The 12th day of Sun's Wane in the year 1015 AE.
"Stupid roads!" The curse, raspy and thick with frustration, ripped through the sparse woods, startling a flock of crows into wild flight.
Lucan Thalor trudged down the winding muddy path, his heavy boots sinking into the muddy earth with a squelch. Every step was a slog, his armor creaking in protest, turning him into a moving statue. Iron clad, blood streaked, and absolutely fuming.
"This is the third time I've gotten turned around!" he growled, raking a gloved hand through his damp, sweat matted dusty blonde hair. "How the hell does a road just disappear?!" He slammed his boot against a gnarled tree root, the muted thud echoing his boiling frustration.
"Three days in this gods forsaken forest! Bandits, beasts, a fucking orc, and now I've lost my godsdamned helmet!" Lucan spun around, his faint violet eyes, sharp yet weary, scanning the trees as if the cherished piece of gear might simply be hanging from a branch like fruit. "I liked that helmet…" His voice dropped into a bitter mutter. "...fit good, didn't chafe. Bastards…"
At 6'5", Lucan was an imposing figure, though his current state spoke more of relentless survival than polished might. His battlecscarred half plate armor, a heavy shell of overlapping plates and dark, worn fabric, was barely holding together.
The dull metal encasing his torso, shoulders, and arms was deeply dented, scuffed, and caked with the grime of hard travel. Every mark a was record of blows absorbed from blades, claws, or blunt force.
Beneath the solid plates, thick, dark under layers of worn leather and quilted gambeson were visible, grimy and in places, even torn. A practical belt at his waist held his clinking alchemical equipment, while a tattered skirt of heavy, darkened leather fabric, stained with dust and mud, extended below his armor's segmented fauld, offering mobility at the cost of less leg protection.
The absence of his helmet, a recent and particularly galling loss, exposed his sharp, half elven face fully to the elements. His pointed ears as prominent as any other elven person.
He reached down to his waist and adjusted the scabbard of his longsword. The weapon, notably longer than standard blades to complement his imposing height, was iron forged and brutal. The kind of blade meant for efficiency and powerful strikes.
This weapon, like his missing helmet, was a reminder of the caravan. He'd been traveling through the treacherous Ironfang Pass with a merchant caravan for some time, seeking passage into the West.
That journey had come to a horrifying end when a monstrous beast of myth, something he still couldn't quite put a name to, had emerged from the mountains, slaughtering everyone. Lucan had barely escaped, carrying the scars of that encounter, including the sudden, jarring loss of his helmet in the chaos.
Now, the quiet hiss of the mountain wind was his only companion, and the constant, gnawing emptiness in his stomach a grim reminder that his rations were running dangerously low. The worn sack slung over his shoulder felt alarmingly light, its precious herbs and ingredients dwindling with each passing day. He pulled a worn map from his waistband, creased, stained, and fraying, its charcoal marks denoting his route barely legible, smeared by sweat and blood.
"Right, let's see here…" he murmured aloud, tracing a smudged line with a gloved finger. "Passed the Godspine... crossed into the Evermarch... If this damned parchment's not lying to me, Dunmire should be close."
His destination was Dunmire, a keep town situated far to the north of the Ironfang Pass and some miles north of the main body of Lake Thornmere, though its expansive waters still bordered other noble houses in the distance.
Dunmire itself bordered the strategic Arteniheim Pass, a crucial strong point that led directly towards the lands of the Eastern Empire, a testament to its immense importance. He estimated the keep was now only a mile or two away from the very mouth of that pass.
His stomach clenched, a hollow ache. He instinctively reached a gloved hand down to press against it. "Starving," he rasped, the word tasting like dust in his mouth. "Must be close. The winds are getting stronger." He pushed on, the promise of Dunmire almost palpable in the biting gusts, his gaze fixed on the unseen keep that awaited him down the winding trail.
He walked for a couple more hours, the winding path slowly bringing him out of the densest woods. The lake's distant shores soon vanished behind him, replaced by the imposing, jagged silhouettes of the Godspine Mountains looming larger in the near distance, their peaks a brutal crown against the sky.
