A deep, tranquil forest hummed with nature's pulse—the rustling bushes swayed in the faint wind with soft whispers of leaves brushing leaves, grass glowed a vibrant green underfoot as thick moss clung to ancient trees like velvety blankets, their gnarled branches stretching toward the heavens in twisted arches that filtered the sunlight into dappled patterns. Sunlight streamed through the canopy in golden rays that pierced the leaves with a serene, mesmerizing glare, warming the air and casting shifting shadows that danced across the forest floor. Calm. Clear. Balanced. Yet two figures trudged through this evergreen haven, their boots crunching on fallen twigs and underbrush, shielding their eyes from the dazzling gleam with raised hands or squinted lids, the air thick with the sweet vanilla bark scent mingling with aromatic herbs that prickled the nose and soothed the lungs.
One strode with swagger—Omaar, his hair like wild storm clouds tousled by the breeze, eyes sharp as daggers glinting as the scanned the woodland, a weathered poncho draped over his shoulders fluttering lightly with each step, a sleek blade sheathed at his waist bumping against his hip. A swagger fueled his every motion, as he flipped over topped trees with a silent grace as his eyes paced back and forth. The other, Tengune, lumbered beside him with heavier strides—a beastman cloaked in loose, flowing robes that whispered against his golden fur matting his humanoid frame in plush waves. Clawed hands and feet gripped the earth with tentative scratches, jagged teeth like a shark's peeking from his maw, and three heads crowned in form—though two hung dormant, eyes closed in slumber, their furred heads limp and jutting out his large neck against his shoulders. His stride faltered at times, lacking the same grace as omaar as he crudely hopped over each obstacle despite the wooden staff etched with glowing runes clutched in one paw and a thick red tome bound in cracked leather tucked on his belt, its pages occasionally rustling.
"Hero?!" Omaar laughed, his voice cutting through the stillness like a sharp crack of thunder, echoing off the trunks and scattering a flock of hidden birds into frantic flight. "And you think you can be one?"
"Of course!" Tengune shot back, his ears twitching atop his central head with a flick, voice rumbling deep from his broad chest. "Anyone can be a hero."
Omaar smirked, lips curling slyly as he twirled his dagger between his fingers with effortless spins, the metal flashing in the sunlight. "Oh? And what's a hero to you? Some mutt howling for justice?"
"It's not about perfection," Tengune argued, gripping his staff tighter, claws digging into the wood with faint scratches that left rune imprints glowing briefly. "It's about doing what's right."
"Right?" Omaar snickered, the musing sound light, his poncho swaying as he gestured dismissively. "Heroes need charm. And you? You've got all the charm of a wet mongrel."
Tengune's fur bristled along his neck, golden strands standing on end like a ruffled mane, a low growl vibrating in his throat. "The guild licenses all kinds. They'll judge me by my actions—my justice, beast or not."
"Justice, huh?" Omaar sighed, patronizing tone dripping like honeyed venom, his eyes rolling skyward. "They'll take one look at you and toss you in a circus. And what's 'just' mean, anyway?"
"Justice is action," Tengune countered, voice firm and resolute, his staff tapping the ground with a solid thunk that sent a ripple through the moss. "Helping those in need—that's what's right. Everyone knows right and wrong in their bones, no matter what they claim."
Omaar rolled his eyes again, the motion exaggerated, his dagger still spinning idly. "Right and wrong is a concept often proven false. If what you say is true, different lands wouldn't have different rules. Your 'justice' is just a fancy coat to strut in."
"Maybe," Tengune said, undeterred, his dormant heads shifting slightly, "but when bandits burn a village, and a farmer stands his ground, he's right—hero or not."
"A dime a dozen," Omaar scoffed, waving a hand lazily, the air stirring with his gesture. "Bards don't sing for the 'right.' They sing for winners. A hero's always a villain to someone."
Tengune frowned, brows furrowing deeply over his golden eyes, a faint snarl curling his lips. "You think it's all about winning?"
"Yes," Omaar asserted, smirking wider, teeth flashing white. "Win, and the songs write themselves. Everyone follows a talented victor—nobody trails an unfortunate loser."
"Even if that's true," Tengune growled, the sound building like rising tides, his claws flexing around the staff until the wood creaked, "it's not talent that matters—it's work. You call your scams 'talent'? Even a rat could con with that silver tongue."
Omaar's smirk faltered for a split second, eyes narrowing to slits, the dagger pausing mid-twirl. "What'd you say?"
"You heard me," Tengune snickered, a rough, barking laugh that shook his frame. "Plenty out there could outdo you—they just never got the shot. Your 'talent' means nothing without luck."
"Those nobodies can't touch me," Omaar laughed, resuming the spin of his dagger with renewed flair, the blade whistling faintly through the air. "Talent's not just skill—it's making everyone believe you're the best. And I do. You? You're just one of these talentless, banging his head on a wall, hoping someone notices."
"Excuse you?!" Tengune barked, claws flexing fully now, his tomb shifting under his waist with a soft thud against his side, a primal glare flashing in his eyes like embers igniting.
"You heard me," Omaar lectured, voice turning cold and cutting, stepping closer with a lean. "You toil away, dreaming of hero statues, but you'll die as you lived—a footnote. No songs, no glory, just a beast who tried too hard. Look how you flare up when I call you out—nobody wants to be a loser, beast."
Tengune's growl deepened, the dormant heads twitching faintly, his tomb flaring with a sudden crimson glow that bathed the surrounding ferns in bloody light, fire whirling around him in spiraling tendrils that singed the air with heat and the scent of ozone. "I can show you who's a loser—right now if you prefer!"
Omaar drew his dagger fully, the blade sliding free with a metallic hiss, smirking challengingly. "All that firepower, and still second best. Come make my day."
Tengune's tome glowed brighter, pages fluttering wildly as if caught in an unseen wind, flames licking his claws with hungry crackles, his eyes wild and unfocused. He swung the staff in a wide arc, clawed hands hovering in the air, but a deep rumble shook the forest suddenly, vibrating through the roots and silencing them both, leaves trembling overhead. Yellow eyes gleamed from the shadows between the trees, a massive presence closing in—silent footsteps padding closer, the ground trembling faintly under its weight.
