Scant was a border town just barely in the territory claimed by Wellspring Barrow, mostly independent and taxed very lightly - it managed to survive on the food of nearby farms, but expansion was slow. It was small, out of the way, and sleepy.

Lairas had originally planned to refuel here, perhaps stay a day or two, and then move on, working his way along the border before eventually entering the unclaimed wilds to the north. From there he would make his way to Waypoint Crossing - a slightly larger city that made its home on the banks of a river, but with roads that lead to other major settlements.

Now, it seemed as though he wouldn’t even be pursuing the whistle-stop tour.

From the outside, the town’s low wooden walls, augmented by stone watchtowers, made it seem unimpressive and unassuming. Lairas had chosen to climb a tree outside the village to get a better vantage spot, and perhaps get started on some semblance of plan.

Slaughter’s aither, the red haze that now constantly roiled about Lairas’ body, had helped with that: securing footholds, pulling him up when a branch was slightly out of reach, and helping latch on once he’d picked his spot.

The spirit itself remained uncooperative. Lairas, having had his hopes raised and then dashed one time too many, paid no attention to the spirit at all. That was the only way to make sure the spirit wasn’t unduly influencing him.

The climb had helped him practice blocking out the spirit, oddly enough. It had required a dedicated amount of focus, and Slaughter was quick to mock his intentions whenever his mental dam broke. It had reinforced his ability to multi-task, if only a little.

Now, though, crouched in the upper branches of a broad tree - oak, he thought, though couldn’t be sure - the spirit had fallen silent.

Lairas didn’t ask after it, though. He had committed to a decision - now he was making sure to follow through.

From above, his first impression of the town - meager and slightly dilapidated - had not changed. The buildings had thatched roofs and wooden walls in most cases, though he spotted a few larger buildings made out of stone that he assumed were slightly more important. There were a few coops containing chickens dotted about, as well as one or two dogs tied to posts.

The people themselves were animated, at least. They bustled to and fro, making their way from various buildings to others, sometimes with indistinct bundles clutched in their arms, other times leading children by the hand, other times totally unburdened. It was picturesque, in a way - a sleepy, slightly run-down little town that quietly rolled along, out of inertia if nothing else.

That inertia was about to be disturbed one way or another, he knew. His scent had already passed close by, so the Hunters would be making their way into the town to interrogate the locals, if not ransack each house outright.

Lairas regretted bringing them so close, but there was little he could do - he was low on food and energy, and trying to trek through the wilderness would only help the Hunters in the long run.

Unfortunately, the only ideas he’d been supplied with so far amounted to ‘kill everyone in the town to confuse them.’ Which he was, understandably, unwilling to follow through on.

For now, he decided to descend from the tree, flip up the hood of his coat, and enter the town. If nothing else, he needed food.

He still had his ring of clipsilver, thankfully, and the crude pliers that enabled him to shave off sections for currency. Whilst most larger cities had formalized currency, he had read that it was common among smaller towns to accept this more primitive form of payment. It took the form of a metal ring, onto which was attached several lengths of silver ingots - each perhaps the length and thickness of his middle finger, with minor variation among them.

The units of clipsilver were known as ‘nails,’ supposedly being roughly the diameter of one’s fingernail. Its imprecision made it useless among larger institutions, but in these smaller towns it often worked out in the favour of the seller.

As he emerged from the treeline into the beginnings of later afternoon and early evening, he paused and drew in a single, deep breath. As he did so, he inhaled the haze, Slaughter’s aither, inside of himself, down into every orifice and through the very pores of his skin. He compressed it, once inside his body, downward into his conceptual core - not a physical place, certainly, but a spiritual part of reality where it could reside, hidden from the Unspirited.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

He’d been practising this periodically as well - keeping the aither repressed and hidden was another effort of will, alongside stopping Slaughter from reading his surface thoughts. It was the only way to avoid detection, however, and also the only way to keep Slaughter from speaking aloud, at least until he reached the Second Threshold. The spirit could still talk inside his mind, of course, but Lairas was already growing accustomed to ignoring him even internally.

