“And so the hunters become the hunted yet again…” he mumbled as he strolled out of the clearing, four new satchels adorning his shoulders.

Within just a few minutes, he wandered through the ends of the cluttered forest to face the crumbling stone walls of Dreslon, separated from him by a wide gap where the grass had died away, and where the trees had been stripped to stumps.

The familiarly quiet buzz of the town was gone, replaced by the loud milling of expansion, constant shouting from weary workers, and the wafting scent of freshly cut wood. Ash and smoke hovered through the air, the harsh residue of burnt-out leylines.

And Mother, how crowded it’s become.

“Hunter’s blood… What a mess…” he heard a woman mutter as he passed a crowd of panicked, pale-skinned migrants at the gate, their faces tucked behind the dark blue hoods of their heavy whitefox coats. Many still even carried their boltshafts, long metal or wood rods with enchanted blue crystals stuck into their ends, perfect for blasting any frosted threats that may have assailed them, though plenty relied on the white-bearded elders to protect them with strange and powerful sorcery.

He scowled toward the migrants. Unfortunately for them, those petty sticks aren’t even capable of taking down a man, let alone any of the creatures that linger around the midland forests.

A startlingly wide, moss-green behemoth leaned over from beside the open gate, huffing cold steam through his toothy maw. His red-black eyes glared down at them inhumanly. “Forget the Hunters ‘round here. They won’t protect you anymore…”

Cedric pulled his hood up and quietly passed through.

They must receive the most scorn of all of Kylinstrom’s twisted cults…

A shady man in red-and-black leather garb caught his eye, shouting something into the passing crowd about deities and frost dragons.

Even those Sylvet, who’d rather execute and enslave the common man than packs of ravenous ogres, are subject to more praise than disdain nowadays. It’s not like either group is very far off from the other…

But at least they’re not Lunars. Anything but lunars...

The crowd thinned as he broke off into a narrow alley which led toward an aged shopping district, where wooden huts still lined the loosely cobbled road. He squinted as he neared the end of the path, quickly landing his eyes upon a most familiar shop. The rusted nails were still jutting out of the moldy wooden walls, as they had been ever since he first arrived, and the sign still bore the dulled, faded title of Greslock's General Goods upon it.

He choked as he forced open the heavy, squeaking door, as stagnant dust and mold immediately barraged his nostrils and throat. Though always caked in a thick layer of dust (Cedric suspected it was all Greslock's own), Greslock’s store always managed to impress with its organization, something severely neglected in the rest of the village.

Everything in the shop was neatly sorted and categorized into wooden bins lining the walls and forming the ‘aisles’ that stores in Cromer were more accustomed to, leading toward the small counter sequestered at the back where Greslock conducted all of his business. Cleanly carved wooden signs were hung above every box, indicating what food or goods lay within.

Cedric held his nose as the musty stench continued to permeate.

And even the horribly, hugely muscled and green Greslock himself, who Cedric’s eyes finally came to rest upon, was always neatly tucked up in imitation nobles' garb, laced at the top and sides unlike the drab potato sacks that every other imbecile in Dreslon wore, and neatly completed with a precise topknot upon his head. The ogre's hands were already up in frustration, tugging at his tough, mossy face.

“I told you, old man, keep the apples separate from the oranges.” he roared.

“Fruit’s fruit, what’s it matter?” argued the bulky, grey-haired ogre to whom he was shouting.

“No, you—”

Cedric interrupted, “No wonder you don’t turn a profit in this place… they let you shout at customers like that?”

“Cedric!” he shouted out again, carelessly throwing the fruit back into the wrong baskets.

Cedric shrugged, letting his leathery cowl, nearly the length of a cape, flap over his shoulder, basking in the recognition. He brushed a patch of dirt out of his scruffy beard, coming closer to greet the ogre-kin.

“Stay back, you’re filthy!”

“As if you’d care?” he scoffed.

“You know damn well what I care about!” The ogre turned, leading the way to the cluttered shop counter. The floor creaked under his and Cedric’s muddy black boots with every step. “And good timing, too.”