"Great," Omaar muttered, sheathing his dagger with a frustrated snap, eyes darting to the underbrush. "Your tantrum got us spotted. Nice going, beast."
"Shut up and focus," Tengune snarled, writing a line of runes with his finger into the air, mana forming a glowing text that swirled into Tengune's hand. Flame erupted and engulfed his paw in a roaring whoosh, flames dancing wildly as a lionel burst into the clearing—a towering behemoth of muscle and fury, gray fur matted like armored plates, wild eyes hungry, fangs dripping saliva in thick strands, its roar shaking the canopy and sending birds exploding into the sky.
It pounced with earth-shaking force, claws extended like scythes. Tengune shoved Omaar aside with a powerful thrust, his robes whipping, unleashing a roaring blast of fire that scorched the air with a deafening crackle. The lionel dodged with unnatural swiftness, a specter of gray blur twisting mid-leap, landing with a thud that cratered the soil. Tengune snarled, baring his jagged teeth, "Stay still, damn you!" His staff slammed the earth with a resonant boom, cracking the ground in spiderwebbing fissures, flames flaring up his arm in explosive bursts that charred nearby vines, his eyes wild with battle frenzy—until he shook himself, panting hot breaths, "No… focus, calm." He swung the staff in a precise arc, cracking the beast's skull with a sickening crunch that sprayed blood in a misty arc, but it lunged undeterred, jaws snapping inches from his throat with fetid breath. Tengune danced backward with agile footwork, staff whirling in defensive strikes that thudded against fur and bone, parrying each savage advance with grunts of effort, until its fury overwhelmed him—the lionel's paw slamming him down, pinning him with crushing weight, staff wedged horizontally in its maw as saliva dripped hot onto his fur.
"Help!" Tengune roared, voice strained, muscles bulging as he held the jaws at bay.
"Thought you had it," Omaar laughed, leaning casually against a tree trunk, arms crossed, the bark rough under his poncho.
"Situation's changed—help!" Tengune hissed through clenched teeth, the staff creaking under the pressure.
Omaar sighed dramatically, pushing off the tree with a fluid motion, charging with assassin's grace—footsteps silent on the moss—as he stabbed the lionel's side with a wet schlick, blade sinking deep into flesh. It howled in agony, a piercing wail that echoed through the trees, swiping at him with massive claws that whistled through the air. Omaar parried with his dagger, the metal clanging sharply, weaving through the flurry like a shadow, dodging and countering with precise slashes that drew crimson lines. Tengune got up and circled warily, seeking an opening amid the chaos, fur singed and breath ragged, as Omaar vanished in a blur—then dropped from a low branch above with a rustle of leaves, plunging his dagger into the beast's spine with a gruesome crack. Blood gushed in hot spurts, soaking the ground in sticky pools, the lionel thrashing wildly in its death throes, limbs flailing and uprooting saplings. Tengune seized his chance—weaving another set of runes, a torrent of flame erupting from his palm in a hellish inferno that carved through the forest with roaring heat, charring bark and filling the air with acrid smoke. Omaar leapt clear with acrobatic flips, landing in a crouch as the lionel charred to a broken husk, its final whimpers fading into crackling silence.
"You nearly torched my poncho!" Omaar snapped, brushing embers from the fabric with irritated slaps, the scent of singed wool rising.
"My bad," Tengune growled, wiping sweat from his brow with a furred paw, flames dying down around him. "I aimed for both of you."
They approached the smoldering beast cautiously, its chest heaving faintly in labored rasps, eyes dimming. "Leave it," Tengune said, voice heavy, staff planted firm. "We've won."
"And lose our proof?" Omaar smirked, kneeling to inspect the carcass, fingers probing the wounds. "Lionel parts fetch good coin."
"It's not stock, you ass—it's alive," Tengune protested, though his tone wavered, eyes flickering with lingering adrenaline.
"Leave it to bleed out slowly, then," Omaar reasoned coldly, driving his dagger into its skull with a final, merciful crunch that ended the gasps. "Now it's at peace. But I'm the heartless."
Tengune glared, blue eyes narrowing, storming off with heavy thuds that crushed ferns underfoot. "You not going to help carry it?" Omaar barked after him, wiping blood from his blade on the lionel's fur. No reply came, only the rustle of Tengune vanishing into the trees.
Quest Complete.
Omaar and Tengune dragged the lionel's heavy corpse from the forest's embrace, muscles straining under the dead weight as they loaded it onto a creaking wooden cart with grunts and heaves—the wheels groaning in protest, axles splintering faintly under the bulk. Laborious work under the young blue sky, sweat beading on their brows and trickling down in salty trails, birds soaring overhead in lazy circles with melodic chirps, wildflowers perfuming the air with sweet nectar as a nearby river danced beneath a rickety bridge, its waters babbling over smooth stones in joyful splashes.
"Who's hauling this?" Omaar asked, smirking slyly as he gripped the handles loosely, poncho flapping in the breeze.
"A hero like you'd be eager," Tengune grinned back, though his paws ached, claws digging into the wood for leverage.
"We're both pulling, dummy," he added, and Omaar sighed with mock exasperation, "Damn," as they tugged in unison—muscles burning, breaths syncing in rhythmic huffs. They began pulling the load along a rocky path, stones clattering under the wheels, the cart jolting with each bump. They sang melodies to pass the time, voices harmonizing roughly over the creak of the cart, tapping the wood to the rhythm with knuckles or claws, heads nodding as vast fields of green rolled by in waves of emerald under the sun, butterflies fluttering in colorful clouds.