Then, he saw it. Up ahead on the winding path, a large wagon lay stuck precariously on its side, tilted into a ditch. A small caravan of people, nine at most, moved about the wreckage, their voices rising in agitated argument and strained debate about how to fix the broken wheel, which lay a short distance away, splintered beyond immediate repair.
Lucan approached, his armor's familiar clinking sound carrying on the wind, causing some of the arguing figures to fall silent and turn. As he drew closer, he raised a gloved hand in a simple, open gesture. "Hail!" he called out, his voice a low rumble.
The rest of the conversation ceased. All eyes were on him now. Some recoiled slightly, taking in his rugged appearance, the battered armor, the sheer height. They shifted nervously, their hands hovering near tools or hidden knives.
But then, one man, who had been kneeling, clad in half plate and chainmail, stood up. His own longsword hung at his hip, and he met Lucan's approaching form with a steady, assessing gaze.
"Hail, sir," the armored man replied, his voice firm.
Lucan came to a stop a few paces from the group, the guard's hand resting casually on his sword pommel, a clear signal of caution. "I see you have some issues," Lucan said, gesturing with a nod towards the broken wheel.
The man grimaced, running a hand through his short, practical hair. "We do, indeed. Cart hit a bump, a wooden bracket on the wheel broke, and the damn thing veered off the road straight into a ditch." He sighed, frustration heavy in his tone.
A man spoke up to the captain, "Sir Thorne! Why are you telling him this! What if hes dangerous!" He said clutching a wooden hammer in his hand. The captain rasied his hand, "It's okay Fillipe. He's fine, and even if he's dangerous, there nine of us and one of him." The tension fading slightly. Lucan stared at them before speaking up.
"Tell me," Lucan continued, "is Dunmire close? Been wandering these roads for quite some time."
The guard nodded, a flicker of understanding in his eyes as his gaze momentarily dropped to Lucan's alchemical belt. "Aye, 'tis just up the road. Another hour or so, if you keep a good pace." He paused, his expression shifting to one of curiosity. "Say, you an alchemist?"
"I am," Lucan confirmed simply. "Dunmire sent for me weeks back, been a long trip."
A slow smile spread across the guard's face, and the tension seemed to bleed from the small group. The merchants and common folk, seeing Lucan as no longer a threat but a potential solution, relaxed, some even murmuring in relief. The guard extended a gauntleted hand. "Well met, Sir Alchemist. Captain Thorne Ironhide, of the Stonecrows mercenary company."
Lucan's eyes widened, just barely. The Stonecrows. Their name was indeed well known, stretching throughout the Evermarch and even whispered as far as the Riverholds. A large, reputable mercenary company, known for their grim efficiency and unbreakable contracts. He gripped the captain's hand firmly. "Lucan Thalor. An alchemist, as you say."
Captain Thorne gave a low, rumbling laugh, his gaze sweeping over Lucan's powerful frame and the scarred armor. "An alchemist, aye. But you look like more than just a man who dabbles in tinctures, Master Thalor. With all due respect, you look like you've seen more steel than any laboratory."
Lucan offered a rare, wry smile, a brief flash of humor that softened his harsh features. "Perhaps," he admitted, a quiet chuckle escaping him. "And you, Captain? A man of your reputation guarding a single wagon? Where are your men?"
Thorne sighed, his earlier frustration returning. "Ah, the joys of noble contracts. The lord who hired us for protection neglected to mention this second cart in the paperwork. Said it was 'unforeseen cargo.' So I spread my men out to guard the other ones, while I take this cursed load myself." He gestured vaguely at the wagon. "Just my luck."
"You must be a capable swordsman, then," Lucan remarked, assessing the captain's confident posture.
Thorne chuckled again, a deep sound. "Perhaps," he drawled, a hint of genuine pride in his tone. He then looked at Lucan, his eyes glinting with a shrewd offer. "Look, we're stuck here until this wheel is fixed. It's a heavy wagon, and it needs a strong back and maybe some ingenuity. If you lend us your strength, and perhaps a touch of your alchemical insight if you've got it, we'd be more than happy to offer you a ride into town. Save you a few more hours of this delightful road."