Cedric looked to where Greslock nodded: a soldier in white-silver plate with his silvery hair tied behind his head, and a sword strapped at his side. He scrutinized the Maps & Compasses section with an inquisitive thumb on his chin, seemingly disappointed by the lackluster quality.

Cedric whispered, “A Hunter in Dreslon?”

“Right. Think he’s here about the leylines. Seems we’re using a suspicious amount of magic. Just making sure no cult activity is going on… Then he met Norgurd about making us a Hunter-State, but you know how he is…”

“How everyone is.”

“Aye, right.” He cleared his throat as he rounded the counter. “What’s with the moody get-up, anyway? Funeral today?”

He chuckled, dropping himself onto one of the shabby stools beside the counter. “The way the empires have fallen, every day is some scumbag’s last.” He lifted up his hefty satchels and slid them up to Greslock.

“Not like you were even alive… Where’s this haul from? Or should I even ask?” Greslock pushed a pair of small, flimsy spectacles up onto his wide nose, and tugged one of the bags open to inspect its contents. He closely examined each piece, jotting different prices down onto a piece of paper.

Cedric frowned at the low numbers. “Just a few bandits. Standard fare.”

“Where’d that big-hearted pacifism of yours go?” mocked the ogre.

The boy furrowed his brow. “Does pacifism mean I shouldn't defend myself?”

"Oh, but you don't instigate them, right?"

Cedric twisted his lips.

"That's what I thought."

"Leave my extracurriculars alone, it's none of your damn business."

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"Oh, extracurriculars? I wasn't aware you were part of any curriculum!" He laughed. "What, finally joined a cult?"

 “Traveling circus.” Cedric rolled his eyes. “And where does a creature like you even learn a word like that?"

"I could ask you the same." Greslock grinned as though he had won a game. "I had one myself, many years ago. I was enrolled in a school back when Duaver and Ilgids were still around."

"Yeesh, that makes you, what, at least two-hundred years old? That means you witnessed Tovas’ execution, right?" Cedric’s expression lit up in interest.

Greslock nodded. "A lot longer than any other ogres. I should be proud."

"But…?" He slouched back down, realizing Greslock had no desire to speak of it.

The ogre shifted uneasily. "But what have I done with all of my time? My brothers chose to fight; I chose to… to run a shop into the ground."

"You’d rather have fought and died?"

"Bah. I’d rather’ve made a bigger impact."

"Your side gig doesn’t make a big enough impact?"

Greslock cleared his throat.

"Oh, right. Sorry." Cedric lowered his head.

"Just being courteous."

Cedric shifted himself awkwardly while he waited for Greslock to reattain his footing in the conversation.

“Anyway… the fuseflower is saleable, the weapons are nothing special, ‘sides the Harthian ones, but even this map has some glaring inaccuracies…” he hummed, skimming the particularly stained parchment.

“Ah, come on, cut me a deal.” Cedric pulled off his bloody gloves, laid them onto the counter. Greslock shot him a fierce glare until Cedric finally pulled the gloves away, then watched him hopelessly try to wipe the bloody droplets away from the counter.

Greslock huffed. “I’ll be taking that out of your profits today. That’ll be the third time this week I pay young Algrim to polish my counters.”

“Toss a coin his way to give this place a good dusting, too.”

Greslock glared. “You know Cedric, I am cutting you a deal. With the Hunters watching our backs and the way things are going…”

“Sixty three Tongues!” he gasped, staring at the paper that Greslock had scribbled onto. “How am I supposed to survive a single night on that?”

“Don’t spend it all at once. Don’t blow it all on the roast gryphon at that damn pretentious place you like, eh?” he huffed, counting out bags of Tongues, the bronze coins that only Dreslon maintained.

Cedric shrugged, stealing a bronze coin away from a pouch as Greslock filled it. “It’s worth it.”

Greslock rolled his eyes, sliding the rattling pouch to Cedric. “You know Cedric, you’ve hardly seen a handful of elves, let alone gryphons…”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Roast gryphon? I’d bet you good coin that it’s all a hoax. Probably venison if I had to guess. Not that most of us folks can really tell…”

Cedric scowled.