They paused at a weathered statue beside the path—a hero lost to time, imposing and wise, carved from moss-covered stone with a sword raised eternally, vines creeping over its base like loving embraces—next to a wooden sign etched with glowing runes, pocked with tiny holes that hummed faintly. Tengune traced a spiral tree symbol with his claw, the wood warm under his touch, and it flared too bright with a sudden burst of light that spat sparks into the air, sizzling on the grass. "Calm down, damn it," he growled, jerking back with a yelp as the sign spun on its post with a whirring grind, pointing south: Wyrmwood Village, the letters glowing briefly before fading.
"Why bother?" Omaar asked, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "We know the way."
"Can't be too sure," Tengune replied, dropping sunflower seeds into the sign's holes one by one—they vanished inside with soft plops, absorbed by little critters who dragged it back inside. "Especially since you got us lost last time."
"Are you challenged!? You lost the map!" Omaar barked, gripping the cart handles tighter, veins bulging.
"Wouldn't have needed it if you'd followed the signs," Tengune snapped back, cut off mid-retort by thunderous footsteps that shook the earth. A large lizard-like beast with stone for skin and glittering gems embedded in its spine barreled past on the parallel path, pulling a massive cart laden with ores, its scales barbed and ridged like ancient armor, claws massive and scraping furrows in the dirt, breath huffing in steamy gusts.
"What was that?" Omaar muttered, eyes wide as the creature thundered away, dust clouding in its wake.
"Sandstone basilisk," Tengune said, recognizing the jagged horns and glowing eyes. "A Desert-dweller. An odd sight here—must be trade from the western dunes."
"Far from home then," Omaar sighed, shaking his head. "Let's move—I grew tired of this two hours ago."
"Pull your weight, then," Tengune snarled, and they trudged on with renewed effort, passing a battle-scarred memorial stone etched with faded names of fallen warriors, wildflowers blooming at its base, and a distant farm where children played in golden wheat fields, their laughter carrying on the wind like chimes. A wooded path loomed ahead, trees arching overhead like a natural gateway, branches intertwining in a leafy canopy. With heads high despite the strain and their prize in tow, cart wheels rumbling, they entered Wyrmwood Village—safe, sound, the familiar scent of pine and hearth smoke welcoming them home.
Wyrmwood nestled within towering trees that formed natural walls, wooden twisting street lamps and stone paths weaving through its districts in harmonious curves, lit by firefly lanterns that hovered in glass orbs of those lamps, glowing softly with bioluminescent pulses. Greenery seeped into every corner—vines climbing walls, flowers blooming from cracks in the cobblestones—leaves drifting in an elegant dance on the gentle breeze, a tranquil equilibrium of nature and habitation. Omaar and Tengune hauled their cart to the central plaza, the wheels clattering over uneven stones, villagers greeting Omaar with cheers and claps on the back, kids scattering with excited shrieks as parents waved warmly, stalls bustling with the sizzle of meat on grills, the glint of trinkets and potions in vials—all carved from familiar bark or infused with forest herbs, the air rich with roasting spices and herbal brews.
At the center, beneath an ancient rune-etched tree whose bark pulsed faintly with inner light, roots sprawling like protective arms, they set down the lionel with a heavy thud that echoed across the plaza. A crowd gathered swiftly—laughter bubbling, chatter swelling with awe and relief, hands pointing at the massive carcass. "Phew," Omaar gasped, wiping his brow with a dramatic flourish. "Took longer than I thought."
"I'm just glad it's over," Tengune sighed, eyes drifting to the familiar faces, a mix of pride and weariness in his gaze.
Omaar glanced at him sidelong, interrupted by a bearded, rotund man in flowing cotton robes that strained at his belly, striding forward with booming steps. "Omaar, Tengune!" he bellowed, voice jolly and resonant. "Quite a catch!"
"Well, we did the work, and I'll remind you it wasn't for free," Omaar grunted, crossing his arms.
"Of course," the chief laughed, belly shaking with mirth. "Though your parents decide that, Omaar. Talk your way out of it, eh?"
"Working on it," Omaar muttered under his breath, eyes flicking away.
"Even Grey can't win against Hansi!" the chief cackled, slapping his knee. "But today, you're champions—vanquishers of the beast plaguing our woods!" Cheers erupted from the crowd, mugs raised in toasts, the air filling with the clink of pottery and joyous shouts.
"What's the plan?" Tengune asked, shifting his weight, staff leaning against his shoulder.
"You figure it out," Omaar smirked, already stepping back. "I've got my funds. Sell it—you need the coin."
"Fine," Tengune sighed, gripping the cart handles again. "We're off tomorrow?"
"First light on the new sky, yeah, we're out of here," Omaar confirmed, nodding toward the horizon.
"Don't get held up, mommy's boy," Tengune teased with a toothy grin, but Omaar was already swarmed by villagers—hands clapping his back, questions flying. "Could at least help pull it," Tengune grumbled to himself, starting off toward the market with determined tugs, the cart rumbling behind him.
The chief patted his shoulder firmly, the touch warm. "You're too old to sulk, lad. You are home and safe—that alone is worthy of celebration."
"I'm fine," Tengune nodded, though his eyes scanned the crowd warily. "Just figuring out how to sell this."
"Take it to Carl," the chief advised, pointing toward a stall with a bloodied apron hanging outside. "He's expecting it, and don't worry—there'll be no trouble this time."
"There's always trouble," Tengune sighed, pulling the cart toward the market with creaking wheels.
The market buzzed with life—folk bartering in animated voices, coins clinking into pouches with metallic jingles, signs pricing goods at 10 or 25 psyche in bold carvings, the air thick with the sizzle of meats, the tang of herbs, and the earthy scent of fresh produce. Villagers parted for Tengune reluctantly, their space suffocating with stares and whispers that prickled his fur, murmurs of "beast" and "monster" blending in the din. He reached Carl's stall, the butcher's apron blood-stained and reeking of iron, the air foul with raw meat and spilled booze that made his nose wrinkle. Carl's eyes widened in recognition, then narrowed, spitting a glob of phlegm near Tengune's feet with a wet splat. "That's far enough! What do you want, beastman?"
"Chief said you'd buy the lionel," Tengune said, gripping his staff tightly, knuckles paling under fur. "So I came to deliver it."
