🎵: Dash of the Daring, Rise of the Iron Will, Wellspring of Arcana
The afternoon sun hangs low in the sky when I first spot the caravan's dust trail. My legs should burn after hours of sustained running, but the song's magic flows through me, a cool, invigorating current that makes each step feel like I'm gliding over the earth, each movement lighter and more effortless than the last.
I walk, letting my mana slowly replenish. During these recovery walks, I've made it a habit to study tracks - every bit of practice helps. The trail ahead shows something intriguing: massive impressions unlike anything I've tracked before. Six-legged, based on the pattern - must be the Beastmovers I've heard so much about. The tracks tell a simple story: three pairs of deep impressions spaced with meticulous regularity, each set wider than I am tall. One set shows deeper gouges on the right side, suggesting the creature favours that leg. The immense weight distribution patterns in the soil speak of creatures far larger than common draft horses. As my mind catalogs each detail, trying to confirm if these truly are Beastmover tracks, there's a sudden shift in my awareness - like a puzzle piece clicking into place.
Tracking Reached (Common 2)
Tracking (Common 2)
Movement Clarity: Tracks within 20 yards, showing behaviours like running or resting.
Effect: Reveals movement patterns, such as whether a creature was running, walking, or stopping to rest.
Requirement for Common 3: Track 5 creatures
The merchant wagons crawl along the trade road like a line of wooden beetles, their canvas tops bleached white by the sun. A haze of dust rises, shimmering in the golden light, giving the scene an almost dreamlike quality. The deep, resonant breathing of the massive beasts and the rhythmic clicking of their claws against the packed earth confirm my tracking analysis - definitely Beastmovers. I maintain my walking pace, both to keep rebuilding mana and to avoid startling anyone. With my newly enhanced tracking skills, I notice another set of unfamiliar tracks interwoven with the larger prints - these must be from the Swiftclaws I've heard guards use. The tracks show a predator's grace: retractable claws leaving distinctive triple-lined marks during acceleration, pad impressions suggesting a creature built for speed and combat. One set of tracks rides heavier on the left, probably from an unbalanced rider. The fresh tracks circle the caravan in regular patterns - patrol routes, most likely. I can see five wagons ahead, each pulled by a pair of the massive six-legged beasts I'd been tracking, their scaled sides gleaming like polished bronze in the sunlight. The guards wear mismatched armour—likely scavenged or bought from various places—each piece telling its own story.
Name: Beastmover
Classification: Beast
Species: Hexapodal Reptilian
Level: 5
Weight (kg): 2200
Description: Standing nearly as tall as two men, Beastmovers are impressive yet gentle creatures. Their six powerful legs support a massive, scaled body that shimmers with colour-changing properties. Their scales shift from bright bronze in daylight to deeper, shadowy tones at night, with orange hues showing fatigue. Despite their intimidating size, they're known for their exceptionally gentle temperament and protective instincts. Just don't mention the time one tried to adopt a herd of sheep - the farmer's still trying to explain why his flock keeps trying to climb trees.
Name: Swiftclaw
Classification: Beast
Species: Scaled Quadruped
Level: 6
Weight (kg): 380
Description: A large, muscular quadruped with thick scales and powerful retractable claws, bred specifically for guard patrol duties. Sure, they're great at climbing walls and terrifying bandits, but try getting one to stop chasing after butterflies during patrol. Those claws weren't meant to delicately catch and release.
The rearmost guard spots me first, wheeling his Swiftclaw around with a practiced touch. His hand doesn't go to his weapon, but the way he sits tells me he's ready for trouble. His mount's head-frills flare slightly, sensing tension. "Hail, traveller! State your business!"
"Seeking work," I call back, keeping my hands visible. "Guildsman from the northern village. Heard you might need guards."
He studies me for a moment, taking in my guild insignia. The suspicion in his eyes doesn't fully fade, but it's tempered with interest. "The caravan master will want to speak with you. Though I've got to ask—how'd you catch up to us so quick? We left at dawn yesterday."
I manage a thin smile. "Speed magic. One of my abilities."
He nods appreciatively, though I can see the hint of a smirk. His Swiftclaw's tail twitches, mirroring its rider's relaxing posture. "Useful trick. Follow me—but keep your distance from the wagons until the master approves."
The guard leads me past the line of wagons, merchants, eyeing me with mixed curiosity and caution. My pack feels heavier with each step, though I know it's more the weight of recent memories than the actual burden. The steady six-beat rhythm of Beastmover steps and their deep, rumbling breaths create an oddly comforting cadence after hours alone with my thoughts on the road. I catch snippets of conversation as I pass—merchants discussing prices, a handler murmuring soothing words to a restless Beastmover whose scales had flushed orange with fatigue.
