In the village tavern, Brock who was miraculously having survived his encounter with the Shadowwood Coven (though no one was quite sure how he had survived, as he’d conveniently been “knocked unconscious” before the real fighting began), was holding court.
He sat at a large table, surrounded by a group of wide-eyed villagers, regaling them with tales of his supposed heroism. He gestured wildly, sloshing ale on the table, his voice booming through the tavern.
"And then," he bellowed, "this monstrous beast, a creature of pure nightmare, lunged at me! Its claws were like razors, its teeth like daggers! I fought it, of course, nobly, valiantly, for hours, I tell you, hours! Parrying its blows, dodging its attacks, all while protecting the innocent villagers cowering behind me!"
He paused for dramatic effect, taking a long swig of ale. The villagers gasped, their eyes filled with awe.
"And the cultists!" he continued, wiping foam from his lips. "They were relentless! Dark magic crackling around them, their eyes burning with evil! They swarmed me, I tell you, a dozen at least! But I, with my superior skill and unmatched bravery, fought them off, one by one! Slaying them with my bare hands, disarming them with a flick of my wrist!"
He puffed out his chest, clearly enjoying the attention. A few villagers exchanged skeptical glances, but they were drowned out by the louder voices of those who were captivated by Brock's tales.
"I was wounded, of course," Brock said, lifting his arm to reveal a small scratch. "A mere flesh wound, nothing serious. But it serves as a reminder of the sacrifices I made, the dangers I faced, to save you all!"
He beamed at the villagers, who applauded enthusiastically. He raised his tankard.
"To the heroes of Oakhaven!" he cried. "To those who risked their lives to protect us!"
The villagers cheered and raised their own tankards. Brock took another long swig of ale, basking in the glory.
He conveniently omitted the part where he had begged for mercy from a cultist, the part where he had hidden while Markus, Sharon, and Gordon faced the true horrors of the stronghold, the part where he had mysteriously reappeared after the battle was over, claiming to have "escaped" from a "secret dungeon."
He also conveniently forgot to mention the fact that Gordon had saved everyone.
As the celebration continued, Brock leaned back in his chair, a smug look on his face. He had survived, he was being lauded as a hero, and no one questioned his version of the story. He was, in his own mind, the savior of Oakhaven.
Meanwhile in a quieter corner of the village, away from the boisterous celebration in the tavern, Elias, the Guild Leader, sat alone in his modest house, a half-empty bottle of strong ale resting on the table before him. The joy that permeated the rest of the village felt distant, muffled, unable to penetrate the thick fog of grief that enveloped him.
He swirled the remaining ale in his tankard, the amber liquid reflecting the flickering candlelight. He wasn't celebrating. He was mourning. Gareth was dead.
Of all the hunters who had participated in the attack on the Shadowwood Coven's stronghold, Gareth was the one Elias had considered the most likely to survive. Gareth wasn't just a strong warrior; he was resourceful, cunning, a veritable magician with his tricks and traps. He could disappear in the blink of an eye, reappear where you least expected him, and always seemed to have a trick up his sleeve. He was, in Elias’s estimation, virtually impossible to kill.
And yet, he was gone.
Elias took a long drink of the ale, the bitter taste mirroring the bitterness in his heart. They had been friends, he and Gareth, for years. They had fought together, hunted together, shared countless stories and laughs around campfires. Gareth wasn’t just a hunter; he was a brother in arms, a trusted companion.
The thought of Gareth’s clever smile, his dry wit, his uncanny ability to get them out of tight situations, brought a fresh wave of grief. He remembered the last time he had seen Gareth, just before they had entered the stronghold. Gareth had clapped him on the shoulder, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Don’t worry, Elias,” he’d said. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. We’ll be back before you know it, celebrating our victory.”
Now, Gareth was gone, and Elias was left with nothing but memories and the gnawing feeling that he had failed him. He was the Guild Leader. It was his responsibility to protect his hunters, to bring them home safe. He had failed Gareth, and the weight of that failure was crushing him.
He knew that the villagers celebrated the victory over the Shadowwood Coven, and he understood their joy. But he couldn't share it. Not yet. Not while Gareth was gone.
He raised his tankard, not in celebration, but in a silent toast to his fallen friend. "To Gareth," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "A true hunter, a loyal friend. May you find peace in the hunting grounds beyond."
He drained the tankard, the ale doing little to soothe the ache in his heart. He knew that the grief would stay with him for a long time. Gareth was irreplaceable. As the sounds of celebration drifted from the tavern, Elias sat alone in the quiet darkness, mourning the loss of his friend, his heart heavy with sorrow.
