that would snag the leg of a rabbit or fowl.

You sense a slight fluctuation in energy and see a hawk fly into the general direction of the hunter tracks. They clearly saw your fire and made preparations for your eventual visit.

You head towards the direction of the hawk’s flight, noting the clear trail of the hunters. No effort was made to hide their trail — probably hoping to convey their wish for an open meeting. Since this meeting or confrontation is unavoidable, it’s best to be done with it as soon as possible.

If they need five people to enter the forest safely and hunt something smaller than a bear — they probably won’t pose much of a threat to you. However, you still remain wary.

At least one member of this party is a caster because of the hawk. “Bonded animal? Familiar?” you ponder as to what kind of caster you’ll confront once you meet this group of hunters.

You hear the sounds of the hunters even before you see them. They’re half a mile away but you can make out their voices and conversation. From what you can make out — they appear to be human. They speak a crude form of common, or at least one of the common languages you are familiar with.

They talk about orc attacks in a town called Forge and they are guessing that you are probably a hunter from Fishcreek, a village from across the forest.

You see this as the perfect cover and decide to hide behind the identity of a Fishcreek hunter. You craft a story in your head about traveling deep into the forest and getting waylaid by orcs. Luckily, you survived. The story seems believable and is already something they expect. You discard two of your wolf pelts to make your story more believable. A hunter surviving a pack of wolves might not seem too believable.

You notice the hawk from the camp flying back and forth a couple of times. You could have easily dealt with it by throwing a stone — but you hold your hand. They already know you are here — even expecting your arrival. A stone to the bird’s head might just provoke hostility from the hunters even before your meeting.

Soon enough, you approach a clearing and the hunters are a bit on guard if not merely curious. As you deduced, there are five hunters — two adults, two teenage boys, and one person you can’t make out sleeping inside a tent.

You slowly approach the group and make a conscious effort to not appear hostile or threatening. Two of them are holding spears lightly and you could see a couple of daggers on their belts. The other two are unarmed but you can see within reach, just in case you proved hostile.

“A primitive civilization,” you unconsciously think from seeing their gear. “But one that uses magic…”

Seemingly to answer your question, you feel the faint fluctuations of magic coming from one of the bowmen. You saw no tell-tale signs of frost or ice-magic in the previous camp or this one — so you don’t even consider this caster as a legitimate threat.

“Fellow hunters,” you say in greetings, raising your arm as the usual custom.

They look at you with suspicion — eyeing you up and down and taking note of your clothing, pelts, and makeshift spears. They seem to recognize the wolf pelts as well as the bear pelt. You detect a mix of confusion, disbelief, and admiration in their faces.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

They lower their weapons in turn and lower their guards a little bit. You note the magical fluctuations are still up so it seems the caster is still wary of you.

“You are new to these parts,” says one of the older hunters. He has the look of a weathered veteran and is probably the leader or one of the leaders of this group. “Do you come from Fishcreek by any chance?”

“Indeed,” you agree. “I was a solitary hunter living in the forests at the outskirts of Fishcreek,” you start your crafted story. “I ventured a little deep into the forest, thinking of finding another town but I encountered some orcs.”

You see a glint of understanding and confirmation in their eyes so you decide to continue with your deception. “I managed to evade the orcs but I lost most of my equipment.” You decide it’s about the right time and offer your hand in a handshake to the leader. “You can call me Caleb — Cal for short.”

“Caleb huh?” the man says as he grips your hand in a firm handshake. “I am Eomer, and we are hunters from Ashford,” he says while gesturing towards his companions.

“Quite a haul you have there,” he points to your pelts. “Frost wolves and if I’m not mistaken — a runed bear,” he seems to be genuinely intrigued by your bearskin cloak. “How in hell did you manage to kill a runed bear? You don’t even have a proper weapon.”

The question was not unexpected so you easily answer. “I encountered the bear after evading the orcs,” you answer. “Dead orcs were scattered around the area and the bear was already missing a jaw and it seemed like it was poisoned,” you take a pause to fake a feeling of remembered terror and tension. “It lunged at me and I managed to drive my spear into its injured jaw. It died after a few minutes.”