"Consider it delivered, now off with you," Carl barked, grabbing a rusty saw from his bench with a grating scrape, the teeth glinting dully.
"Aren't you forgetting the coin?" Tengune growled, voice deepening.
"Beasts don't need coin!" Carl sneered, leaning over the counter with booze-breath wafting as the thud rattled a long bottle on the counter labeled a Lazuline. "Take some dog food to your farmer's tray, furrling—you won't get a piece out of me."
Tengune's growl rumbled low and menacing, claws baring with a sharp click, tome in hand glowing faintly—until a voice shouted through the crowd, "Tengune!" An elf raced through, blonde hair flying in golden streams, green eyes glinting with joy and concern. She hugged him tight, her arms wrapping around his broad frame, floral scent of wildflowers and fresh bread washing away his rage in a soothing wave. "I heard you're back—safe too! Why didn't you tell me?!"
"Rem," Tengune mumbled, blushing beneath his fur, a warmth spreading through his chest as he returned the hug awkwardly with one paw. "Meant to find you, but I got held up."
"You snag a catch like this and don't brag?" she pouted, pulling back but keeping hands on his hands, eyes sparkling. "I'm hurt. I thought I'd find you up on a rock with your chest puffed out."
"I'll make it up to you," he promised, voice softening, a smile cracking his maw.
"Get back, Remina!" Carl snapped, waving his saw threateningly. "Don't blame me if he eats you!"
Tengune tensed, fur bristling again, but Remina slapped Carl hard across the face already—the crack echoing sharply, Carl reeling with a yelp. "Pay him 1,000 psyche, or my father the chieftain hears of this," she glared, stance fierce.
Carl sweated profusely, beads rolling down his reddened cheek, tossing a bulging pouch with trembling hands. "300—take it, beast."
Tengune sighed, pocketing it with a clink of coins, and walked off, Remina trailing close with light steps. "Thanks," she smiled up at him, linking her arm with his.
At the plaza's steps, Tengune walked with his ears flapped low and steps heavy, the weight of the day pressing like stones, until Remina pounced playfully onto his back with a giggle, wrapping arms around his neck. "Will you stop by for dinner tonight? I'm making soup—your favorite, with extra herbs."
"Maybe later," Tengune said, steadying her with a paw, though his voice warmed. "I have some things at home to sort out first, but I'll come by."
"I'll save you a spot," she laughed, hopping down and waving, heading back toward the plaza with a lingering gaze over her shoulder, her dress swirling.
Omaar waited higher up the steps, leaning against the wall half-covered in shadow, poncho blending with the dim. Tengune turned and caught Omaar's frowning gaze, jumping with a startled gasp, heart skipping.
"Stop doing that all the time," Tengune grunted, fur settling.
"I was here first," Omaar sighed, pushing off the wall with a casual stretch. "The selling go okay?"
"Fine," Tengune growled, though his pouch jingled feintly. "Would've flamed that bastard for 'furrling.'"
"Told her you're leaving?" Omaar asked, eyes sharp.
"No," Tengune mumbled, looking away, paws fidgeting with his staff.
"Coward," Omaar smirked, turning to walk.
"Not that simple," Tengune snapped, storming past with thundering steps. "I'll tell her at dawn—after them."
"She'll handle it," Omaar said, heading east along a winding path. The chief approached from the corner, bearing a wide, soft smile that crinkled his beard. "He's been through a lot, you know—are you sure he's ready?"
"He'll manage," Omaar replied confidently. "Worst case, I'll fetch him myself."
Tengune neared his caretakers' cottage at the village edge, steps faltering on the worn path, staff tapping unsteadily against stones with erratic clacks. A murmur slipped out—soft, broken, almost a whimper—his paw brushing his neck where an old scar hidden under fur itched faintly. His tomb pulsed with a subtle warmth, a shadow crossing his face as he took a deep breath, eyes firm yet a frown forming as he opened the doors with a groan of wood..
Omaar climbed the eastern steps carved into a hill, entering a secluded grove where blue-leaved trees sang in the sunset's golden hue, their leaves rustling melodies that harmonized with the evening birds. His home stood apart—simple wood panels shifting alive with faint creaks as if breathing, obsidian stones lining its base in smooth, glossy rows. Uninviting to outsiders, yet comforting to him, the scent of home-cooked meals wafting from within.
The door flew open with a bang, an elf rushing out—her cloudy hair wild and flowing like mist, eyes soft but frame solid and muscular. Hansi crushed him in a hug that lifted him slightly off the ground. "Thank the Nine you're safe—you're in trouble!"
"Whatever for, Mother?" Omaar smirked, unmoved but enduring, his poncho crumpling under her grip.
"Hunting monsters without a lecture?" she nagged, pulling back to wag a finger. "What were you thinking, going out in the wilds like that? At least have your father supervise to make—"
"Got you these," he said, offering Wystarian seeds from his pouch—shimmering orbs that pulsed faintly. Her eyes lit up like stars, snatching them with eager hands and holding them high in the sunlight, the seeds casting rainbow refractions.
"Where did you find these?" she gasped, voice breathless. "I've scoured the forest for ages and I could never—" She looked down to find empty air, turning to see Omaar slipping inside the house with silent steps, leaving her moping with a pout, seeds clutched to her chest as she dragged her feet and followed him inside.
Within, blue flames flickered in the hearth with crackling pops, casting azure light across the room, flowers sparking in floating bulbs that hovered like lanterns, bark and blooms overgrowing the walls in a living tapestry of vines and petals. The sunset glowed through the windows in warm oranges, a wooden clock on the wall ticking to 19:30 with steady chimes.
Omaar stepped into the backyard through a creaking door, the air cooler and filled with the scent of earth and ruby-centered flowers blooming in clusters. He found an elf on a weathered bench, fiddling with one such flower—his father's sharp eyes flicking up briefly, then back to the flora, hunched over in focus, short straight hair flickering in the breeze like silver threads. Grey's golden freckles gleamed in the falling sunlight as he sat silent and sturdy, using a pair of tweezers to delicately pry the ruby out of the flower's center with precise twists, adding it to a growing pile in a bucket with soft clinks, then picking up another bloom.
