0. Xanda chargen

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Interesting! Please post something In Character for us. If you need any help, just let me know.

Anya's small room was a whirlwind of activity. The modest wooden chest at the foot of her bed was open, its lid propped up against the wall, revealing an assortment of neatly folded clothes, small trinkets, and well-worn books. She moved around the space with purpose, occasionally pausing to examine an item before adding it to the pile.

Her travel cloak, lined with soft wool and embroidered with a subtle pattern of stars by her grandmother’s hand, was draped across her bed. She ran her fingers over the stitching, a smile tugging at her lips. That would definitely be coming with her. She picked it up and folded it carefully, tucking it into the chest.

On the small wooden table by the window, her grandmother’s gifts waited: a bundle of protective charms wrapped in cloth, a small pouch of dried herbs, and a slender dagger with a handle carved from oak. Anya reached for the charms, holding them in her hands for a moment. They smelled faintly of sage and lavender.

"Always keep these close," her grandmother had said earlier that morning. "You never know when you’ll need a bit of home."

With reverence, she placed them in the top of her bag.

Next came the books. Some were old tomes with faded covers, others were simple notebooks filled with her grandmother’s handwritten notes and sketches. These were treasures, and she packed them with the utmost care, wrapping each in cloth to protect them. One particularly thick journal caught her eye—a record of her grandmother’s spells and remedies. She hesitated, then slid it into her chest. It would be like carrying a piece of her grandmother with her.

At last, her packing was done. Anya stood back and surveyed her work: her chest now brimming with essentials and a few keepsakes. Midnight, the black cat, hopped onto the chest and sniffed at the bundle before curling up atop it.

"You can’t come with me, silly," Anya said, scratching the cat behind the ears. Midnight purred in response, as if unbothered by the notion.

As the morning sun crept higher in the sky, Anya donned her cloak and fastened the clasp at her neck. She slipped her pack over her shoulders and hefted the chest onto the waiting cart, where a sturdy mule named Bramble stood patiently, harnessed and ready.

Her grandmother stood at the gate of the cottage garden, arms crossed. Her sharp eyes softened as Anya approached.

"Well," Grandmother said, her voice gruff but warm. "You’re set, then."

Anya nodded, her heart swelling with both excitement and an ache she didn’t expect. "Thank you, Grandma. For everything."

Grandmother stepped forward and pulled her into a brief, fierce hug. "Go on, then," she said, releasing her. "But don’t let those professors fill your head with nonsense."

Anya laughed, her throat tight. "I won’t."

With one last look at the cottage, the garden, and the woman who had taught her so much, Anya climbed onto the cart and clicked her tongue to Bramble. The mule started forward, the wheels of the cart creaking along the dirt path.

As the cottage disappeared from view, Anya felt the weight of her grandmother’s parting words and the pull of the road ahead. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her gaze to the horizon, where Misthaven and her dreams awaited.

The sun hung low in the sky as Anya guided Bramble along the winding dirt path. The rhythmic clop of the mule’s hooves and the gentle creak of the cart were the only sounds, save for the occasional trill of birdsong. The fields and open hills had slowly given way to denser woodland, the air growing cooler as the trees thickened around her. Shadows stretched long across the road as twilight crept in.

Up ahead, the path split in two. At the fork, a weathered wooden signpost stood, its arrows pointing in opposite directions. The left arrow, faded and splintered, read "Evernight Hollow." The path beyond was narrow and overgrown, its entrance darkened by towering oaks and a tangle of hanging vines. The trees here seemed to huddle close, as if conspiring to keep their secrets.

The right arrow, sturdier and freshly painted, read "Oakstead Village." That path was wide and inviting, its edges lined with wildflowers and bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun.

Anya pulled Bramble to a stop and hopped down from the cart, her boots crunching on the gravel. She stepped closer to the fork, hands on her hips as she considered her options.

The path through Evernight Hollow would take her to Misthaven in four days—half the time of the road through Oakstead. But the forest’s reputation preceded it. Stories of strange shadows, ghostly whispers, and travelers vanishing without a trace had reached even her grandmother’s small cottage. The mere thought of entering those shadowy woods made her shiver.

The road to Oakstead was safer and well-traveled. She could rest at the village overnight, enjoy a warm meal, and perhaps even meet a merchant or another traveler heading in the same direction. But it would add a few days to her journey, and the thought of delaying her arrival at Misthaven made her stomach twist with impatience.

Anya stared at the two paths, chewing her lip as the shadows of Evernight Hollow seemed to creep closer. The air around the overgrown path felt different—heavier, colder, and filled with an uneasy stillness. She wanted to be brave, to prove that she could handle anything Misthaven might throw her way, but a small voice in the back of her mind whispered caution. These were woods of Grandma's stories. Woods where travellers might suddenly vanish.

She pulled out the charm her grandmother had given her and turned it over in her hands. The braided threads were smooth and comforting against her fingers.

Her eyes shifted to the road to Oakstead. It wasn’t just the flowers and sunlight that tempted her - it were in the inns on the road. A meal, a bed and bath. Her excitement for Misthaven tugged at her impatiently, but she’d be no good to anyone, least of all herself, if she pushed too hard and stumbled into danger unprepared.

"Misthaven isn’t going anywhere," she said softly. "What good is getting there early if I don’t make it at all?"

Bramble shifted his weight, snorting softly as if in agreement. She laughed, the sound breaking through her uncertainty. "All right, fine, you win this one, Bramble."

Anya tucked the charm back into her pocket, guiding Bramble toward the sunny, inviting path to Oakstead. "Let’s take the long way. Besides, who knows? Maybe I’ll meet someone interesting there."

As they started down the wide road, Anya felt tension in her chest ease slightly. The birdsong returned, filling the air with life.