----------------
Bertha sighed, the weight of the kingdom's paperwork pressing down on her shoulders. She glanced at the churn in the corner – a relic from her very real, very current, very smelly job managing the goat farm. It wasn't just a cover; it was her life. Or at least, a significant portion of it. Seriously, who knew Oakhaven was such a hotbed of supernatural activity? she thought, a wry smile twisting her lips. And why did I have to be the one to write it all down? I’m a goat farmer, for crying out loud! A goat farmer with a top-secret clearance and a rapidly approaching deadline.
Her thoughts drifted to Gordon. Gordon. It still felt weird to think of him as… well, not exactly a subordinate, not back then. More like… a slightly bewildered, goat-obsessed kid she’d sort of taken pity on. She was only eighteen herself, barely older than him, but she’d felt a strange sense of… well, not responsibility exactly. More like… mild annoyance that he was so utterly hopeless at everything except goats. He’d been so lost after his father died, so quiet and withdrawn.
She remembered him as a lanky, awkward teenager, more comfortable with animals than people. He'd drifted into the goat farm more out of desperation than any genuine passion for caprine husbandry. He needed money, plain and simple, and milking goats was apparently the least terrifying option available to him at the time.
She'd shown him the ropes, patiently explaining the intricacies of goat husbandry, demonstrating the proper way to milk a particularly stubborn goat, and guiding him through the delicate process of cheese-making. He was surprisingly good at it, she thought, a flicker of pride warming her. Probably because he was so quiet the goats didn't get spooked.
She remembered his father, Thomas. Not a shopkeeper with a bustling store, but a poor merchant, a peddler who carried his wares on his back. He’d walk the roads, sometimes selling his goods by the roadside, other times going door to door. His merchandise was simple – tools, trinkets, small household items – things the villagers needed but couldn't always afford. He was a kind man, always ready with a smile, even when business was slow, his eyes crinkled at the corners from years spent squinting in the sun. She remembered playing with Gordon as a little kid, Thomas would always give her a small wooden toy he had made.
Thomas had died when Gordon was still a lad, a fever taking him quickly. Bertha remembered the quiet sadness that had settled over Gordon, the way he’d become even more withdrawn, lost and adrift. He hadn't yet found his place, hadn't yet found solace in the goats. He was just a boy, grieving the loss of his father, trying to survive. And now he’s a hero, she thought, a mix of disbelief and admiration swirling within her. And I’m stuck writing a report about it. A very long, very complicated, very improbable report.
A wave of annoyance washed over her. She hated this part of her life. The spying, the paperwork, the constant sense of being pulled in two directions. She hadn’t even wanted to be a secret agent. It had been a stupid, impulsive decision, all because the recruiter had been… well, incredibly handsome. And charming. And he’d made it sound so exciting, so important.
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Saving the kingdom! Fighting for justice!
Instead, she was stuck in a dusty room, trying to make sense of demonic rituals and ancient evils while simultaneously trying to remember if she’d left enough feed for Agnes and Beatrice and trying to figure out how to explain this mess to her superiors. And she was pretty sure she was out of goat cheese.
She shook her head, pushing the thought aside. No, focus, she told herself. She had a duty. The kingdom needed this report. The King needed to know about the demonic activity, the potential threats, the monsters.
She dipped her quill in the inkwell, took a deep breath, and began to write. "Subject: Shadowwood Coven Incident – A Detailed Analysis of Demonic Activity and Potential Threats to the Realm…"
As she wrote, her mind kept drifting back to Gordon, to Thomas, to the village and its people. She realized that this report wasn't just about facts and figures, about demonic entities and ancient evils. It was a story about people. It was about the way these extraordinary events had touched and irrevocably altered ordinary lives.
And she knew that she had to do justice to their stories, to capture the fear, the courage, the loss, and the enduring resilience she had witnessed. It was a daunting task, but she was determined to do it. For the kingdom, for the village, for the memory of Thomas, the peddler who had raised a hero, for the quiet kid who used to help her with the goats. And then, she decided, she was going to find that ridiculously handsome recruiter and give him a piece of her mind. Right after she finished this report. Which, judging by the growing pile of parchment, was going to be a while. And after she checked on the goats. And maybe made some more cheese. She was, after all, a goat farmer. And a secret agent. And apparently, a chronicler of the supernatural. Her life was officially ridiculous.
Meanwhile, back at Gordon’s small cottage, a different kind of drama was unfolding. Gordon, still a little shaky from his recent brush with death (and demonic possession, and ancestral power awakening, and… well, it had been a week), was being given a stern lecture by his mother.
"Goats, Gordon? Goats?" she exclaimed, her voice rising in exasperation. She threw her hands up in the air, a gesture that spoke volumes about her current state of frustration. "After everything you’ve been through, after nearly being killed by that… that hag, you decide to spend your hard-earned coin on goats?"
Gordon winced, shrinking under his mother’s disapproving gaze. He knew he was in the doghouse. Or rather, the goat house. He’d just returned from the market, beaming with pride, leading a pair of particularly fluffy, particularly smelly goats. His mother, however, was less than thrilled.
