The gathered company stood in silence for a while, eyeing one another with suspicious glances. Silence lingered over them, the only sounds being that of some nearby birds and the creaking wood of the cart under the shifting weight of those atop it. To everyone’s surprise, it was the pale woman who broke the quiet.

“Lower your weapons,” she said while staring at the elves. “I have no interest in you.”

Frank looked offended. He placed his fingers over his chest and cocked his head at her, “Well we might have interest in you, now. That was powerful magic you used. Are you a sorcerer as well?”

The woman glowered at Frank, assessing him. “Trained as a wizard. Blessed as a druid. Not by my choosing, mind you. And not that it is any of your concern either way.”

At this point, the dwarf had hurried over to where Flynn was standing. He circled him, his nose twitching with loud sniffs like a search hound looking for a lost parcel or a missing person. Flynn repeated his introduction, his smile never ceasing.

The dwarf paused in front of him and looked up, “Gostor. You’re short.”

A playful glint flashed in Flynn’s eyes as he responded, “You’re shorter.” The dwarf grunted, letting loose a powerful kick in the elf’s armored shins. The kick’s force reverberated through the entire suit of armor, sending shivers up the wearer’s spine. Somehow, there was no pain, but instead, a sensation almost like adrenaline filled him.

The interaction sent nearby birds from the branches and brought everyone’s attention back to the center. The woman began to leave, striding into the woods. Acadian lowered his crossbow and called out to her, “The both of you oughtta come with us. Yuns kept safe the wagon. Only right for ya to get a cut of the reward.”

Arsa backhanded Acadian’s arm in protest. The older elf shrugged it off. Before anyone could say another word, Gostor was already scrambling onto the cart in Flynn’s seat. He began picking up the crates and barrels, which were much larger than himself, with considerable ease. He started shaking them like a child with wrapped gift boxes trying to determine their contents.

The woman turned her head, but not her body, back to the group, “I do not need coin.”

“You certainly need rest,” Frank said, now leaning on the edge of the cart. “I don’t mean to offend, but you look like you’ve been walking through the forest for quite some time. Come with us.” At this, she turned to fully face them. Something tugged at the corners of her nose. It wasn’t disgust, but something closer to caution. Slowly, she stepped onto the wagon. Frank took her by the hand to help her up. At first, she drew back from him but hesitantly accepted. When she had sat next to him, he asked for her name.

The lady looked away, her eyes moving around the scene like she was remembering something important. “Circe,” she said quietly.

Acadian sat back down and took up the reins once more. The cart moved more slowly with the extra weight - most of which was coming from the surprisingly dense dwarf. Arsa never un-notched the arrow from his bow and kept his head at a slight angle, listening for any unwelcome movements from their new companions.

As they had become used to, Flynn’s youthful voice was the only one to fill the journey. Eventually, Gostor hopped off the box he had been sitting on and picked up Flynn’s shield. The elf made no protest but watched with childlike curiosity. Gostor traced the symbol on the shield with his thick fingers

“Bane,” said Gostor.

Flynn’s smile expanded even wider, “Are you a champion of Bane as well? I’ve not met anyone outside of Veridian who worships him.”

Gostor set down the shield and grunted again. He shook his head, “Bad.”

For the first time since they had known him, Flynn’s smile melted into a look of concern. “Don’t say that,” he picked up the shield and held it close to his chest. “Bane is good. He protected humanity from Derogaan during the War of Gods. We must honor his goodwill with worship.”

Gostor shook his head with more determination. He tapped the shield several times with his palm. “Bane. God of fate. Fate is unkind. Good people die. Bad people live.”

Flynn’s look of concern faded even farther into one of frightening disdain. He began to whisper, “Do not speak ill of Bane. Your blasphemy will be punished.” The sword at his side began to glow with a yellow-white aura, like a white-hot metal in a forge. As his gauntleted hand began to reach for the hilt, Acadian threw an arm over the seat to grab him.

“Cool it,” he said. Flynn blinked hard and looked around, as though he had just woken up from a nightmare. The glow on his sword faded and he released the grip on his shield. He scooted a little further from Gostor, who had remained expressionless the whole time. There was a moment of silence that layered over the fresh tension.

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“He’s right, you know,” Circe said. They all looked at her. “Humanity gave gods their titles. Before that, they were just… people. Powerful people. Asyn. Ohena. Braphion. Erius. Bane. Have you ever considered the things we deify don’t want to be worshipped?”

Flynn scowled at her, “I’ve seen the good things Bane has done for people.”

“You’ve seen the things your church has done in his name. The gods left us after the war. They couldn’t stand to see who they murdered their siblings for. Your Bane included,” she locked eyes with him, never allowing him to break the stare.

They stopped talking after this. The rest of the ride was filled with silence, with no more songs from Flynn. A few hours before sunset, they had arrived at the wooden gates of Krandaelyn.