There was a single pair of guards at the stone entryway, dressed in somewhat shabby uniforms that evoked those of the Barrow’s guards, if only slightly. He had no documents but a few nails of clipsilver was an acceptable substitute.

Once inside, he made a beeline to one of the larger buildings, from which pulsed a low chatter, notes of song, and most importantly, the delectable scent of cooking stew.

He earned glances and stares as he entered, of course, but once he quietly bought a bowl of stew and a flagon of ale from the bar they soon became more subtle. Towns this small were only moderately accustomed to travellers - they passed through occasionally, to be sure, but Lairas had read that they were uncommon enough to be of note.

He received the flagon, first, and nodded his thanks, using his pliers to clip off three nails in payment - for both this and the stew - before making his way over to an unoccupied table.

The ale was warm, and Lairas grimaced at the taste. He’d tried ale back in the Barrow, of course, and never liked it - but again, the books he had read suggested that drinking such was usually safer than well water, which could be contaminated with dung or drowned animals.

He sipped at it lightly until his food was placed on the table by a thickset man in an apron. Nodding his thanks, he tore into the meal as voraciously as his desire to avoid attention would allow.

As he ate, he thought.

He was no closer to a solution for the Hunters, and the ale and warm food had stirred up a lethargy in his limbs. He had been travelling, almost without stopping, for more than a day and a half now.

His eyelids were drooping, just a little, and it was a fight to stay aware. Perhaps the Hunters would stay away, for tonight? Surely, he could afford to sleep for just a few hours in one of the spare rooms?

He took another mouthful of stew, practically sighing in delight as the nugget of heat slid down into his stomach, warming him from the inside.

Was this what the heavens felt like? A long stretch of satisfaction and fulfillment, after the chaos and exhaustion of life?

Perhaps-

“KILL!” Slaughter bellowed out from the miniscule tendril that had seeped out in his destruction. “I’LL KILL YOU ALL-!”

Lairas jerked to full alertness, nearly knocking over the half-full flagon of ale as he did so, and inhaled again, hurriedly, sucking the tendril of haze back into his core. He cursed internally.

Of course he couldn’t relax here. He couldn’t ever relax again, not really - Slaughter would always be with him, waiting to ruin everything.

He spooned several more mouthfuls of stew into his mouth and downed the rest of his ale, annoyed but understanding of what was soon to happen.

“What was that you just said, lad?” The thickset man who had served him said, voice gruff and with an edge of steel.

“Nothing,” Lairas mumbled out through a mouthful.

“Did he say he was gon’ tae kill us all?” Someone whispered out from the crowd of people in the tavern.

Harsh, muttered words spread about the room like fire, and Lairas cursed again as he raised the bowl of stew to his lips to drink the last delicious juices.

He made to stand, and something cracked against his shoulder, knocking him sideways and making him stagger away from the table. He looked to where the something had clunked against the floor, and saw it was an empty tankard.

He looked around, trying to identify who had thrown it, but the crowd was angry now, on the verge of surging forward to attack, his words having dramatically changed the atmosphere. He was a stranger in this town, and if there was even a hint of threat, they wouldn’t- they shouldn’t- hesitate to drive him out.

And in fairness, the thought wasn’t unfounded. He had a spirit of Slaughter hiding in his soul - that was an inherently dangerous state of being.

He made for the door with haste, before the crowd could turn more violent, and stumbled out on the worn road beside the building.

It was later now, almost time for Illumina to rise, and shadows cast stretching fingers of darkness across every building.

He would have to move on, tonight. And despite the way they had turned on him so suddenly, he didn’t want to curse them with the attention of the Hunters.

But he couldn’t just do as Slaughter had advised, could he? He had vowed not to take life senselessly, not when there was another way.

His eyes alighted on a chicken coop, and he remembered the vision of the slaughterhouse he had seen, back when he had thrust his selfhood into Slaughter’s core.

There was another way - a halfway point between the spirit’s suggestion and his own conscience. It wasn’t ideal, but… perhaps it was better than the alternative.

He sighed and walked towards the chicken coop, Slaughter’s haze seeping from his body as he did so.