[RP] Averancia: Hero's Call

The halfling nods, drowsily, as he is healed, then turns towards Aengus. "The patrols are made up of anywhere from 6 to 10, usually large brutish creatures with brown to green skin. Beyond that, we have not seen many, we just hear the drums beating through the night. Also, we don't know if they have any leaders, though sometimes a member of the patrol can be seen holding a banner. It is a black banner with a strange red triangle on it. I haven't seen it in detail, of course, but I've described faithfully what I could make out. If any are leaders, it may be those who carry the banners."

The halfling shrugs and takes some food out of his pack.

The night passed in an uneasy quiet, the only sounds the occasional rustle of leaves in the gentle night breeze and the faint chirping of crickets. Despite Rafn’s relentless vigilance, scanning the treeline and shadows beyond the flickering light of the campfire, no sign of enemy humanoids could be detected. His sharp eyes and finely honed instincts, trained through years of survival in the wild, found nothing—not a snapped twig, not a displaced rock, not even the faintest whiff of unfamiliar scents on the wind.

It was almost unnerving. The silence wasn’t peaceful—it felt deliberate, as though the night itself conspired to keep its secrets hidden. Rafn couldn’t shake the nagging thought that, if there were enemy eyes upon them, they were hiding too well. Every shadow seemed deeper than it should be, and every gust of wind felt like it carried whispers just beyond the edge of hearing.

Still, as the hours stretched on, his unease found no confirmation. No ambush came from the underbrush, no arrow flew from the darkness, and no figures emerged from the night. Whether their foes had retreated farther than anticipated, were lying in wait elsewhere, or simply did not exist, Rafn could not say. By the time the first pale streaks of dawn began to touch the horizon, the forest remained as still and enigmatic as it had been when night first fell.

As the others began to stir and the camp came alive with the soft murmur of morning routines, Rafn allowed himself a grudging moment of rest, though his furrowed brow betrayed his lingering wariness. The absence of danger felt almost as unsettling as its presence might have been, and a small voice at the back of his mind warned that the unknown might yet come to find them.

The halfling speaks up at this: "I did ride hard yesterday; perhaps I managed to get well beyond where their patrols roam." He looks around at the ruins. "Or it might be something about this place that keeps them away."

"In either case, be careful on your way to Blackhill. I must make my way to Market Town to make my report. You have my thanks for the respite."

The following morning, the Heroes of Averancia and their retainers resumed their journey, their spirits high despite the persistent overcast skies. Their goal was to reach the village of Blackhill before nightfall, but nature had other plans. A steady rain began soon after their departure, transforming the open fields and woodland paths into a mire of mud and slick grass. Each step became a laborious slog, their boots and horse hooves sinking into the waterlogged ground, hampering their progress significantly. The unrelenting drizzle seeped into their cloaks and armor, leaving them cold and sodden.

Despite the adverse conditions, the group pressed onward. The winding course of the Haven River served as their guide, its glistening waters offering a reassuring marker that kept them from losing their way in the gray haze of the storm. The sound of the river’s flow, though muted by the rainfall, was a constant companion as they trudged toward their destination.

By midday, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. Darker, more ominous clouds rolled in from the west, casting an oppressive gloom over the landscape. Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, a warning of storms yet to come. The terrain, once firm beneath their feet, began to transform. The river’s banks widened into a swampy delta, its clear waters mixing with stagnant pools that glistened with an oily sheen. The reeds and cattails that thrived along the river now grew thick and twisted, their roots submerged in fetid muck.

The air grew heavy with a foul stench, a pungent mixture of rotting vegetation and something more acrid, more sinister—like the rancid odor of sewage bubbling to the surface. The heroes exchanged uneasy glances as the atmosphere grew increasingly oppressive. The land seemed alive with decay, the buzzing of unseen insects and the croaking of distant frogs echoing eerily in the damp air.