"A deal's a deal," Omaar said, tossing a Lionel fang at his feet—it landed with a sharp ting on the stone path.
"I told you, what you do's your business," Grey grunted, voice gravelly, not looking up as the tweezers clicked. "Just don't kill your mother with worry."
"I'm leaving tomorrow," Omaar stated flatly, crossing his arms.
"Do as you please," Grey replied, finally meeting his gaze with those piercing eyes. "Just make your body easy to find—she'll want it cremated."
"A boat downstream is more my style," Omaar smirked. They shared a quiet chuckle, the sound mingling with the family of chirping birds above, echoing softly in the grove.
"Dinner!" Hansi yelled from inside, ladle in hand banging against a pot with metallic clangs. "And I didn't make it for myself—get your arses in here." Grey patted Omaar's shoulder with a firm thump—"Good luck"—and went in with steady strides. Omaar followed, breathing the woodland air deeply, the scents of stew wafting out.
Moonlight bathed the village in silvery glow, firefly lanterns glowing brighter in the night, their lights pulsing like stars. The family ate stew in silence at a wooden table scarred from years, steam rising in fragrant curls of herbs and meat, Hansi smiling faintly as she ladled seconds. "Mother, I'm leaving tomorrow," Omaar said suddenly, spoon pausing mid-air.
She froze, spoon clattering to the bowl with a splash. "Excuse me?"
"Leaving the village, at first light," he repeated.
She leapt up with a scrape of her chair, darting round the table and grabbing him by the shoulders, shaking him vigorously. "You just got here! I taught you better!"
"Not staying in this foul den," he asserted, voice steady despite the jostling.
"Then we'll move somewhere better," she pleaded, eyes wide. "You don't need to go."
"I'm leaving—end of story."
"How could you abandon us for riches and fable?" she bellowed, voice cracking. "You'll die out there!"
"I took down a lionel," he scoffed, brushing her hands off. "I'll manage."
"Worse things lurk beyond than a lionel, boy," she cried, tears welling. "Stay here, grow up, get married, be happy here, where it's… safe."
"Don't want to," he said firmly. "The world runs on psyche—roads, armies, gods. I'd hold the purse strings then waste away here, doomed to perish in this thicket."
"Your greed will damn you," she warned, voice trembling. "The Nine—"
"Let them strike me down—I'll buy my way back," he laughed, the sound sharp. "You sound like a priest always preaching moderation. If greed is a sin, then why do the richest men sleep the soundest?"
"Grey, talk to him!" she sobbed, turning to her husband.
"He's no boy," Grey said, finishing his stew with a final slurp, wiping his mouth. "He's dug his pit—let him jump. He'll find no gold at the bottom, just spears. It's his choice to take the plunge."
Hansi slumped, walking round the table and sitting down with a heavy thud that shook the dishes, speechless, her face buried in her hands as Omaar and Grey shared an exhausted glance. A knock interrupted the dinner—sharp raps on the door. Omaar drew his dagger in a fluid motion, weaving over to the door with silentsteps as Grey opened it slowly—the wood creaking ominously. Tengune stood there, radiating malice, his form silhouetted against the moon.
He loomed in the doorway, head low, robes charred and smoking faintly, staff glowing with erratic runes, tome clutched in white-knuckled paws. Bruises marred his golden fur in dark purple blooms, a fresh burn smoldering on his neck, raw and blistering, the scent of scorched flesh mingling with ash.
"Can I stay here?" he rasped, voice hoarse and broken, eyes distant.
Grey pulled back his collar gently but firmly, inspecting the wound with a hiss of intake—the skin bubbled and red. "What happened?"
"Nothing," Tengune muttered, lifeless, staring past them into the room.
Omaar sniffed the air—smoke, heat, death thickened it like a fog rolling in. Omaar and Grey softly pushed past Tengune to see flames roaring in the distance, half the village ablaze in the night, mana-fueled fire devouring trees with hungry crackles, orange glow painting the sky. Bodies lay like ash statues in the streets, twisted and still. "What… happened?" he asked, voice low.
"Later," Grey snapped, ushering them in with urgent pulls, closing the door firmly and drawing heavy curtains that muffled the distant screams. Hansi watched in horror, hands over her mouth. They sat around the table, Tengune slumping into a chair that creaked under him, staring at the flickering candle in the center, its flame dancing.
"What happened, boy?" Grey pressed, voice stern but concerned, pulling up a chair opposite. Hansi served him stew with trembling hands, the bowl clinking against the wood.
Tengune's voice rasped, barely above a whisper at first, his eyes darting to shadows, the others tracing to find nothing there, paws twitching on the table. "They… they wanted me back in it. The cage. I told them—whispered, screamed even, 'not again.' But their voices… laughing, shouting, they didn't listen. They never listen. Furrling, they hissed. Mutt. Monster." His paws twitched violently, fumbling with the tome as if it burned him, his breath hitching in sharp gasps. "Then… heat. His hands—someone's hands, too many to count really—they all grabbed and tore at my fur and flesh. I tried to warn them to stay back, but they didn't listen. They never listen. Then that red-hot… casting iron, he grabbed it and well… My neck. My fur. I-I couldn't breathe through it, so I… I made it burn back. Fire… I wove flame and scorched them all—Mother Patrena, little Tommen and Temia, all in flame, out of this—" He tapped the tome with a flinch, the cover thudding dully as his fur stood on end. "I warned them. They didn't listen, they never listen. He tried to run, I think, so I hit him. Something cracked. Over and over—wood, bone, I don't know. It wouldn't stop." He rocked slightly in the chair, words tumbling faster but softer, slurring into each other in a frantic rush. "There were so many after that, so many… Shadows moving and shouting when they saw the house in flame. Stones… or fists? Something sharp, something heavy. They wouldn't stop—wouldn't hear me. I tried—I swear I tried—to say it wasn't me, not all of me. But they wouldn't listen, they never listen. They kept coming as I ran, so I kept weaving rune after rune, and the flames… they grew teeth. Ate everything. Wood. Screams… Her." His gaze locked on the candle, unblinking, tears carving clean streaks through the soot on his face, dripping onto the table with soft plips. "She… she was there. Somewhere in the smoke. Reaching. Calling? I don't—I can't—did I push? Did it take her? The fire… it wouldn't listen. It never listens. She just looked at me—she didn't even have any air left to scream anymore." He trailed off, a low growl rumbling in his throat, then shifting to a whimper as he curled his paws into his chest, trembling violently. "I didn't… I didn't mean…"
Tengune slumped further in the chair, tears streaking through the ash on his fur in hot trails, his voice a broken whisper that cracked like dry wood. "You were right… just a beast. A feral thing that tried too hard..."
