[RP] Averancia: Hero's Call

As Rafn’s spear shot forward, the swamp’s dim light glinted off the weapon’s tip just before it found its mark. At the perfect moment, Silver’s sudden movement drew the leader’s attention just enough for the spear to strike true, piercing through its thick-scaled throat. The creature’s clawed hands grasped at the shaft in a futile struggle, a gurgling snarl escaping its lips before its body collapsed into the wet, sucking mud. A final twitch, and it lay still, its lifeblood seeping into the fetid swamp water.

Not far away, Aengus surged forward, his staff radiating a brief flash of light as he rushed to aid Ernest and Athan. With a forceful swing, the shepherd’s well-worn staff cracked against the skull of another foe. The sickening crunch of breaking bone echoed through the marsh as the creature crumpled into the tall, damp grass, its body disappearing into the murk with a final, feeble shudder.

The lone remaining lizard-like warrior hesitated, its reptilian eyes flicking between its fallen comrades and the overwhelming force before it. With a shrill, panicked hiss, it turned and bolted, splashing wildly through the water in a desperate attempt to flee back across the river. Otherwise, its hurried retreat sent ripples through the swamp, and within moments, the dense mist and tangled reeds swallowed it from sight.

The battle was over. The tense air gave way to the heavy breathing of the victors, their weapons slick with blood and their bodies damp with sweat and mist. The stench of the stagnant bog clung to them, the battlefield reeking of death and decay. While the heroes had emerged victorious, the oppressive gloom of the swamp seemed to press in around them, reminding them that this was no place for celebration. If they wished to regain their strength, they would be wise to move away from the festering mire before resting, lest more dangers lurk in the murky depths nearby.

The fallen lizard-like creature lay sprawled in the mud, its scaly hide slick with blood and swamp water. Even in death, it retained an eerie, primal authority. A series of jagged, bony protrusions jutted from its skull, forming a natural, crown-like structure that gave it an air of savage regality. Whether these spines were a genetic trait of its kind or a mark of leadership, none could say for certain, but there was no doubt—this being had commanded the others.

As Rafn knelt beside the corpse, his keen eyes scanned the tattered remnants of its garb. Unlike its kin, who wore only crude belts and weapon harnesses, this one bore additional layers—stitched-together leather scraps draped over its shoulders, suggesting some crude attempt at formality or rank. His fingers brushed against something hard beneath the folds of decayed hide. With a careful tug, he unearthed a golden chain tangled among the creature’s adornments. At its center, swaying gently in the dim light, was a pendant—a fleur-de-lis, unmistakably crafted from pure gold.

The symbol was refined, its craftsmanship far beyond anything these swamp-dwelling creatures could have produced. The delicate detailing, the elegant curves—it was a relic of civilization, an artifact of noble bearing, wholly out of place in the grasp of such a creature. Rafn turned it over in his hands, noting its weight, its warmth against his skin. This was no crude trinket looted from some forgotten battlefield; this was something of importance, something that had meaning beyond mere wealth.

The group trudged back toward the waiting guides and hirelings, their boots heavy with muck and the stench of the fen clinging to them like a curse. A rank mixture of stagnant water, rotting vegetation, and the coppery tang of blood filled the air around them, thick and inescapable. As they drew near, several of the hirelings instinctively recoiled, covering their noses and mouths with the folds of their cloaks, while others wrinkled their faces in poorly concealed disgust.

The guides, experienced travelers of the wilds, were less openly repulsed, though even they exchanged wary glances as the party approached. One of them, a weathered man with a lined face and sharp eyes, pointed to the northeast, his gaze following the slope of the land.

"Best move uphill," he advised gruffly. "That village you’re headed for, Blackhill? Should be just about a day's journey from here, if the weather holds and we make good time. But more importantly, uphill means drier ground, and you’ll be glad for it before long."

He cast a meaningful glance back at the dark, mist-choked fen they had just emerged from. Even without the lingering threat of beastmen or other horrors, the place seemed to exhale foulness, as if the swamp itself resented their presence. Moving higher would not only put them on firmer footing, but also away from whatever else might be lurking in the bog’s murky depths.

As the party readied themselves to press on, the dampness of their clothes and the stink in their nostrils served as a grim reminder that the wilds of Averancia did not give way easily. The day’s march would be a long one, but the promise of a warm hearth and dry ground in Blackhill was motivation enough to press forward.

Rafn nodded to Ængus' appraisal and broke uphill as fast as his savage endurance could manage. Silver took it as sport and began to prance around his Master teasing the limb he had gnawed free from the lizard man he had slain. Eventually Rafn caught the limb and cast it far ahead uphill, the game repeated as they kept pace with the horses.

Rafn, it seemed had limitless endurance, a testament to his growth in the wild. Silver even slowed where the Beastlord had not. As he frequently outpaced the horses, indefatigable as he was, Rafn stopped to inspect the flowers, fungi, and grasses they passed, looking for anything of use.