I take in the details of the caravan as we move along. Each wagon is a miniature world of its own—laden with goods covered by tarps, colourful trinkets hanging from the sides. The smell of spices and leather mixes with the earthy scent of the Beastmovers. One of the Beastmovers turns its head toward me, its intelligent eyes briefly meeting mine, and I can't help but feel a flicker of awe at these beasts trained for such a purpose.
"Master Dalen," the guard calls out to the front wagon. "Got a guildsman here, looking for work."
The caravan master emerges from beneath the wagon's canvas cover—a stout woman with silver-streaked hair and sun-weathered skin. Her calculating gaze reminds me painfully of Kira, but I force the thought aside. She sizes me up, her eyes sharp as they assess every detail—my worn boots, the guild insignia, the sword strapped to my back.
New Character Met: Master Dalen
Name: Master Dalen
Classification: Human
Profession: Caravan Leader
Level: 11
Weight (kg): 74
Description: A seasoned caravan master who carries herself with quiet authority. Her careful planning and quick thinking have saved more caravans than most leaders have even led. Though someone should tell her that "just another routine delivery" is basically asking the universe for trouble.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
"A bard?" She looks me up and down. "Let me guess—Riverhaven? Heard there was trouble up that way."
My throat tightens. "Yes, ma'am. I... thought it best to seek opportunities elsewhere."
Something in her expression softens slightly. "Truth is, we lost two guards to fever a week ago, so I need fighters more than entertainers. But… having some proper entertainment wouldn’t hurt either." A hint of a smile touches her lips. "Assuming you can actually sing."
"I can earn my keep," I assure her, "both in combat and in song."
"Well, I'll be—a bard who can not only sing but fight!" She raises an eyebrow, then waves to one of the walking guards. "We'll see about that. Tomas! Show our new friend the rotation schedule. Standard new hire rate—food, board, and two GP a week. Assuming you make it to the next town without running off."
Tomas approaches—a tall, lanky man with a weathered bow across his back. His eyes are kind, but tired. "Welcome aboard. Hope you've got stamina left after your run. You're on rear guard till sunset."
Name: Tomas
Classification: Human
Profession: Caravan Master
Level: 8
Weight (kg): 89
Description: An experienced caravan master whose weathered face tells tales of countless miles on dangerous roads. They say you can judge a caravan master by their cargo losses - his perfect record suggests either incredible skill or creative bookkeeping.
As I fall into position behind the last wagon, I catch Master Dalen watching me. Her gaze lingers a moment longer before she turns back to her duties. I can't help but wonder if she's thinking about whether I'll be an asset or just another burden.
The guards and merchants settle back into their tasks, but I notice how the atmosphere has subtly shifted—fresh blood in the caravan means a change in dynamics, a reshuffling of roles. I can almost hear the unspoken words—let's see if this bard is worth the trouble.
"One more thing, bard," she calls out. "What's your name?"
"Brendan," I reply, then add quietly, "Just Brendan."
She nods, as if confirming something to herself. "Well, Just Brendan, prove useful and stay alive, and we might keep you on past the next town. We've got a long route ahead—all the way to the southern cities."
The road stretches on, winding between rolling hills and scattered groves of trees. The sun continues its slow descent, painting the landscape in hues of orange and gold. As the sun dips below the horizon, the caravan circles its wagons in a well-practiced formation. The Beastmovers instinctively arrange themselves on the outer perimeter, their massive bodies providing additional protection. Their scales dim to a deeper bronze as they settle in for the night, a natural response that helps them blend with the shadows. The routine of setting up camp buzzes around me—merchants securing their wares, guards establishing patrol points, all unrolling bedrolls. I help where I can, lifting crates, calming a young Swiftclaw spooked by a passing Duskweaver, passing tools to those who need them.
The Duskweaver is a peculiar creature, its delicate, glassy wings shimmering in the fading light as it flits around the camp, searching for the tiny insects that rise at dusk. The sight of it calms me—a small reminder of the beauty in this world amidst all the struggle.
Name: Duskweaver
Classification: Beast
Species: Bird
Level: 1
Weight (kg): 0.2
Description: The Duskweaver is beloved by travelers who appreciate its knack for picking off mosquitoes, though its serene, floaty appearance sometimes leads onlookers to think it’s some kind of tiny, mystical spirit doing a nightly ballet.
"New blood!" Tomas calls out, waving me over to the growing campfire. The flames flicker, casting long shadows against the wagons. "Come meet the crew properly." He points out faces in the firelight. "That's Lori and Kell on first watch. The twins over there handling the Beastmovers are Pak and Lin. And this grumpy bastard is Old Tom."
Name: Lori
Classification: Human
Profession: Guard
Level: 5
Weight (kg): 77
Description: A capable guard with a no-nonsense attitude and quick reflexes. She takes her job seriously enough that even her jokes stand at attention.
Name: Kell
Classification: Human
Profession: Guard
Level: 6
Weight (kg): 79
Description: A steady guard with keen eyes and steady hands. The person who probably counts their arrows twice, just to be sure.