The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time Anya spotted the warm glow of Oakstead’s lanterns in the distance. The wide dirt road had become smoother, lined with low stone walls and wooden fences. The faint sounds of village life reached her ears—laughter, the distant clink of metal on metal, and the occasional bark of a dog. After hours of travel, the sight was as welcome as a hearth fire on a cold night.

As she drew closer, the village came into view. Oakstead was a quaint and bustling hamlet, its buildings a mix of timber-framed cottages and sturdy stone structures. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the scent of woodfire and roasting meat. Lanterns hung from iron hooks along the main street, casting a golden glow that danced in the evening breeze.

Anya guided Bramble through the village gate, a wooden arch carved with intricate patterns of vines and leaves. A pair of guards stood nearby, chatting casually but eyeing her cart as she passed. She offered them a polite nod, which they returned with faint smiles.

The main street was alive with activity. Villagers bustled about, some closing up shop for the day, others lingering outside the tavern where laughter spilled out into the street. The building was the largest in town, its sign swinging gently in the breeze. The Lantern’s Rest, it read, painted in bold letters above an image of a lantern glowing amidst a forest.

Anya pulled Bramble to a stop outside the tavern, hopping down from the cart. She led Bramble toward the stable, finding a sturdy barn with the scent of hay and horses. A teenage boy stepped out, brushing straw from his sleeves.

"Need a hand?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly.

"Yes, please," Anya replied, handing him the reins. "This is Bramble. He’s a bit stubborn, but he’s a sweetheart."

The boy chuckled and took the reins. "I’ll make sure he’s well cared for. You headed to the Lantern’s Rest?"

"I am. Do they have good food?"

"The best in Oakstead," he said.

Satisfied that Bramble was in good hands, Anya made her way back to the tavern. The scent of roasted meat, fresh bread, and spiced ale filled the air. Tables were crowded with villagers, their laughter and chatter mingling with the occasional clink of mugs.

A good place to eat and have a good sleep before continueing her journey to Misthaven.

Anya stepped into the tavern, immediately enveloped by its warmth and noise. She spotted a space at the bar and made her way there, lowering her hood and shaking off the chill of the evening. After paying for a simple meal and a room, she settled at a small table in the corner, her pack carefully placed by her feet. For a while, she let herself relax, soaking in the lively atmosphere of the tavern.

As the evening deepened, the tavern grew noisier, the crowd thicker. Villagers laughed over dice games, and travelers swapped exaggerated tales of their journeys. Anya kept mostly to herself, her attention occasionally drifting to the pack at her feet, where her grandmother’s gifts and her precious books lay carefully wrapped.

She didn’t notice the man watching her from across the room.

He was lean and wiry, dressed in a patchwork of worn leathers. As the crowd jostled and shifted, he moved closer to her table, blending easily into the noisy throng. His eyes were fixed on the pack by her feet, the worn leather promising something valuable inside.

When the opportunity came—a loud burst of laughter from the bar drawing most eyes—he struck. With a deft hand, he reached down, grabbing the pack and slipping it into the folds of his cloak. He turned, slipping toward the door with practiced ease.

But Anya wasn’t as unaware as she seemed. She had felt the shift of air near her feet, the faintest tug on the pack’s strap. Her eyes snapped to the retreating figure, and her heart raced.

Anya shot to her feet, her chair falling over backwards. Her eyes locked on the figure weaving toward the door

"Hey! Stop!" she called.

Without waiting to see if anyone else reacted, she pushed her way through the crowd, her boots thudding against the wooden floor. Anya wasn’t about to let him vanish with her things.

"Stop him! Thief! He has my pack!" she yelled, hoping someone near the door would step in, even as tired to chase him herself. "Grandma gave it to me!".

The thief didn’t slow, nor did anyone in the tavern make a move to stop him. Conversations merely faltered for a moment before resuming, the crowd parting just enough for the wiry man to dart through. Anya gritted her teeth, her heart pounding as she shoved her way past uninterested patrons. Her calls for help went unanswered, and the thief reached the door, slipping outside into the chilly night.

Anya's mind raced as the thief slipped out into the night. She wasn’t a fighter, and Grandma's magic was still way out of her scope. But she couldn’t just let him get away. She had to try something—anything.

She darted to the door, pausing only for a second as the cool air hit her face. Drawing a deep breath to steady her nerves, she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, not for help, but to draw attention to the thief.

"You! Stop! Thief! You’ve... you've got my pack!"

Without waiting to see if anyone else was nearby, Anya started after him, keeping her eyes on his retreating figure. Her boots pounded against the dirt road as she tried to stay close enough to follow but not so close that she startled him into disappearing completely. If she couldn’t catch him outright, she could at least keep him in sight, hoping he might slip up or drop her pack in his haste.

"You! Drop it! I will cast a spell on you I will! A nasty one! A very nasty one!" she shouted. She really wasn't sure of it herself, but the thief didn't need to know that.

The thief didn’t so much as glance back at her threats. His pace quickened, his wiry frame moving with practiced ease through the dimly lit streets. Anya pushed herself to keep up, her breath coming in sharp bursts as she weaved through the scattered villagers still lingering outside the tavern or heading home for the night.

Ahead, the thief veered sharply to the right, slipping into a narrow, shadowy alley between two tall, crooked buildings. The faint light from the lanterns barely reached into the space, and the alley seemed to swallow him whole.

Anya skidded to a halt at the mouth of the alley, her chest heaving as she peered into the darkness. The sounds of the bustling village faded behind her, replaced by the eerie stillness of the alleyway. She could hear the faint scrape of the thief's boots on cobblestones, the sound growing fainter with each passing second.

Her heart thudded in her chest, the weight of the decision pressing on her as she lingered on the edge of the shadows.