At the edge of Fero Province's otherwise-unmarked border is a long, long row of stone cairns. They're dotted in approximate half-mile distances from each other, all the way from the lower slopes of one mountain ridge to the other, and wild grasses have begun to grow in long, windblown strands around them. These cairns, you may have heard, are a last-ditch superstitious talisman to ward off the beast by those living near the edge of its haunt.

The road that you've followed the final few miles from the last hamlet to the edge of the province has been neatly paved and upkept with cut stone, but here, where the unspoken "safe zone" ends, you can see grass and weeds growing up through the cracks.

To both sides, the mountain range that nests the Fero Province slowly sinks into sharp, forbidding hills and scree slopes as it fades into the distance. Contrasting the fair weather in the valley, wisps of dark clouds settle just behind the peaks.

Your business lies ahead, in the lazy dip-rise-dip of the lowlands. The North Road cuts a fairly straight path through the grass for about a half-mile, until it hits a scraggly line of trees that mark the beginning of the Cullis Woods. As far as you know, the occasional brave-hearted (or foolhardy) individual has ventured in, but never very far, and not all have returned. Anyone daring to try and travel further has not sent word back.

But you have your task, and an hour or so until sunset. The weather overhead is deceptively clear. You're as ready as you will ever be.

How will you begin The North Road?

Galia held a palm sized stone in her hand, taken from the final pile of stones that marked the boundary between the civilized and savage world. She wondered, if there were a village on the other side who had set up a similar boundary. A no-go zone, where everyone assumes Feros Province has been overrun by evil magic. She doubted the cairns did anything, but their ceasing to exist meant that ahead was where her target lay. The trip had taken them awhile, and the sun was about to set. Give or take an hour.

Galia's long dark blown hair was tied down into a braid that rest over her steel pauldrons and dangled over her leather chest armor. Overall, her armor was of the medium variety, a mixture of sturdy protection and mobility. Infact, she would have preferred more, but plate was expensive and she had done a poor job of maintaining her old sets in the decade she had gone without serious fighting. Bar fights, scuffles, and showing dominance over some fools didn't really count. Hopefully she wasn't as rusty as her old helm that had to be left behind. Ten years was a long time to go without fighting, and it was why Galia's wife was so worried. She was also worried that once Galia had a taste of the thrill of combat, she would go back to her old ways, but Galia knew she was stronger than that now. Ten years with Elly had softened her perhaps, but wisened her also. And she was old, too. Thirty-seven next spring. By God, where had the time gone? It felt like just yesterday she was intent on living hard, dying young, and leaving a pretty corpse. Now? She had gray hair licking at her scalp.

Okay, so maybe thirty six wasn't that old. Still, a sellsword's life was often a quick and glorious one. Especially one like Guardstrike's, who worked with...unsavory folks. This sword...Galia glanced down at it, her right hand rested it's gloved palm around it's sleek back handle. How many lives had it ended? How many people did she help kill, even if they didn't meet the business end of her sword?

The weather was nice, at least. The mountains and forest ahead were ominous and distant. Galia had promised herself that she wouldn't look back at the rest of Feros Province. She would only look ahead. If she hesitated and glance back, she may want to stay. To be there, with her wife, in her final seasons, as Elly had wanted. It was a selfish thing to do. It may all be for nothing, if she was too slow. Eleanor may slip from this world without her beloved at her side, and the idea made Galia's heart hurt. They hadn't left each other on the best of terms...

That didn't matter now. There was only the beast's head that she would bring to the steward and she would be granted her reward. Galia's introspective gaze hardened and she brushed a strand of loose hair from her scarred eye. She tossed the stone she held in her hand back onto the cairn and listened to it crackle down the pile of other rocks. Then she sat down on it, on the side facing to the North, her back turned. Knees high and placed her elbows on them and waited, staring ahead at the forest. Galia wasn't the only one travelling. To do so alone would be suicide- but with even a few warm bodies she could fell the beast as long as they kept it distracted. Sacrifices, as it were. Hopefully, it didn't come to that, and her new companions were warriors as steadfast or even moreso then her. It was possible. Perhaps the last ten years had weeded out all the foolish farmers sons who sought glory and fame and travelled out to die or lose their legs. Eleanor had seen many of them in the Practitioner's tent over the years. No matter what happened, Galia wouldn't be one of them. She would either come home victorious, or die. There were no other options.

So Galia waited, first to arrive, her back turned against the path her companions would arrive on, but her demeanor, weapon, and location made it clear to anyone passing by that she was intending on travelling the North Road.

The horizon was going orange, the sky a deep royal blue and its clouds pink and purple. It would be a beautiful sunset over the western mountains, but today Mort wouldn't be watching it. Instead he kept his eyes ahead, fixed on the fields, slopes, stones, and trees that stood between him and the Northern Road. He took each step one at a time, moving deliberately and forcibly. Part of him wanted to turn back, and it spoke with a loud voice. Walking northward was nothing new, but today that woeful part of him knew it was being dragged somewhere it did not want to go. Like a cat into a bath, it struggled to escape, but Mort willed himself onward. That same voice, with its dulcet tones urging reason and caution, had saved his life twice. But these days he no longer felt alive.