Omaar snorted, leaning against the wall, arms crossed tightly. "Spare me the self-pity, Tengune. You're not the first to cry over ashes."
"Omaar!" his mother snapped, her ladle clattering against the pot with a sharp clang, but he ignored her, eyes fixed on Tengune unflinchingly. Tengune's snarl bared jagged teeth, one of his dormant heads twitching, the air around him sizzling faintly with residual heat.
"It's their fault truly," Omaar continued, voice sharp as his dagger's edge. "Flinging themselves into your little bonfire like moths. Natural selection—if you ask me?"
Tengune's head jerked up, eyes blazing through the tears—primal, raw, blueirises contracting to slits as a red hue began to fight its way into them. In a flash, he lunged across the table, tackling Omaar to the floor with a crash of chairs, claws sinking into his poncho with ripping fabric. Shaking him by the collar with bone-jarring force "Natural?!" he roared, voice cracking with fury. "This… me… an abomination with three heads, burning my home, her… everything I loved to the ground! You call that natural? Tell me what's natural about a beast in civil clothing—tell me!" His grip tightened, trembling with rage, a growl rumbling deep in his chest like thunder building.
Omaar didn't flinch, his smirk cold and unflinching under Tengune's weight, poncho tearing further. "You killed them, fool. Own it. Live with some guts or die whining—your choice." He paused, voice dropping to an almost casual drawl. "Look on the bright side: smoke got 'em quick. She probably didn't even scream long. Guess that 'justice' of yours burns hotter than you thought—too bad it torched your little girlfriend too."
Tengune's fist reared back, claws glinting in the candlelight like deadly hooks, his snarl twisting into something utterly feral, muscles coiling—but before it landed with a crushing blow, Grey's hand clamped around his wrist in an iron-tight grip that halted him mid-swing, veins bulging. "Enough," he growled, voice a low rumble that vibrated the room, hauling Tengune off with effortless strength as Omaar dusted himself off, smirking still, brushing torn threads from his poncho.
Hansi guided Tengune back to his chair with gentle but firm hands, her touch soothing on his trembling shoulders as Grey smacked Omaar's head with a sharp thwack that echoed. "Fool." Omaar stayed silent, rubbing his head slightly with a wince.
The shouts tore through the night like knives—"Bring that beast out! We know he's in there!"—their voices hoarse and ragged from smoke and sorrow, torches guttering with flickering embers in the heavy, acrid dark that carried the stench of burning homes. Inside, Grey's hand moved with quiet, deliberate intent, sliding open a drawer with a soft scrape to reveal a carved wooden box, its surface etched with protective runes that glowed faintly. He lifted its lid with a creak, drawing a dagger—its blade dulled by age yet sharp as frost, catching the blue flicker of the hearth in cold glints. "Stay put," he said, voice low and unyielding as ancient roots. Omaar nodded once, dagger already in hand; Tengune stared at the floor, unmoving; Hansi gripped her apron until her knuckles whitened. Grey stepped out, the door groaning shut behind him with a final thud.
The mob swelled before his home—twenty, perhaps thirty strong—pitchforks quivering in rough, callused hands, eyes burning with raw loss and vengeful rage under the torchlight that cast long, dancing shadows. Grey planted his feet firmly on the pebbled path, sizing them up with a calm sweep: neighbors turned strangers, their faces warped by grief and the orange glow of their ruined village, soot streaking cheeks like war paint. "What business do you have at my door?" he asked, calm as a frozen lake, dagger resting loose at his side, tip pointing down.
"He's in there!" a man bellowed, soot streaking his face in black rivers, stepping forward with a trembling pitchfork. "That beast razed everything—our homes, our blood! You can't shield him!"
Grey's gaze held steady, unblinking. "Don't know who you mean. But those torches look like trouble." He crouched slowly, dragging the dagger's tip across the pebbled path—a slow, deliberate rasp that etched a crooked line in the dirt, stones shifting under the blade. He rose, eyes cold as winter steel. "Cross this, and you're dead. That's all."
"Why protect him?" a woman hissed, clutching a shovel like a lance, her voice cracking. "What's that monster to you?"
"I protect my home," Grey said, simple as an undeniable fact, stance unmoving. "Your move."
The mob stirred restlessly, whispers coiling like smoke, pitchforks clanking, until a heavy figure shoved through the press—the chief, his bulk slumping under grief, eyes sunken and red-rimmed, sweat glistening on his brow in the firelight, his breath ragged from the smoke-choked air. "Grey," he croaked, voice thick and heavy. "You see what he's done. These good elves—they've lost it all. Justice demands this. Let them heal."
Grey met his stare without flinching, the line in the dirt stark between them. "I hear you, Dylan. But I think I've made my choice."
Dylan exhaled a weary, shuddering sound, and stepped forward, boots grinding the gravel with deliberate crunch. "Then I hope you choose right." His foot crossed the line—
His head slipped from his shoulders in a clean, soundless severing, blood arcing in a crimson spray that splattered the path as his body toppled like a marionette with cut strings, thudding heavily. The mob gasped in collective horror, a sharp intake that sucked the air, torches wavering—Grey hadn't moved an inch. He stood still as a statue, dagger glinting innocently at his side, untouched by the crimson mist.