Name: Pak
Classification: Human
Profession: Guard
Level: 5
Weight (kg): 87
Description: An experienced guard and beast handler who moves with practiced confidence around the most temperamental mounts. One half of the infamous "twin beast whisperers" - though he insists he's the better looking twin.
Name: Lin
Classification: Human
Profession: Guard
Level: 5
Weight (kg): 73
Description: A skilled guard and beast handler with an uncanny knack for reading animal behaviour. One half of the infamous "twin beast whisperers" - and as she likes to remind her brother, she was born three minutes earlier, so technically she's in charge.
Name: Old Tom
Classification: Human
Profession: Guard
Level: 8
Weight (kg): 91
Description: A veteran guard whose weathered face and sharp eyes speak of decades of experience. He's probably forgotten more about security than most guards will ever learn - though he'll happily remind you of every detail.
Old Tom gives a grunt, barely looking up from the blade he's sharpening. His face bears the weathered marks, and the lines around his eyes tell of years spent on the road. Despite his gruff demeanour, I catch a glimmer of curiosity in his gaze before he returns his attention to his work.
"Got a preference for watch rotation?" Tomas asks, passing me a bowl of something that smells like beef stew.
"I'll take whatever's needed," I reply, accepting the bowl gratefully. It's been hours since I last ate, and the warm food is a welcome comfort. Out here, under the open sky, my usual anxiety seems distant. There's something about the road that feels simpler, clearer than the confined spaces of dungeons and tunnels.
"Third watch then," he says, nodding. "But first, tradition demands a song from new arrivals. Nothing too fancy—just prove you're actually a bard and not some charlatan."
"My lute..." I hesitate, the memory still fresh. "It got destroyed during... earlier events. I don't suppose anyone has a spare instrument?"
"A bard without an instrument!" Tomas exclaims with a slight grin, though his eyes show understanding rather than mockery. "No, afraid we don't have any. They're not exactly common out here—about as rare as bards themselves. But when we reach the next major city, we can help you find one."
The others gather around the fire, their faces expectant. Some of the younger merchants lean forward, their eyes wide with curiosity. It's strange, feeling so many eyes on me, but there's a sense of camaraderie here. No dark corners for shadows to hide in, no narrow passages where enemies could be lurking.
I begin "The Wayfaring Stranger," a song my father taught me years ago. The memory of his deep voice teaching me the chords brings a sudden tightness to my throat, but I push through as the melancholic melody rises with the smoke from the fire:
"I am a poor wayfaring stranger,
Travelling through this world below.
There is no sickness, no toil, nor danger
In that bright land to which I go..."
My voice carries the ancient tune well enough. By the second chorus, some merchants are humming along, the simple melody easy to catch. Even the Beastmovers seem to respond, their breathing falling into rhythm with the song. The fire crackles, and the night seems to draw in closer, the world narrowing to just the circle of light, the song, and the weary travelers who share it.
As I sing, I notice the surrounding faces soften—the tension in their shoulders easing, the weariness in their eyes fading just a little. For a moment, we're all connected by the simple act of sharing a song, the burdens of the road forgotten.
"Well, he can sing at least," Old Tom rumbles, which I gather is high praise from him.
Master Dalen nods approvingly. "Good enough for now. Tomas, show him where to set up his bedroll. Dawn comes early on the trade road."
As the group disperses for sleep or watch duty, Tomas leads me to a spot between the wagons. "You did well," he says quietly.
"Thanks," I reply, unrolling my bedding. "Been a while since I played for strangers."
He glances at me, and I can see the unasked questions in his eyes. But he just nods. "Get some rest. Third watch comes quick, and Lin will wake you without mercy if you're slow to rise."
I lie down, the familiar weight of my sword at my side. Above me, stars peek through gaps in the wagon canvas. The murmur of quiet conversations and the crackle of the fire blend with the night sounds. Duskweavers their crystalline tones, a natural warning system against approaching threats. It's not home, but maybe, just maybe, it could become something close enough.
As sleep approaches, I hear one merchant softly humming my song from earlier. The tune follows me into peaceful dreams—dreams of open roads, of friends lost and found, of a future that, for the first time in a long while, doesn't feel so bleak.
The sounds of the camp slowly fade, replaced by the steady rhythm of my breathing. My mind drifts, recalling the faces I had seen earlier—Master Dalen, Tomas, Old Tom. There's a story in each of them, a life lived, struggles faced. For a moment, I imagine what it would be like to stay with them longer, to carve out a place for myself within the caravan. It's a comforting thought, one I let myself entertain as I slip further into sleep.
As my eyes close, I can still hear the faint hum of "The Wayfaring Stranger" lingering in the camp—a quiet promise that even out here, on the dusty roads far from home, there's a place for me.