Lucan considered the offer for a moment, the warmth of a fire, the promise of food, and the clear path to Dunmire without further wandering. "Alright, ain't exactly an engineer but I'll give it a shot," he said, a touch of relief in his voice.
Without another word, Lucan shed his sack. He moved towards the broken wheel, his eyes already assessing the damage, rotted brackets. The merchants, sensing the efficiency of a man used to getting things done, quickly rallied, helping to calm the nervous horses and clear space.
Together, under Thorne's direction and Lucan's quiet, focused assistance, they began the arduous task of fixing the wheel. Fixing the bracket with newly carved pieces of wood. Lifting the wheel and cart. Sliding the wheel back on, hammering it into place.
With the wheel finally secured and the horses calmed, the wagon was soon back on the road. Lucan clambered into the back, his armor clinking as he settled onto a rough bench. Captain Thorne and a couple of the merchants piled in beside him.
But to his surprise, there was another figure already there, cloaked and silent, with the unmistakable delicate build of a woman. Lucan offered a brief nod in greeting as he sat, the woman merely returned it with a small, almost imperceptible dip of her head.
As the wagon began its slow roll forward, Captain Thorne turned to Lucan, a more relaxed air about him now that their immediate crisis was averted. "So, Lucan Thalor, was it? You mentioned a long trip. Where do you hail from, then? That tongue sounds like the southern trade speak."
"Myria. The Riverholds," Lucan replied, keeping his voice even.
Thorne hummed, his gaze once more sweeping over Lucan's battered half plate. "The Riverholds, aye. But your attire... it's a strange garb for an alchemist, even from those mercantile lands. Most of your kind prefer robes, or at least less... worn armor."
Lucan gave a slight nod. "I'd say I'm more than just an alchemist, Captain."
Thorne let out another low laugh, a genuine rumble. "Aye, I can see that. A man carries himself like you do, he's seen more than dusty reagents." He grew more serious then, his voice dropping slightly. "Things have been strange out here recently. Worse than usual. Beasts from the woods, bigger and bolder. And the banditry... it's gotten organized. Towns folk whisper about monsters in the old glades now, not just wolves."
Lucan's interest, which had been piqued at the mention of the Stonecrows, sharpened considerably at the word 'monsters.'
"Really?" he prompted, leaning forward slightly.
Thorne nodded, grim. "Aye. Young Prince Rowan, bless his heart, he's trying. Took control of the keep not long ago, fresh from Cairnheart. But he's hitting roadblocks. Seems the local lords in the area aren't as eager to help as the King might wish."
The captain sighed, casting a glance towards the woman in the cloak, then back to Lucan. "Maybe that's why he had to outsource for an alchemist. Not many are willing to come all the way out here to Dunmire, especially after... well, after the last one."
"The missive I was given mentioned as much," Lucan confirmed, recalling the parchment.
Thorne nodded. "My squad, we were sourced from the capital itself, out here by the Arteniheim Pass. My commander gave me thirty men for this posting, good lads. Most of 'em are already settled in Dunmire."
He let out a weary chuckle. "Honestly, though, I'm just a mercenary looking for coin. These local politics, the Prince's struggles... something doesn't sit right about it all, but it's not my place to untangle."
Lucan offered a small laugh, a dry sound, as he considered the captain's words. It wasn't just the cold that made him shiver now. He shifted, his gaze subtly drifting towards the cloaked woman in the corner of the wagon, who he noticed was watching him with an unnerving stillness.
Thorne followed his gaze. "Say, who are you, miss? You've been traveling with us for a while now, but you've barely said a word."
The woman slowly turned her head, her face still mostly obscured by the deep hood. Her voice was surprisingly soft, yet clear. "I'm just a traveler," she said, her gaze flickering to Lucan, "trying to reach Dunmire. Like this elf here."
Thorne nodded. "Cryptic. Well can't blame yah. These parts are dangerous..." He pasued turning to Lucan, "Speaking of the elf, you are quite big for one."
Lucan gave a shrug, a smile touching his lips. "I get it from my mother," he said. The wagon continued its slow, steady roll, the road finally less treacherous, as they at last rumbled towards the visible outline of Dunmire town in the fading light.