Most every day for ten years Mort had at least glimpsed that setting sun, marking the end of another twenty-four hours for Fero Province. For a time each day felt like an achievement, a token of survival at the expense of those hunting him. Just living felt like a rebellion against corruption, against the cruel few that wanted him dead. He enjoyed the peace and plenty of the province, growing close to its residents and living his life, thinking of the deadly presence that lurked outside the borders a welcome barrier against the outside world. He hunted game, lent his strength to construction, and taught the young ones how to shoot. But after a time that existence ceased to satisfy. The same old fruit, the same old vegetables, the same old faces and places. What once brought him joy and fulfillment turned to ashes in his mouth. His body wasn't made for standing still after all. He'd had enough of it. He needed to wander. But no matter how many times he thought about leaving, he remembered the slaughter, and he stayed.

Ten years was a long time. He traced every corner of the province, scouring every yard until nothing new remained to him. Then, he languished. He drowned the spirit that starved for roaming and adventure with far more tangible spirits, and drifted apart from his friends. He never went bad, or slothful, but then again he never went anywhere. This, he came to know, wasn't living. That was why this time he would not turn and run.

Lost in his thoughts, the bowman only discovered how far he'd come when he spotted the first cairn. With a start he realized that he already stood close to the edge, the brink between Fero and the Northern Road. Behind him lay survival, but ahead lay life. Or death.

Mort looked around. Just one fellow member of the expedition seemed to precede him, a brown-haired woman in leather adorned with plating. Fero managed to be a large enough region that not everyone knew everyone, but in his isolation Mort made it a point to at least meet everyone interesting. The call of the nobles of the Pigeon Capital hardly constituted the first time embarking northward crossed Mort's mind. All those who might serve as reliable allies on any hypothetical expedition piqued his interest, and this one Mort knew. Gallia. Not a sociable woman who disclosed much of her past, but nobody could see her and not presume she'd been fighting from a young age. Though a mercenary like him, he mostly hunted beasts and ran security, while she spilled the blood of men on real battlefields...over a decade ago, at least. As far as Mort knew, that longsword on her back had been collecting dust the whole time the Beast's reign of terror lasted. In a place like Fero that nobody could either leave or enter, fighting turned out to be a distinct rarity. Mort kept himself sharp by hunting, teaching, and diligent training, having never put the thought of fighting a way out of Fero from his head, but Gallia? Could she even slay a bear?

With a grunt, Mort stepped forward to stand level with her, facing northward. Well, he didn't need her to slay the Beast, or even a bear. Just to forge bravely onward and stick in the Beast's jaws long enough for him to plant an arrow in its eye. He glanced at the bow he held, used now as an impromptu walking staff. Blackeye Longbow. Though long kept and lovingly maintained, it carried no grandiose name earned from some battle, or other ornamentation to hint at a past, just a brief description of its function. Like himself. Mort also looked around, seeing nobody else gathered. Some expedition. No caravan, no carriage, no horses, not even a wheelbarrow. Would an official from the Capital even show up? Fat chance. Mort doubted the nobles putting him up to this even went to the trouble of learning their newest toadies' names. After all, why spare the effort after all this time, all those disappearances? Nobody believed they could do it, that they could slay the Beast. Did he, even?

Mort gave a heavy sigh. Well, hopefully more people appeared soon. Two didn't make for much of a party.

Three didn’t make much more of one, either.

Heddwyn Brythendale stepped forward from the mess of brush and stone, as geared up as he could’ve been. In his experience, hunting parties were rather straight forward and when he was asked to join them in the last half-decade he most often operated as an adviser rather than an active participant. Generally, it made a modicum of sense. Heddwyn’s swordplay was average at best and when he started his self-pilgrimage some years ago he had been rusty. The first bandit he encountered he barely survived. He was no master of gauging a bandit’s capabilities, but had Heddwyn been the plucky squire he was before aspiring to a clerical vocation he would’ve probably came out of it with less scars to show for it. Perhaps it was the gods above who guided him, or maybe his ancestors that allowed him to be still standing in the current day. Maybe some fae spirit blessed his family, or more likely he was just fortunate to be lucky.

Whatever the case, it had been an interesting life living away from the big cities and chattering nobility. Peasant-folk were far easier to deal with, and perhaps it was a reason he had stayed in a particular village in Feros a little longer than he originally intended.

As the brown-haired cleric moved forward on the path, his thoughts finally no longer distracting him he came upon two other members. The frontliners, he supposed, noting the appearance of a brunette woman of a martial vocation and what appeared to be some kind of hunter. He was sure this would not be enough to defeat a great beast, so he figured he just happened upon the group as it was forming as they anticipated the others to follow. He was disappointed with himself lacking the initiative to arrive first, but he doubted he would outpace those overeager to slay a beast that had caused so much misery. There was a lot of prestige and coin in it, after all.

“Day turned to night, his friends scatter and death thought it had won. But heaven just started counting to three.” He mused, as he took his place among the two, quoting an old verbiage before moving into a more informal greeting. “I certainly hope others are on their way.”

The further away Talic had gotten away from the Citadel, the more surprised the ex-noble had become. He had expected his humongously large feet to take a bath in mud mixed with remainders of grass right now, but instead they were treading on a neatly arranged section of pavement still. Slowly it dawned upon him that the average capital citizen's opinion about the remote north regions might not exactly be up-to-date if one wanted to wrap it in nice words, or rather shamelessly ignorant if one insisted on being blunt. It was a nice surprise: Maybe this would be over quicker and easier than he had anticipated ?

Or probably not... He had seen one of those stone cairns before, but the fact that the neatly paved road seemed to end just behind this one was a clear sign that he had indeed reach the very northern border of the province. So yes, this still had its full potential to become a long, dirty and no less dangerous crawl. Talic twisted his head, checking his rear before checking who was already waiting in front of him and noticing with pleasure that noone was to be seen behind him anywhere. Had they already found out ? Had they already organized a manhunt and had it already gotten on his tracks ? Those kind of questions had been roaming in Talic's head for days by now and, while he wasn't pissed off by them, he'd be glad for some fresh thoughts for sure.