A beat of stunned silence—then chaos erupted. The villagers surged forward in a tide of screams and gleaming steel, torches slashing wild arcs through the night. A man with a pitchfork lunged first, tines thrusting—his head rolled free mid-step with a wet thunk, body crumpling in a heap. One. A woman swung her shovel in a desperate arc—her neck opened soundlessly in a red grin, head tumbling as she fell forward. Two. Three charged together, knives flashing like stars—their heads dropped in unison, a grotesque cascade of thuds, bodies piling at the line in twitching mounds. Three, four, five. Grey remained rooted, a shadow against the distant firelight, his form unwavering as if carved from the night itself, the dagger never rising. Six raised a torch high, flame roaring—his head spun away mid-shout, the torch guttering out in a hiss of sparks. Seven, eight—a blur too fast for the eye to follow, yet Grey stood motionless, the dagger in his hand pristine, unbloodied, as if the deaths were illusions. Nine fell, a farmer's cry cut short as his head parted cleanly, rolling to rest at a wide-eyed child's feet with a hollow bounce.
The air reeked of hot iron and choking smoke, a heap of bodies mounding the line—ten in all, limbs entangled in death—when a voice pierced the slaughter like a blade: "Enough!" The chief's wife staggered forth from the back, her face a mask of streaming tears, lit by the distant blaze that consumed her world. "My husband's gone," she sobbed, hands shaking uncontrollably, voice breaking. "My girl is gone. No more… please, let us bury them…" She lurched across the line on unsteady legs, eyes pleading through the haze—
Her head slid free with a soft, almost gentle thud as it hit the ground, rolling to a stop, her body folding beside Dylan's in a limp collapse. The mob stilled instantly, breathless and frozen, staring at the carnage—ten corpses plus the chief and his wife, heads strewn like fallen fruit across the blood-soaked boundary, the line a glistening red river. Grey hadn't shifted a muscle, hadn't flinched, his silhouette stark and unyielding against the flames roaring in the background, dagger gleaming, untouched through the carnage.
He spoke, voice flat and final, cutting through the whimpers. "Take 'em. Mourn 'em. Move on. But don't cross the line." He turned without another glance, boots crunching over the gravel in deliberate steps, and slipped back inside, the door slamming shut like a judge's gavel echoing into the night.
Hansi sobbed quietly, softly punching his chest with futile thumps as Grey returned, blood speckling his boots but none on his blade. He snuffed the candle with a pinch, plunging the room into hearth-glow darkness. "Rest now. You're on a journey soon." They obeyed without protest, heading to Omaar's room in heavy silence, the weight of the night pressing like unseen chains.
On soft mats in Omaar's dim room—walls overgrown with faint-glowing vines, the air still thick with stew and smoke—silence reigned like a heavy blanket. Tengune sank into the mat with a defeated sigh, eyes fluttering shut in exhaustion. Then… A rasp, wet and guttural, scraped up his spine from within, as if his dormant heads clawed their way out of his flesh with tearing sounds. The voices didn't whisper—they gnashed and bit, a chorus of fangs sinking into his skull, each word a jagged shard burrowing deeper into his mind, echoing in the hollows of his thoughts.
"Feel that, beast?" one hissed, its tone thick with bile, dripping like venom down his ears in burning trails. "Her hands—soft, warm—snuffed out by your claws, the only soul dumb enough to love a monster."
Another snarled, low and rumbling, a growl that vibrated his ribs until they ached with phantom pain. "You torched it all—homes, screams, half a village swallowed in your stink. Ash coats your tongue now, doesn't it? Bitter, choking—taste her in every breath."
The other snapped, sharp as a whip crack that stung his mind, its voice slithering hot across his neck, burning where the brand once seared his fur. "Hero? Hah! You chased glory through the flames—twisted fate 'til it snapped like bone. Some fantasy, cub—look at the ruin you wrote in fire and blood." They overlapped in a cacophony of snarls and spits, claws raking inside his skull with jagged scratches that clawed marrow from bone. "Villain's all you've got left—choke on it. Heroes bleed for others; you just burn everything to cinders." The air thickened around him, heavy with their rancid, imagined breath, sulfur and decay, and Tengune's fur bristled as they bit into him, a taste of soot flooding his throat like rancid meat. "Looks like heroes don't always win after all," they chorused in mocking harmony, creating an orchestra of laughter that swelled with dramatic irony, cackles bouncing off the inside of his skull. A voice slithered up last, soft as hers but edged with cruel venom. Her echo twisted and repeated into an incomprehensible mess. "'Tengune, you promised me a hero, look what your fire left instead. Just ashes and a monster. Nothing more, But somehow even less.'"
Tengune lay curled tightly on the mat, breaths shallow and ragged, the voices' cackle still clawing at his ears like talons, the pace of his breaths growing quicker as if suffocating in an ocean of despair, chest heaving in panic. Omaar's shadow shifted in the low candlelight from the hall seeping under the door, his voice cutting through the internal haze like a cold blade. "Oi, beast."
Tengune flinched violently, eyes glassy and unfocused, but didn't turn, body rigid.
Omaar huffed in annoyance, leaning back against the wall with a thud, twirling his dagger absently between fingers, the blade catching faint glints. "You're a mess. She'd hate that, you know—wallowing like some kicked pup in the mud."
"You don't know what she'd think," Tengune mumbled, voice thick with unshed tears, paws clenching the torn mat until fibers snapped.
Omaar snorted, rolling his eyes in the dim. "No, I don't. The girl never interested me long enough to care. But if she stuck around your sorry hide this long, she'd probably say you're too dumb to mean it—burning everything, I mean." He paused, flipping the dagger point-down into the floor with a soft thunk that embedded it slightly. "The point is, she's gone. You're not. Quit sniveling and make it worth something—or don't, and let those ashes bury you too. Your call."
Tengune's head lifted slowly, agonizingly, his gaze meeting Omaar's—raw, searching, golden eyes pleading through the pain. "I'm… sorry," he rasped, barely audible over his hitching breaths.