"But Mother," Gordon stammered, trying to explain. "I… I thought… I mean, I used to… and they’re good goats! Look how fluffy they are!"
His mother glared at the goats, who were currently munching on a stray piece of her prized rug. "Fluffy? Gordon, they're eating my rug! And they smell! And you have a new job now! A respectable job! Why on earth do you need goats again?"
Gordon shuffled his feet, suddenly finding the floorboards incredibly interesting. He’d been so excited about the goats, so eager to return to something familiar, something comforting after the chaos of the past few weeks. He hadn’t anticipated his mother’s reaction.
"It’s… it’s nostalgic," he mumbled, the word sounding weak even to his own ears.
"Nostalgic?" his mother repeated, her voice laced with disbelief. "You almost died, Gordon! And you’re feeling nostalgic for smelly, rug-eating goats?"
Gordon sighed. He knew his explanation wasn’t very convincing. He just… he missed the goats. He missed the quiet rhythm of the milking, the gentle bleating, the sense of connection to something simple and real. After all the madness, the magic, the near-death experiences, the goats felt like an anchor, a link to his old life, a life that suddenly seemed so much more appealing. And thats was definitely the reason not because he obsessed with goat, that was ridiculous.
"They’re good company," he tried, his voice barely above a whisper.
His mother threw her hands up again. "Good company? Gordon, you have friends! You have a job! You have… well, you have me! What do you need goats for?"
Gordon didn’t have a good answer for that. He just… he wanted them. He couldn’t explain it, not really. It was a feeling, a longing for something familiar, something that reminded him of who he was before he became… well, before he became whatever he was now. A hero? A vessel for ancestral power? He didn’t even know anymore. But he knew he liked goats.
His mother sighed, her anger slowly dissipating, replaced by a weary resignation. She looked at the goats, who were now attempting to eat her curtains. She looked at Gordon, his face a mixture of hope and apprehension.
"Fine," she said finally, her voice laced with defeat. "You can keep your goats. But they are not allowed in the house. And you are responsible for cleaning up after them. And if they eat anything else of mine, they’re going straight to the butcher."
Gordon beamed, relief washing over him. "Thank you, Mother!" he exclaimed. "You won’t regret it! They’re really good goats!"
His mother just rolled her eyes. She knew she’d regret it. She just hoped she wouldn’t regret it too much.
Meanwhile Deep within the shadowed heart of the forest, far from the bustling village and the comforting glow of hearth fires, the hag sat hunched on a fallen log. The ancient trees loomed around her, their gnarled branches reaching out like skeletal fingers, their leaves whispering secrets in the wind. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and decaying leaves, a fitting aroma for the hag’s current mood.
She looked… diminished. The raw, untamed power that had crackled around her during her battle with the high priestess was gone, leaving her looking frail and vulnerable. Her skin, stretched taut over her bones, seemed even more translucent, her milky eyes clouded with a simmering rage. She was weak, yes, weakened by the battle, weakened by the… humiliation.
She gritted her teeth, the sound a dry, rasping grind. The memory of the fight, the human who had dared to stand against her, burned in her mind like a festering wound. Not just any human, but a boy, a mere stripling wielding a power he barely understood, a power that had, against all odds, defeated her. The thought was almost unbearable.
She, an ancient being, older than the trees themselves, a creature of primal magic, had been bested. Outmaneuvered. Humiliated. By a human. The shame of it gnawed at her, a bitter poison seeping into her very being.
She clenched her gnarled hands, her nails digging into the bark of the log. She could still feel the echoes of the boy’s power, the searing heat of the ancestral fire that had burned away her dark magic, leaving her weakened and exposed. She had underestimated him, she had been arrogant, and she had paid the price.
But the humiliation was not the only thing that fueled her anger. It was the implication. If a mere human could defeat her, even with the aid of some half-baked ancestral magic, what did that say about her? About her power? About her place in the grand tapestry of existence?
She had been a force to be reckoned with, a creature of fear and legend for centuries. And now… now she felt vulnerable, diminished, almost… mortal. The thought was terrifying.
She looked around the glade, her gaze sweeping over the ancient trees, the dark undergrowth, the whispering shadows. This was her domain, her sanctuary. She had drawn power from this forest for centuries, had woven its magic into her very being. And she would not, could not, allow a mere human to take that away from her.
She would have her revenge. She would make that boy pay for his insolence. She would reclaim her power, her dominance. She would show them all – the humans, the Keepers of the Flame, all those who dared to defy her – that she was not a creature to be trifled with.
Her weakness would not last. She would draw on the power of the forest, on the ancient magic that flowed through its veins. She would heal, she would grow stronger, and she would return. And when she did… She would make them all suffer.