Talic's problem was that he was easily recognizable even in the middle of a crowded marketplace. Any spy hired to hunt him down probably would have an easy game jumping from place to place and just asking the same set of questions: 'Did you happen to see a walking tower ? Like this big, maybe ? Yes ? Where did he go ?'. For this reason he had went cross-country for the major part of his journey so far and it even seemed to have worked: Nobody in front of him looked like a hired killer as well. Well... at least not a killer hired against humans anyway.

His eyes jumped from face to face, briefly inspecting everyone waiting. A woman with hair even longer than his and a set of improvised looking armor... a lucky one, given that almost everybody else didn't seem to have even that. A burly man with a bow... Why did he use it as a walking stick ? Hopefully he knew what he was doing. Last but not least another male, a swordsman it seemed. One brief glance at his face already told a story about having been lucky at least once in his life. So these would be his companions either until the other side or until death. A slight shiver ran down Talic's spine at the thought of the latter possibility.

"Greetings!" he stated, trying to avoid anything that could hint at his noble origin. There was no point in making a point out of it. Talic then positioned himself at the wayside next to the others, wondering if they were waiting for anybody else to come.

Zahir Rahel

For not the last time on his trip up north Zahir asked himself what the fuck he was doing this far out. This wasn't part of his original promise, hell it wasn't part of any promised he'd ever made. He should be back "home" guarding that safe little village, making one or two more rounds before the night claimed what was left of the days activity and then it could be just him and the few other guards sitting around that old campfire by the main gates. Even now he wondered just how old that thing was, how many generations of guards had sat around it and drunk the cold nights away in friendly silence. After all he was the oldest guard there and even he didn't know when it had first been set down.

Despite the fact he'd never really told any of his fellow guards much, if at all, he still really did like them. They drank with him and rarely spoke much, maybe that was why he liked them so much.

As he walked, he could feel a faint twinge in his right arm, a small dull pain which washed up the length of his limb before fading away again into miriad of other senses which assailed his body. Maybe he really was too old for this sort of stuff, maybe he really should have stopped when he'd first had doubts, back at that chipped bit of wood masqurading as a sign.

When he got back he was really gonna have to do something about that, maybe make it another little project to busy up his day...

But no ammount of thoughts about little village signs and the best ways he could repair them was going to distract him from the real reason he was putting his life on the line. Other idiots would almost certainly have heard of this beast and try to go after it and while he couldn't stop every fool who charged into stupid situations. He could still help those in situations he knew about.

One of these days it was gonna get him killed, leastways, that's what everyone else kept telling him. Still he'd made it past sixty years and if that didn't earn him the right to indulge himself now and then, what would?

Still the North Road lay ahead and with it, the others who'd decided to undertake this expidition.

---

He was one of the last to arrive, that he was certain of, unless there was a host of other recruits hidden over one of those wind-blasted hills. Ahead stood a few other figures, all younger than him, which he supposed was probably for the best. A whole team of old adventuerers who's top speed wasn't what it once was probably wouldn't be the greatest for running down some monster.

Zahir was in his own way, rather amused to see that most of the currently gathered group looked to be about half his age, maybe more in the case of that bowman. He'd certainly expected younger minds to be attracted to this kind of danger, this group certainly looked less like the thrillseekers he'd been expecting. Then again he really shouldn't be that surprised, everyone has their own reasons for doing what they do, he knew that well.

At least a gathering spot meant he could stop for the moment and with a sigh of relief he swung his little satchel, carrying all his essentials like food, water and bedding to the ground. A second later he was raising a hand in greeting and putting on his most welcoming tone, knowing that his mask at first glance rarely got the warmest of greetings.

"I see I'm not the first, which all things considered is probably a good sign. I presume we're all here to pursue that creature, if so I must be thankful for finding myself in such good looking hands."

Galia had nodded at everyone one at a time. They looked experienced. A bowman, a cleric, a spearman, and a masked man. They all looked capable enough. However, the fact of the matter is that no one here has had any real combat experience for the last ten years, and appearances could be decieving. They could all be wormfood within the next few days for all she knew. But Galia wasn't going to die, she was going to win. There was no other option other than coming out of that forest alive. Perhaps the others here had nothing to lose or everything to gain, but Galia had everything on the line. If she failed...she couldn't fail.

"My name's Galia Guardstrike," she said, voice low and hard, glaring at the North Road. "My goal is to kill the Beast, and collect the reward. I'm not leaving the North Road until I do." Galia held the handle of the sheathed sword at her hip. Her fingers impatiently tapping the wood in a wave pattern, the steel pommel glowing dimly in the light of evening sun. Galia didn't mind repeating herself for whoever else came. Her name would ring of it's given nature, not one chosen by parents or by oneself, but one earned through combat. A title of mercenary making.

There wasn't much else to say, not yet, anyway. She did recognize some of them. Mort, the hunter. Zahir, the guard, with that funny little mask of his. She had seen him, as Eleanor had dragged the Practicioners around Feros Province, and that little town he protected spoke fondly of him. The others she didn't recognize, but Feros Province was a bigger place than one might imagine. She had come to see it has home. Infact, Galia hoped to spend the rest of her life here, once this was all over. Feros Province wasn't the problem. The North Road was.

“Aye, the beast has to go.” Heddwyn uttered as he looked over the woman.