Krandaelyn was bigger than the common village but smaller than the Seven Cities of Hydraan. It sat comfortably between two trade routes, which made it ideal for merchants and travelers to pass through. Well-sized wooden and thatch buildings were erected haphazardly, creating a confusing and unorganized layout of the circular town. To the north side lived a more residential district, with square houses and a sizable inn. To the south was more of a mercantile, with a large bazaar full of merchants and craftsfolk selling an assortment of tools and adventuring gear.

A double-story bar was the heart of the south side, rising high above the bazaar and the other low-level huts that decorated the mercantile. Potted plants and upside-down topiaries added a welcoming nature to the face of the establishment. Significant care seemed to be placed on the appearance of the bar, which had a sign hanging out front labeling it as The Sore Horn.

Along the eastern wall was the largest building in the city, rising well above everything else like an ever-watchful giant. It was the only building to be made of stone instead of wood and expressed an imposing presence over the town. It appeared to be a town hall, perhaps. Or maybe a courthouse. Its purpose was not explicit, but it seemed important nonetheless.

Hanging from the mysterious building and several of the streetlamps were well-kept red banners. The banners were embroidered in silver and featured the same gavel-and-tower symbol that the donkeys pulling the cart had been branded with.

The group approached the village from the western-facing gate, entering the wide street between the residential and merchants’ districts. Two guards, one male human and one female half-orc, stood at either side of the gate. Upon seeing the marks on the donkeys, the two stood aside to allow the wagon to pass through. Acadian halted the cart just before the gate.

“We’ve got a delivery fer Gunnar Stone. Know where we can find em?” he asked.

The half-orc dug her spear into the ground and adjusted the metal plate armor around her torso. Her speech was slightly slurred due to the two protruding tusks at the corners of her mouth, “Gunnar’s usually over at the bazaar. If he ain’t there, find a Red Baron and ask. They’ll know.” Acadian gave a nod and rolled the cart through the gate.

Frank leaned across the cart and stuck his head between Acadian and Arsa, “What’s a Red Baron?”

Arsa spoke without turning to look at Frank, “They run things here. Used to be a small group of bodyguards for the Townmaster. Now they just bully people and tax them, too. Don’t talk to one. Even if they seem friendly.”

They quickly pulled into a section just off the merchant’s entrance filled with other carts and wagons. Outside the entrance to the bazaar’s tents was a small human man arguing with a tall elven guard. He was shouting something about late deliveries and incomplete orders. The guard stared emotionlessly ahead, one of their eyes twitching at every spit-filled complaint.

Acadian dismounted the cart, handing the reins to Arsa. He stepped behind the short man and cleared his throat, crossing his arms against his chest. The man suddenly stopped his shouting and swiveled around on his heel.

“Acadian! My good sir, how lovely to see you,” the man pulled Acadian’s hand free and shook it with ferocity. “I hope the journey didn’t give you too much trouble. Is the cargo secured?” He glanced around the elf at the cart, his head tilting in anxious surprise at the two additions to the hired party.

Gunnar Stone was a wealthy man who enjoyed showing it everywhere he went. He wore a collection of thick rings on his fingers as well as lavish fur coats that dusted the ground he walked on. His balding brown hair made his head look like a wilting onion. The fat rolls around his neck were constantly damp with sweat, either from the heat of his coats or the intensity of his shouting. Acadian had worked with him several times before, taking up low-pay, low-stakes jobs.

“Ran into some goblin ambushers but made it out a’right. No supplies lost or damaged. Picked up some helpers ‘long the way, though. Kept everything safe from the goblins.”

Gunnar reached into his pocket for a hefty coin purse, “Very good, very good. Let’s see here. Forty gold pieces for the lot of you.” He began meticulously counting out coins.

“Sixty,” Acadian said calmly. Gunnar’s eyes slowly trailed from his coins to meet Acadian’s. He chuckled.

“Funny man, you are. The job was ten gold pieces for four escorts.”

Acadian crossed his arms again, “The job was ten gold pieces for anyone who protected the cargo. Or do I need to pull out our contract and take it to the Townmaster?”

Gunnar’s face turned a bright red and sweat began to bead around his lip. “No!” he squeaked louder than he intended. “I was only kidding, Acadian, you know me. Always a kidder. Of course, here are your… sixty gold pieces.” He handed over the gold, which Acadian counted in front of him. When he confirmed the correct amount, he nodded to the man and turned back to the group. Just as soon as he caught his breath, Gunnar shouted after him, “Oh! And I’ve recommended your services to the nearby church. They’re looking for someone of your particular skill set. Give them a visit, won’t you?”

Acadian paused, clenching his jaw. Skill set. He squeezed his fists and tried to keep his face from showing a sneer. Taking a deep breath, he continued back to the others.

The church needed a hunter.