The hunters seem rapt in your storytelling so you continue. “I skinned the bear with a dagger, knowing it was my best chance of crossing the forest. My luck was holding until three wolves attacked me. I managed to kill two but the third ran off with my dagger in its flank. I saw your fire the following day and decided to seek you out.”

“How long were you in the forest, boy? Eomer asked.

“Five — no six days,” you answer. You see looks of mixed pity and astonishment in the hunters’ faces. Your days of sleeping on the ground in a bear’s cave probably made you a sorry sight.

“You did well surviving for that long,” Eomer says as he puts his hand reassuringly on your shoulder. “Men,” he looks at his party, “this is Caleb, a fine hunter and one of the luckiest souls alive!”

The other hunters start approaching you.

“Trent,” greets the other spearman. He seems a bit older than Eomer but he has the same grizzled look.

“Thomas,” says one of the bowmen as he raises his hand in greeting. He looks to be around 20, probably younger.

“Dune,” greets the other bowman — the caster. The fluctuations seemed to have ended a while ago. He seems to have believed your story. Like Thomas, he seems to be nearing his twenties. You see an inquisitive glint in his eyes, which you feel is normal for most casters.

“The sleeping boy is Bruce,” Eomer says, gesturing at the sleeping figure. “He’s the scout and all that running had him spent.”

You trade a few greetings with the hunters. They don’t withhold any jabs at your appearance or odor.

“What are your plans Caleb?” asks Eomer. “Are you planning on going back to Fishcreek?”

“No,” you answer as you shake your head. “I was planning on leaving for a bigger town anyway. The town of Fishcreek wasn’t that welcoming — especially since…”

“You have elf blood!” Eomer interjects. “Haha! That explains a bit of your skill and some of that luck! Luck of the elves as they say,” he laughs as he pats your shoulder again. “You are welcome in Ashford. Our town isn’t as closed-minded or superstitious as Fishcreek and we would always welcome a skilled hunter.”

You see confirming nods amongst the other hunters.

“I will gladly take you in,” Eomer continues, “but the missus is expecting a child and is due in a few days.”

“I’ll take him in Chief,” says Thomas. “Any hunter that can take down a couple of frost wolves and a runed bear is welcome in my house. Maybe some of that luck can come my way,” he says as he gives you a thumbs up. “His pelts alone should bring enough money to cover his rent — not to mention the beast cores. You do have them, yes?”

“Of course,” you answer as you bring out the three orbs. “I also gathered a few medicinal herbs,” you add as you take out a few herbs.

The hunters seem to be impressed with the beast cores — not so much with the herbs. They seem to recognize one or two herbs but are unfamiliar with the rest.

You see the hawk landing near Dune. It seems the hawk is more of a trained pet than a familiar. You gesture at the hawk, “I’ve seen that bird a couple of times and it seemed to be watching me.”

Thomas grabs Dune’s shoulders. “That’s Elm, Dune’s pet and our unreliable eyes in the forest.”

“Unreliable?” you ask. Clearly, the bird would make an excellent scout.

“She’s not unreliable,” counters Dune. “My spirit bond with Elm allows me to see through her eyes — but that same bond prevents her from leaving my side for too long or flying longer distances.”

“A magical bond?” you ask, genuinely intrigued.

“Yes,” he answers. He looks at you with a strange expression. “You have elf blood. Aren’t you aware of magic?”

“Sadly no,” you reply while shaking your head. “I never knew my grandmother and my father was a simple woodsman. People in Fishcreek wouldn’t even recognize my elf blood if they didn’t know my family — not that I have a lot of elf blood, probably just a quarter at most,” you explain. “I’d like to hear more about magic if you don’t mind?”

“You’re looking at the wrong person!” interrupts Thomas. “Our Dune is no magician — just a ranger with a spirit companion. The town smith has more magic than him. If you want, we can scour the town for a few books — your beast cores should be enough to buy several of them.”

“What he says is true,” Dune agrees. “I’m not the usual magician, but what I have is enough for me.”

You nod and smile — knowing full well that he is lying. You wonder why he’s hiding his strength from his companions as you feel he has enough power to decimate his entire party. This Dune is no simple ranger — but his secret is not yours to reveal.