She was fierce. Strong-willed. He had known many like her in his time away from his daughter as he walked the low roads throughout the province. He hadn’t heard her name in his travels, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t important. Her surname did seem strange to him; the kind of name someone would create for themselves, but etymology was sometimes strange, it could’ve been a proper surname for all he knew. It was a large and peculiar world.

“If introductions are in order, I’d be Heddwyn.”

He decided to not lead with his own surname. House Brythendale wasn’t a large house nor one native to the people of this particular province. Besides, he liked blending in among the commonfolk. His eyes moved toward the huntsman and the others who had arrived after him, curious about their own names. Perhaps they would share vocations, but he imagined they would have much time to talk once the sun set. They would need to make camp soon enough. The woman who took stance to be the leader of the group did not seem the type to want to waste daylight.

“No, no, I don’t mean any offense,” Petyr stammered, “It’s just-...well, you seem a little old to be courting.”

Ardonne smiled weakly. She was taking her time with the meal - partially to amuse her benefactor and partially to savour what it was going to be like being in a nice warm tavern for the last time. There were plenty of last times today. Just that morning she hugged her mother for the last time... Ardonne looked away for a moment and busied herself with dinner. "My mother had to remarry first. I needed to support the family." She drank her ale and watched Petyr's expression for the crinkle in the brow, the grimace, the doubt...there wasn't any. He was genuinely curious.

"Well, with me by your side you'll never have to worry about work again. I started looking into those books you like, too. There aren't many calligraphists in the province, but I was considering a wedding gift. Which tale was your favourite, again? The bear in the woods?" Petyr was a warm and personable man. For the fifth time that day Ardonne considered a life with him and took a deeper draught of ale to steady her resolve. It was bitter and room temperature.

"Oh, you needn't do any of that. I'm simply content to move out of Bresh." It wasn't a whole lie. Ardonne emptied her bowl and her flagon and lingered over it wistfully. Last hot meal. All gone.

"Oh but it'd be an excellent investment. You can read it to the little ones and when they're old enough they can pass it on to our grandchildren." Ah yes, there it was. Ardonne smiled blithely and rested her hand on her stomach, wondering if a human life felt like a full belly. Then again, she'd helped her mother birth her younger brother...it seemed more laborious than a heavy meal. She had finished her ale but the bitter taste revisited the back of her tongue at the mention of it.

"Perhaps I can teach them how to shoot," she ventured out of curiosity.

Petyr laughed. "If you still remember how by then! It'd be a good story for our son."

Ardonne smiled blithely.

It wasn't good enough. Petyr caught the dullness of her stare, the clenched jaw and the faraway expression. "Is your fever coming back, my sweet?" He asked nervously. "We don't have to rush anything. I promised your father two weeks, but I'm sure you can rest easy until you feel better."

Ardonne bit down on the opportunity and dropped the act, expressing her fretful nerves and everpresent nausea. "Well, I did not want to impose upon you," she murmured softly, fidgeting with a lock of her hair and looking away from him.

The merchant was keen to pander her. It would have been perfect. It should have been perfect, but Ardonne recoiled at the thought of a life with him. "Money is no object. Not when it comes to your health," he reassured her, reaching for her hand and giving it a squeeze. She wrapped her fingers around his. Last hand to hold.

"Would you mind if I rested tomorrow? I want nobody to disturb me. Just...a loaf of bread, a pitcher of water. My stomach is-...unsteady." Not an entire lie either. Ardonne felt the bile ride again as she faced her decision as if it were inevitable fate.

"Of course, my dove. Would you permit me to bring you to your chambers this evening? If I'm to be away from you for the whole day…" Petyr's smile was hopeful and mischievous and Ardonne's heart ached for him. It felt like a cruel twist of the knife to put him into such a situation.

"Yes, but if you go any further than my door then I shall ride home to my father." Petyr's smile faltered and Ardonne cursed herself for being so steely. "I mean no disrespect, this is our first private outing. And I've heard such tall tales about some of the coarser village boys back home…"

Petyr laughed and Ardonne exhaled in relief. "I'm no mere village boy, my dove! I shall fetch you your bread and water."

Within the hour Ardonne had locked the door and barricaded it. She was staring at her naked body in the mirror. Last time she'd see her reflection. She took stock of what she had made of herself, poked and prodded her blemishes and got changed into her hunting gear. She checked her quiver. She packed her bread and poured her water. It was still light outside. She checked her belt and her field guide, fingers slipping absentmindedly over her real father's name in its browned ink on the contents page. "I'm so sorry," she croaked, looking for his ghost. The stress of it all made tears well in her eyes. She took a shuddering breath and stared at her face, willing herself to feel his hand on her shoulder, praying for a sign, anything…"I'm coming, dad. I'll be with you shortly."

It was like all the tales. Sometimes there wasn't a happy ending... sometimes you just had to accept your lot. She wouldn't face it as a blubbering mess. In whatever lay beyond her life, she could sit and cry for millennia. For now, she wanted to do it on her terms. Stoic, calm, and ready for what lay beyond. After she passes those cairns she will step into the limbo between worlds and she will test her mettle until the bitter end. And who knows? Perhaps she'll find her way out, a changed woman ready to face the North and take no man's order and foster no squalling babes in her stomach. And if not... she'll see dad again.

Ardonne only left once the smudges of orange had slipped below the horizon. It wasn't that hard to sneak out of the window, she'd been doing it for years back at her childhood home and Faro rural architecture was a fairly universal affair. What mattered now was making distance. They wouldn't be able to see much using torchlight but movement was quick to spot in one's periphery so she kept low and darted up towards the distant cairns, stopping only to crouch and hide behind an errant rock or the base of a tree. It was only as she made it to the edges of the woods that she noticed a group maybe a kilometre away, a little less, by the cairn adjacent to the one she was headed into.