“Just… Try the place my buddy Kilren runs. It’s over in—”

“Oh, I know. But if you think I'm going to head into…”

“Food's free with a room. Ain't half bad, either." Greslock ignored him.

“Not half bad? No, not for a species that tends to eat—”

“Don’t try it, Cedric.” He lowered his darkened, weary eyes. “We don’t need two Hunterbloods ‘round here, aye?”

Cedric shrugged, pulling his gloves back on. He held his pouch of Tongues up to the flickering candle dangling on a metal plate above the counter. “Perhaps Tongues should be the native currency of Kylinstrom. Far less cumbersome to produce than the others.”

  “Yet far easier to imitate.” he grumbled, watching a shady-looking ogre force open the door to the shop.

  “If they’re willing to put in that effort, who cares? It's a living.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. If all of my currency is imitation, how am I making a living? I bring my Tongues to any Hunter exchange in any Hunter-State and they’ll imprison me. I hate to say it, but their currency is likely the most secure, the way they imbue it with that fancy… whatever it is.”

“Good luck convincing your kinsmen of that.” He gave a dull wave as he rose from the stool.

“Oh, many apologies,” muttered the silver-trimmed Hunter as he bumped against Cedric. Cedric pointed his eyes up to the man in a sharp glare. The man’s own golden eyes had a strange peace to them, unlike most Hunters he had ever met.

"Watch yourself, Hunter." he growled.

"Cedric!" Greslock hissed.

The Hunter smiled. "It's quite alright. Stressful time for Dreslon, yes?"

He placed a few miscellaneous objects onto the counter and pulled out his coinpurse.

"There's an upcharge for using Tokens." Greslock warned.

"Well, I should have a couple Tongues knocking about in here… Cedric, was it?"

"What's it to you?"

"Nothing, lad. Familiar name, is all."

"So far as I’m aware, I haven’t caused trouble for any Hunters."

"So far as you're aware? Don't worry—I know." He smiled politely, placing a few coins onto the counter. “Don’t worry about me, I'm just about done in this town for today, anyway.”

Cedric shifted uncomfortably.

The Hunter turned to face him again. “Safe travels, boy. May the roads be ever prosperous, and may the red eclipse leave you unscathed.”

His stomach twisted suddenly. He turned away, unable to say anything else. With one last uneasy glance at Greslock, he shuffled away from the counter.

Red eclipse? What does that mean? Unless… Does he know…?

The heavy door squeaked open for him again, and Cedric took a deep breath as the warm breeze of Dreslon’s quiet, amber sunset washed over him, bringing with it the nostalgic, quelling aura of a sleepy town. He leaned up against the wall, letting himself take in the glowing glory of the forest beyond the stone houses, and of the pointed silvery mountains far off into the western horizon.

Even their stamina-enhancing magicks can’t keep the workers going forever… The more migrants arrive, the more work falls into the hands of these few men.

He lowered his head and chuckled. His fingers went to his amulet, matching the colors of the withering trees.

Though, perhaps the northerners should be admired. Frost trolls and dragons, the cacti-mimicking shards of ice that were alleged to come alive and trail after lone wanderers, the amalgamated golems of ice… Whatever other strange creatures lay at home in the north, they must be the realm’s last remnant of living magic. The rest have gone the same way the Alisars are headed, and good luck finding more than murderers, frex, and pit holes to the south…

His eyes finally trailed up to Lunus, the grey sphere hovering only slightly above Solus. It was just barely visible in the blazing ginger sunset, swelling in its own eerie aura.

Cedric turned away, his eyes catching on a figure down a nearby alleyway. A glowing pillar of spiked ice… A frost-cactus? Here?

He blinked the blurriness away from his eyes and a more reasonable image came into view; a young girl, watching me from the shadows? Definitely not of age to be a Hunter…

He chuckled, continuing on as though he had never seen the girl. Perhaps she’s like me, seeking out her next prey for profit. Best of luck, girl, and Caloria be damned for our situations both…

*