Omaar smirked, sharp and fleeting like a knife's edge. "Sorry's for losers who stay down. Get up, or I'll drag you myself. Sleep, idiot—we've got a road ahead." He kicked the hall candle's light out with his boot from under the door, plunging them into true dark with a hiss of extinguished flame, and flopped onto his mat with a grunt, back turned definitively.
The sun clawed its way over the horizon with reluctant fingers, spilling a pale, hesitant light across the forest that filtered through the trees in weak beams. Where once the dawn would have painted Wyrmwood Village in vibrant hues of gold and green, awakening birdsong and the scent of fresh dew, now it revealed a graveyard of ash and utter ruin. Thick smoke hung like a funereal shroud, curling lazily around the skeletal remains of homes—charred beams jutting like broken bones, roofs collapsed inward in heaps of embers that still glowed faintly. The air was bitter with the acrid bite of charred wood, melted metal, and the faint, underlying sorrow of lost lives, no birds singing, only the occasional crackle of dying fires and the rustle of wind through ashen leaves. Amid the wreckage, villagers moved like ghosts in the gray morning—silhouettes sifting through debris with numb hands, their voices muted by exhaustion or grief, some weeping softly over salvaged remnants, others staring blankly at the devastation. The tranquil heartbeat of the village was gone forever, replaced by the hollow echo of loss and the faint clatter of lives being pieced back from nothing.
Inside Grey's solitary house, untouched by the flames, Omaar and Tengune stirred on their mats in the dim room, the air heavy with lingering smoke that clung to their clothes and fur like a second skin. The candle had long guttered out, leaving only faint dawn light seeping through curtain cracks. Tengune rose first, slow and stiff as rusted hinges, his fur matted with sweat and ash, his tomb clutched tight to his chest as if it might anchor his fracturing soul or ward off the voices that still whispered faintly at the edges. He packed in mechanical silence—staff leaning against the wall with a soft lean, pouch slung over shoulder with a rustle, the torn mat rolled haphazardly—each motion devoid of energy, his eyes hollow and dodging the shadows where nightmares lurked. Omaar followed soon after, rolling up his mat with practiced, efficient snaps, his poncho slung over one shoulder in a casual drape, dagger already sheathed at his hip with a click. Neither spoke a word; the weight of the night pressed between them like an invisible third companion, thick and unspoken.
Omaar crossed the room with quiet bootfalls on the bark floor, stopping near the hearth where Grey and Hansi stood in the strengthening light. The fire burned low, its embers crackling softly, carving sharp lines across Grey's weathered face in flickering blue, his arms crossed over his chest, stance rooted like the ancient trees outside. Omaar met his father's gaze for a lingering beat—steady, two pairs daggered eyes staring into each other for a moment, then flicked his eyes away . "I'm off," he said, voice flat and matter-of-fact, the words hanging in the air like a stone dropped into still water, rippling the quiet.
Grey shifted just enough to turn his head, the faint creak of his leather coat breaking the hush like a branch in the wind. His sharp eyes lingered on Omaar, tracing the set of his jaw, the confident poise, the dagger at his side, a light nod escaping him. Hansi surged forward then, her sturdy frame wrapping Omaar in a bear hug that pinned his arms to his sides, squeezing with maternal fierceness. "You write to me every day, you hear?" she demanded, her voice , trembling at the edges as tears brimmed. "Every single day, or I'll hunt you down myself and drag you back."
Omaar stood rigid, enduring the embrace with a patience born of habit, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. He waited until her grip slackened naturally, then stepped back with a subtle shrug. Grey's hand twitched at his side, as Omaar turned away, but their eyes caught again, brief and piercing. Neither spoke further; the air hummed, heavy as the dagger's weight at Omaar's hip. He strode toward the door with quick, decisive steps, the floorboards creaking under his boots.
Hansi's eyes tracked him, bright with unshed tears that she blinked back fiercely, a fierce smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, brewing as Grey's shadow loomed beside her, steady and unyielding. Tengune lingered by the mats, fumbling with his pack straps that caught on his claws, the leather creaking. Hansi broke from Grey and crossed to him in three swift, purposeful steps, wrapping him in the same crushing embrace, her arms strong around his broad frame. "It'll be okay, son," she murmured into his fur, her voice soft and warm. She pulled back, hands cupping his shoulders firmly, searching his face—his three heads, two still dormant and limp, the central one bowed, eyes averted and staring at the wooden floor. "You're stronger than you know—stronger than any fire."
Tengune's lips twitched in a faint, a hollow smile that flickered through the haze clouding his eyes as they locked with hansi's. He nodded softly, adjusting his staff where the runes glinted faintly in the dawn's infiltrating light, the wood warm under his paw. Hansi stepped back reluctantly, rejoining Grey in the doorway, their figures framed like guardians as the two young men shouldered their packs with synchronized grunts—the leather straps creaking, pouches jingling softly with supplies.
Omaar paused at the edge of the path outside, the cool morning air brushing his face, glancing back—not at the house or his parents, but at Tengune with a sharp jerk of his head, an impatient signal to move it already. Tengune followed without hesitation, his steps heavier and laden with the night's ghosts, the crunch of ash underfoot a grim, ashen echo of the destruction behind, particles rising in small clouds with each tread. The village receded as they walked—the smoke curling skyward in lazy pillars, villagers pausing in their sorrowful labors to stare with mixtures of hate in narrowed eyes, hollow resignation in slumped shoulders, or wary curiosity at the departing pair. Ahead, the forest loomed vast and inviting, its green depths swallowing the horizon in layers of shadow and light, promising nothing but the unknown paths, dangers, and discoveries that lay beyond the familiar.
And so, with the weight of ruin and loss at their backs like an unshakeable shadow, and a fragile thread of purpose, pulling them forward into the wild, Omaar and Tengune left Wyrmwood behind forever, their adventure born not in triumphant songs, but in the smoldering embers of what they'd lost, the ashes whispering warnings and promises in the wind that followed them into the trees.