What the group saw was a dim figure jogging up and even slightly into the heavy canopy of the forest before it stopped and lingered by one of the trees, staring unabashedly towards the gathered bounty hunters with an indistinguishable expression - it was too dark.

Ardonne thought fast. For one, there was no way anyone from the town over had noticed she was gone. Also... safety in numbers. She may be able to make some considerable distance if she travelled in a group. Then again, they may be guards patrolling the edges of the forest. They hadn't come to detain her yet...she started to panic. She wasn't expecting people to be as foolish as she was and she certainly wasn't expecting them to come armed and ready for a fight. Her flightiness kicked in as she hastily got her bow out, nocked an arrow, and fretfully skirted a little deeper into the beast's domain, watching to see what they'd do to her.

Luckily, Mort needn't wait long for reinforcements. Leaving Gallia to stare northward, he turned about to look back in the direction of the Province, watching those who came. Several figures approached in a scattered manner, one by one growing close enough that their details could be made out. First to add to the ranks of the hunting party came another middle-aged man, wearing a northman's haircut and a number of scars. This fellow Mort did not know, which meant he likely didn't hail from the Province's limited pool of warriors. Still, he was here, which was a fair sight more than Mort could say of the Province's warriors. No doubt other skills mulled about in that head of his. He said something vaguely poetic before expressing a desire for more reinforcements. What, don't think me up to the task? The idea of actually saying that made Mort chuckle. A whole army might not be up to the task. Not enough souls could possibly traipse up that road to make the hunt an assured victory. Whoever did would have to make do.

The next man to arrive Mort -and just about the whole countryside- could see a long way off. Scion of the line of Rastoch. A man of influence whose family bore repute in the Pigeon Capital, he could wield a rapier but Mort didn't know much more than that about him. He was...studious? Aloof? The bowman couldn't say. Then again, that weapon clutched in the tall man's hand looked a hell of a lot more like a spear than a rapier, so perhaps even the one thing Mort thought he knew didn't apply. He wondered idly what might be driving Talic to destroy the Beast, but in the end it didn't matter. So long as he couldn't use those muscles to pin the thing down with that spear, he would be the bowman's second-greatest friend.

One more arrived shortly thereafter, a man whose mask long ago became his identity. Zahir never wandered far from the village he championed, but despite his age the man seemed formidable enough as a warrior. In a battle against an unknown opponent, particularly one with an assuredly high kill count, experience meant a lot more than raw power. Mort, of course, sought to bring both to the table, but Zahir's long years made up the difference for him.

That made five. Three swords, a spear, and a bow. The makeshift team evidenced a pronounced skew toward close-range, with only Mort himself capable of striking from afar, and no mid-range fighters to speak of. Damn, Mort had hoped for a magician. Rare as they were, arcanists -with their relics, trinkets, and talismans- could make a world of difference in any battle, and a hunt would be no different. Even a loose cannon from the Chemist's Guild would have been appreciated, offering support and exploiting weaknesses with hurled firebombs and potions. No trapper, no handler, not so much as a bard or thrower of knives. Hell, even a broad-shouldered axeman to serve as a heavy hitter would make this assembly more dynamic. But no...this crew would live and die by its martial skill alone.

The others were speaking, making their introductions. Zahir revealed himself, prompting Gallia to do the same. She added a bit elucidating her determination to slay the Beast, which struck Mort as pretty unnecessary. Why else would we all be here? Still, her combination of conviction and gravitas managed to be reassuring. One could only hope one's allies would be giving it their all. 'Headwin' announced himself, short and to the point, and Mort decided to follow him up.

“Bowman,” he said succinctly, giving name and vocation together in one word. He looked around. Was this really it? Well, he had better get moving before second thoughts come creeping back. “No time to waste. You lead, I'll follow.”

Before anyone could lead, however, a sixth face turned up, but not to join the group. Given the occasion all eyes turned toward the young woman headed north a distance away. She seemed to notice them too, and picked up the pace. Mort's first impression labeled her as some sort of criminal, since who but someone with something to run from or hide would shy away from company going north? But she gave them a wide berth, knocking an arrow to her bow. Even in the unsavory light Mort could easily recognize the ranged weapon, and its presence made him look closer. He caught a better glimpse of the girl's face as she glanced his way again, and this time it seemed familiar. An intrepid kid with a bow in Fero could only be one of his trainees, since nobody stood as a better instructor of archery in the whole region than he. Mort ran through his memories of students past, recalling her presence but not her name. “The hell are you doing out here...?” he breathed. She looked to be on the hunt, but nobody in their right mind would be hunting this far north, on the edge of the Beast's dominion.

That made it obvious; this girl was not in her right mind.

Mort looked back at the others. He knew that a band of seasoned hands with no foolish, hotheaded youths was too good to be true. It could be anything spurring the girl on: a desire to prove herself, revenge, a deathwish. But going about it with the bow he put in her hand made it feel like Mort's responsibility. “Crazy kid's gonna get herself killed,” he remarked, implying that the group should get after her.

Now that he was actually giving himself a chance to rest Zahir was able to take a greater stock of the small collection of souls around him. At least they looked hardened ... well most of them did at least, which was another point for defying expectations. There was certainly so much more that he'd ever expected, which hopefully meant there would be a lot less work for him to do. Despite the fact he was still in good shape and totally unwilling to give up being a fighter, he did enjoy being able to take it slow every now and then.

For now he was very content to let the rest of the group introduce itself and to be grateful for the mask that covered his face. For he knew he recognised the face of several here, like the warrior gal, though he believed that last time there'd been quite a few more people in her party when he'd seen her. The huntsman too he recognised, the man had skill, he remembered that much. But there were so many people who slipped by his little town for a day or two, so many different names and stories to remember that he had given up bothering to try. So it was with a contented little smile he recived those very helpful reminders.

Well ... it seemed his companions were eager at least to get the task done, too eager in his opinion. Conviction was certainly one thing, but recklessness was another and in his experiance a blind devotion towards getting the task done often ended in serious personal risk. Had he been younger he'd have almost certainly blurted that out, probably to the detriment of team morale and cohesion, a true win before the hunt had even begun. But apart from all the dull aches and pains from old scars, his age had brought with it a sense of tact, or at least a greater one than his younger self.

"Come now, are we really going to charge off into the beasts territory now? Won't you let an old man rest his bones for the night? It has been a long journey here and I'm not as young as you lot. One night of safety outside the beasts domain would not do us any harm."

He wanted just a little bit more time, time that they could spend becoming a better team, or at least long enough for him to come up with a plan to ensure no one died.

Any hopes of a quiet end to the night were dashed by the arrival of the sixth person, a girl far younger than the rest of the gathered adventueres, standing beyond any sort range in which he could make out identifying features. Not that it really mattered, he was watching a young person rush off into certain danger. "Fuck..."

Gently he placed his sword on the ground and raised his arms into the air, attempting to communicate as best as possible, his lack of weapons. "She is ... if we let her stay there. Which I'm not."

Slowly and with an even step he began to cross the empty stretch of land between the group and Ardonne.

The sky has begun to darken overhead, fringing a sickly purple like a bruise beginning to bloom. This is the hour children are called home and doors are locked tight. In the distance to the south a lone bell tolls, a common sound among the last scattering of hamlets and farmhouses along the outskirts.

To the north, the silent woods loom, making an imposing blemish on the road ahead. They stand silent - some say no wind dares to whisper through those still leaves, but folklore will make stories of anything.

Ardonne's careful retreat brings her closer to the Cullis Woods, her experience in hunting game guiding her footsteps a sight better than the average townsperson. Her footsteps on the even, grassy ground are quiet. One of Ardonne's heels finally edges into the long evening shadows cast by the skirting oaks.

Something distinctly animal echoes out from the deeper woods. It's a lot like a bear, but not quite.

No bear ever knew malice like that.

Galia nodded at Heddywn, then Bowman. She hadn't planned to be the leader, but she would accept. It didn't matter to her, someone could step up if they liked as long as they weren't ridiculous. She had experience leading a band of troops, though this sort was hardly what she was used to working with. It would have to be somewhere between controlling rowdy mercs and corralling soft-hearted doctors. But she was interrupted by what seemed to be yet another potential member of the group. A shadowy figure looking hesitant, and armed with a bow. Dangerous. Galia didn't bring her shield because it would only slow her down, and she figured the Beast didn't have arrows to shoot, and anything it could shoot would have be dodged rather than blocked. But a well placed arrow in the chest had the potential to penetrate armor. Galia stood and began to take a step in the direction of the new arrival.

The sun was beginning to set, and a bone chilling noise swept from beyond the treeline. Galia bristled and stared back at the North Road.

"It's suicide to go in alone; even I'm smart enough to know that." Galia called out from behind the masked man, letting her voice do the work rather than trying to approah. Galia had a hand on the longsword at her hip, her tone was cautious, stern, but not aggressive and the word choice was relatable. That was what she was going for, anyway. It was a bad habit to calculate her word choice as if striking at gaps in armor, but it was one she could never fully shake. It only stopped when she was around Elly.

"We're hunting the Beast. No reason to be frightened." She glanced back towards the woods. "Well, maybe a couple reasons. But not of us."

For a moment Ardonne’s bow lowered in recognition of Zahir’s cautious approach before it - and the group as a whole - was forgotten completely. The youth was transfixed by the low, reverberating bellow coming from the swampy darkness of the woods. Her eyes strained for a glimpse, her breath went shallow, neck craning, pulse fluttering at her wrists and jawline before her lips curled up with enthusiasm. A breathless chuckle escaped without warning. She was distracted from her reveries when Galia called out to her and listened with a reinvigorated eagerness. She swung the bow to point into the woods. “There’s your beast, brave hunters!” she hollered back, drunk on adrenaline. “Within earshot! If you’re quick you can catch it before dawn!” Her challenge rattled through the cairns. She waited for no answer, merely hesitating where she stood before putting her arrow away and trotting up to the assembly of people by the road.

At a closer glance, Ardonne was undeniably the youngest of the group. No doubt she was half Galia’s age, a quarter of Zahir’s and remarkably swift and light on her feet in her approach. She wore no armour and only had fifteen arrows to her name along with the barest essentials. She was lean and cruelly built with an upturned nose and all the hot-blooded arrogance of youth radiating off her in droves. Her clothes were baggy, plain and pragmatically chosen for camouflage, and yet...they didn’t seem to fit her. Strips of leather and twine kept them from hanging off her body and getting caught on bristles and branches. Even up close she was incessantly restless. Her pale watery glare flitted from face to face, belt to belt, absorbing the collected party in glimpses and grimaces. It rested on Mort with recognition as she scratched her scalp and scrutinised the way he had aged. “Do you plan to wait ‘till morning?” she asked, directing it to him but leaving it open for discussion.

The girl was young. Had she been a boy Heddwyn believed she would have likely lacked hair on her chest in both the figurative and literal sense.

Curious. He wondered how good she was with that bow of hers.

Heddwyn knew the group they had, of six, was a decent amount and there was a few men and women among them that looked well readied to the task. Heddwyn was sure the group took him for an unarmored swordsman given his garb was merely fitted with leather straps, a gambeson, and cloak. It was hardy enough and kept the middle-aged cleric light on his feet. Given the mud and brush they would be walking through heavy armor would have been a mistake and Heddwyn didn’t desire to spend the coin to get such a thing. His coin was better suited to the alms of the poor and his own necessities, after all. He did wonder how they would all operate. With two distance fighters, himself a cleric of median skill with a sword, and the others who looked more like close quarters combatants, it did seem they would be able to handle whatever the beast was should they approach the creature carefully. Heddwyn had heard a handful of rumors about it. And it had been years since its initial appearance yet nobody really knew anything concrete. Anything scientific. It was a curious thing.

He ran his hands through his cloak, tightening it firmly before commenting in a less cryptic, philosophical manner.

“Yes, I do believe it wise for us to gather and make camp. At least until the venture begins.” He took a glance toward the female whom had taken the role of leader with little reluctance. “Understanding one another is vital to our survival and the beast’s end.”

Talic would have been much of a fool not to anticipate the event of everyone having to introduce himself. He would have been even more of a fool not to think of a cover story for himself -- just in case any of his listeners would get second thoughts upon hearing the truth and come to the conclusion that trying to denounce him might bring more coin for less risk than trying to slay the beast. He still would have revealed his true name and origin since it was quite probable that someone recognized him anyway, but the explanation of his presence here would have been a well-prepared lie. For many more ordinary people the noble families of the Citadel were a society whose members were eager to prove themselves towards each other even if it was potentially life-threatening, so claiming that he had been given the task to slay the beast for the sake of Rastoch glory would have been plausible. He had already proven to the public that he wasn't good at jousting, so why not try to restore his family's honor by proving that he was a good hunter ?

All irrelevant now, at least for the moment. Talic's plan was on the verge of derailing silently already.

It had been a fluctuation in the corner of his eyes at first, something easily to discard. Then however the other people around him started to turn heads and even called out for someone. Then he saw her, too: A young woman, almost looking like a girl... and she had a bow. A rapier had been plugged into Talic's own hands when they had been a fraction of their current size already, so an armed youth could not be a big surprise to him normally. The circumstances weren't normal in any way though as he had serious concerns about his parent's actions back home. Was she a one-woman killing squad on a manhunt for him who simply had failed to avoid discovery more thoroughly ? It would have explained her diving into the dangerous forests without insinuating her being crazy...

Talic went on red alert. He tried to duck and cover behind the stone cairn that happened to be adjacent to the small gathering, however his ludicrous size was anything but helping with that. His hand reached for one of his spears and formed a tight grip around it. These things were not only good for stabbing, they could also be thrown. A not so conventional weapon like a bow with much less range, much more limited ammunition and lower speed, but with an impact that was very significant even if not conducted by someone of his stature. He'd not allow himself to be killed that easily even if that meant behaving much less relaxed than anyone else!

Even he could see that his first thought had been erroneous soon though. An assassin would not reply to any kind of conversational attempt, but instead either try to get the job done or abort. That didn't mean that he would not have to watch her more closely though, if not for the sake of his own safety then for the sake of preventing her obvious hot-headedness cutting her life very short. Believe it or not but at least some nobles even had compassion for other people and Talic's stomach cringed upon seeing just how carelessly she kept shouting at the party. Was it really that difficult to understand that making loud noises on purpose had great potential to either attract or shy away whatever entity had just roared in the depths of the forest ?

The attractive potential appeared even more critical to Talic as he agreed with Heddwyn. As much as he would have liked to get out of damn Fero as quickly as possible as much did he have to admit that even his resources were limited.

"I think he's right. I at least could use a bit of sleep and I doubt that tired eyes will improve anyone's aim with a bow either. So why not stop holloring, calm down and arrange for a camp while we still can ? Preferably not right at the rim of the forest maybe..." There was no real intention of Talic to make himself sound demanding or even just 'significant' in any way, but he also could not avoid that his voice was very dark and no less chesty.

Everyone followed Mort's gaze to watch the kid running off on her own. A collective exasperated concern settled over the assembly; clearly they couldn't let the girl annihilate herself. Most of them, starting with Zahir and Gallia, moved to try and stop her. Talic of all people flinched, instinctively trying to hide himself in a surge of panic, which Mort found more than a little interesting. He couldn't be scared of armed strangers, since he just waltzed into a gathering of them four strong. Since Mort couldn't in good faith suspect an allergy for teenagers he guessed that Talic might just be on the lookout. Bad nerves ain't a good look for you, big man, he thought, but he said nothing. Saying rude things to strong, selfsure people accomplished nothing unless one managed to be both a loner and masochistic at once. The correct response, Mort so often found, was silence.

At that moment there came a noisome sound from the woods. While unmistakably the bellow of some animal, it belonged to no creature Mort knew, and given his occupation as a well-traveled hunter that boded ill. How close? he wondered, though unable to tell. Sound could carry a long distance, but he would have been happier had he not heard anything. Though determined to slay the Beast, facing off against it under the cloak of night was tantamount to diving face-first into hell. A ferocious predator would have every advantage, and its would-be hunters none. They might not even see it as they got picked off one by one. The logical course of action seemed so obvious, so taken for granted even, that when Ardonne approached and asked about it he shot her an are-you-serious sort of look.

“Nah, we're planning to stumble through the dark and hop straight in its mouth. Just figured it'd be the...polite thing to do, you know.” He removed his darkened glasses, now a distinct liability with the sun going down, and slipped them into an underarm pocket. Judging by Ardonne's look, both in appearance and apparel, she'd never seen or had to prepare for a serious fight. Mort took a deep breath as Heddwyn offered that yes, in fact, the group ought to make camp outside the Beast's domain. For some reason he seemed to be looking at Gallia, as if the gone-soft stood as an authority on the matter. Mort had assumed from the beginning that the makeshift team would be making camp together; such a bonding activity could be the only possible justification for gathering right before sundown, the worst possible time to initiate a dangerous hunt. For the sake of the newbie Heddwyn explained that camping together would also increase the team's understanding and solidarity. Mort, meanwhile, took a quick hike around to scope out a spot.

A couple hundred feet away from the main path, and even farther from the edge of the trees, a number of large rocks lay in close proximity atop a knoll. They looked worked, probably by people breaking off stones to use for the cairns. Regardless they provided some security, as well as natural chairs, and the knoll beneath them gave anyone there a vantage point from which they could see the surrounding terrain. No surprises. The number-one rule for picking a spot to camp. A location needed to be either so secure that no intruders could breach it, or far enough away from cover so that a watcher could spot any threat before it got too close. Who knew, after all, if the Beast roved beyond the confines of its territory after dark. “That's a fine spot,” Mort said, pointing it out. No doubt anyone else with substantial wilderness experience under their belts would say the same.

If there was one thing Zahir hadn't been expecting when approaching that girl, it was to practically be completely ignored. For her to run, or to attempt to fight, those were both eventualities he'd been preparing for and for the first time in a while he felt slightly confused. An emotion which while sharp and sudden faded quickly, as it became just one of many "firsts" he'd experianced over his life. At some point he'd just simply learned to accept that new things happened, he could never know everything.

At the very least, the girl was safe for now, so in a roundabout way he'd succeeded in his objective. That thought brought a faint, fleeting smile to the lips hidden behind the mask, the kid hadn't died on his watch. Even better they seemed to have wandered over towards the party, adding one more to the number of people he could protect on this adventure.

All that seemed left for him to do was wander lazily back to the group, picking up and sheathing his blade on the way. From the outside the old mans movements may have looked practically careless, ponderous even, but there was a certain attentiveness to him. He wasn't looking for the beast, that was true, not that looking was going to do much good in the dark, at least for him. Years of sitting happily by a campfire whenever it got dark has ruined much of his nightvision, no he was listening for it. After all if he was gonna sit around campfires for years making himself a target, he needed to hear if a danger was coming, cause they'd sure as hell see him first. That or hear a commanding officer over the yells of combat.

That man ... Heddwyn, as he gave his suggestions Zahir nodded happily, he liked this man already. A nice rest would be welcome, give him a chance to rest. Of course, he'd take one of the watches, warm himself by a nice fire and get some drink in him. The wind would sting of course, but for the few patches which still felt anything it was a comforting sensation.

"I agree with that, a nice protected spot. Though anywhere I could rest my bones would be welcome. If anyone wants a drink, I've got some in my pack I could share."

He paused to smile briefly to himself, it would be nice to hear some new stories. "And if you're worried about taking watch, I can do plenty of it, it is my profession after all."

Heddwyn carefully listened to his new companions, though he couldn’t help but find Talic’s mention of sleep did cause the cleric to look at him a bit more quizzically.

While Heddwyn thought it would be wise to prepare camp, food, and rest; scavenging about in the woods for the monster in the morning seemed a far cry. He doubted such a feat would be allowed if they were truly close enough to hear the bellows of its inhuman speech. In fact, the cry in the woods that sounded like the twisted creature they had been tasked to hunt threw the cleric’s hairs on end. His face may not have showed it, but he was concerned. Especially so that they had volunteered a child into their midst.

As their lead sharpshooter looked to procure an ideal site, Heddwyn kept a close eye on the forests, trying to pinpoint the relative direction the noisome sound had come from. It wouldn’t be until another commented on the spot being fine enough that he diverted his attention back with a calm smile. The same man apparently had volunteered to take first watch, noting it had been his profession. Professions were an interesting base, and no-one’s profession had been previously inclined. Heddwyn wondered if their curiosities would cause concern when they learned that his general combat experience was relatively small in comparison to theirs. Most of them were fighters and despite a formal education in swordplay, Heddwyn was certainly no veteran knight. His skill with a sword was tertiary at best, after all.

He supposed such anxieties were normal, but he made it a priority not to mislead them just the same.

“Let’s make camp, then.”

As the night descends and the unlikely hunting party settles down amid the stones, a lull falls over the Cullis Woods. For now, there is no more sound than the soft whisper of an uneasy evening breeze through the grass, and whatever conversation might be found around a makeshift firepit.

The sky turns from purple to navy to black as coal, studded here and there with scatterings of stars where they peek through the clouds. All is as calm as any other night.

A branch snaps, and some small creature (a squirrel, or a mouse) gives a short, muffled squeak of distress as its brief life is made briefer. This time, there's a sinister edge to the silence that wasn't there before.

Those used to staying alert might find the hairs on the nape of their neck standing on end.

The treeline is dark and inscrutable. Something is watching silently from the woods.