Well—almost everyone. Yuma wasn’t the only one walking around with a Corpse Hair Charm pinned to his lapel, though, unlike his, Hunter’s hadn’t been spent yet.
You have failed a contest of will against Hallara Besk.
Kannewik Corpse Hair Charm has been consumed to protect you from the effects of Voice of the Ancestors.
Having absorbed the brunt of the medicine woman’s magic, the ancient woven hairs crumbled to ash. Hallara looked mildly surprised that he’d withstood her command, but only for a moment. Her eyes met Hunter’s, and the message in her gaze was unmistakable.
Go. Now.
Hunter wasn’t about to sit around and argue with that. Some of the folken around him were already starting to recover. He dashed away at full speed, shoving past the still-disoriented guards. Biggs and Wedge followed close behind, but not without leaving Yuma a final one-two combo of lime-colored blasts straight to the chest as a parting gift. Hunter should probably reprimand them for that, but he didn’t have a single second to lose. He had to find Fyodor, grab his glaive and the rest of his gear, and get the hell out of the village as fast as possible.
Onatah was already outside when he reached her tent, looking pale as a sheet. The direwolf stood beside her, pacing in place, barely able to contain his restlessness.
“Hunter?” she asked. “What happened?”
He gave her a strained smile as he rushed past, heading straight for his belongings. Thinking forward, the woman had gathered them in a neat pile by the tent’s entrance.
“No time to explain, miss Onatah,” he said, scooping everything up. “Looks like I’ve worn out my welcome.”
She pursed her lips and handed him a small satchel tied with braided cord, looking solemn.
“Something for the road, sai. And please… take care.”
With a nod of thanks, Hunter took the satchel from her hands and shoved it into his backpack, then peeked through the tent’s open flap into the gloom within.
“Inago?”
“Still out like a light.”
Hunter frowned, then reached out to squeeze her hand.
“Give him my best. I couldn’t have hoped for a better friend. I hope we meet again, miss Onatah.”
With not a moment to spare, Hunter slung his pack over his shoulder and took off. Fyodor lingered a moment longer. He gave Onatah’s hand one last sad lick, then turned his head toward the tent, ears twitching as if listening for Inago’s breathing in the quiet. Then, with a low whine and a final glance, he bounded after Hunter, taking his place at his side, heading north into the Weald.
***
Onatah had just returned to her quilting when she heard the search party approach, shouting, cursing, stomping through the village like a herd of oxen.
“What is all that noise?” she scolded, stepping out of her tent with quilting needles still in hand. “Have you no respect? There’s an injured man recovering here. A hero of the folken, no less!”
“Apologies, Onatah,” said Daeran, the former alderman’s right-hand man. He looked to be leading the group, and he was clearly in a rush. “We’re after the Transient. Has he come through here?”
“Why? What did he do?”
Daeran let out a weary sigh.
“Apparently, he tried to kill the alderman and a handful of the folken with dark witchery.”
“You don’t say!” she gasped, feigning surprise with wide eyes. “Why, he just came by here only a short while ago, Ancestors help us! Grabbed a few things he’d left back here, then ran off like his pants were on fire and his hair was catching!”
“Where to, Onatah?”
“Due west,” she said without missing a beat. “Straight to the Sacred Training Grounds as the crow flies, if I had to guess.”
***
The Weald was as timeless and imposing as ever; it had also grown familiar, indifferent to Hunter’s presence rather than unwelcoming or hostile. He was moving through the woods swiftly, frequently switching paths and doubling back in case the Brennai decided to send huntsmen after him. Fyodor padded beside him, glad to be back in his natural element. Above, Biggs and Wedge flew in wide arcs, scouting the land ahead.
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Initially, he considered heading straight to Lormenheere, to Herne’s standing stone. After his sitdown with Hallara, it had become even clearer to him that an audience with the great spirit should be his next step. By the time he’d made his way deep enough into the Weald to feel safe enough to stop for a breather, however, Hunter had changed his mind.
Judging from their previous encounter, Herne was nothing if not unpredictable. He was just as likely to set his Mist Stalkers to tear him apart as he was to offer assistance. It was a throw of the dice, and Hunter would rather stack the odds in his favor before approaching the standing stone again. He had a respectable amount of Aether and Inspiration to spend on leveling up, improving his attributes, and learning new abilities, and an armful of gifts from both Hallara and Fawkes he still hadn’t had the chance to go through. Taking a couple of days to regroup his forces, so to speak, would hardly make a difference to the Great Spirit.
It was decided, then: his next destination would be the log cabin he’d spent a few days at when he first entered Elderpyre, where Fawkes had first found him. There was something poetic about tracing back his steps through Aernor like that. It just felt right.
What didn’t feel right, though, was traveling alone. Fyodor was a great companion in his own way, and so were Biggs and Wedge. It would be unfair not to acknowledge that. Still, hiking through the woods without Fawkes was a constant reminder of their parting. Not wanting to sink into melancholy, Hunter searched for a silver lining: at least it was her companionship he missed, not her guidance or protection. It wasn’t codependency or insecurity. He just missed his friend, and that was nothing to be ashamed about.
Reaching the cabin took most of the day. Sometime after noon, he decided to log out and rest for a couple of hours. That highlighted another downside of traveling alone: there was no one to keep Fyodor company while he was gone, save the ravens. Whether it was Fawkes or Inago, someone had always been there to watch over the mutt and put Hunter’s mind at ease.
“Will you be alright if I leave for a couple of hours, boy?” he asked Fyodor.
Predictably, the direwolf said nothing in response; he just watched him with those big amber eyes. Gritting his teeth, Hunter decided to rip the band-aid off. The copse he’d chosen to leave him in looked as safe as any place in the Weald. After all, Fyodor was a wolf the size of a pony, flanked by two raven spirits who could spit witchfire at will. If the three of them couldn’t safely stay in that patch of woods for a couple of hours, no one could.
As it turned out, there’d been no reason to worry. When Hunter popped back into Elderpyre sometime later, he found Fyodor napping while Biggs and Wedge perched overhead, keeping watch. The direwolf rose, yawned, and licked Hunter’s hand, and that was that. They were back on the path.
It was after dark when they finally reached the cabin, which was just as well; anyone staying there would’ve already turned in. Not in the mood for surprises, Hunter sent Biggs and Wedge ahead for a discreet sweep. Fortunately, the small structure was just as empty as he remembered.
“Alright,” he said, dropping his backpack, glaive, and the rest of his gear in a corner. “This’ll be home for a couple of days. Biggs, Wedge—mind scouting the area? Just in case we’ve got neighbors.”
“Roger roger!” the two ravens signalled through their shared mental link as they took wing.
Hunter got to work setting up a cozy spot for Fyodor to sleep. Impressive size aside, the direwolf had a favorite blanket and he got grumpy if he couldn’t sleep on it. Once Fyodor was settled and tucked in, Hunter considered lighting a fire in the cabin’s hearth, then thought better of it. As much as he disliked leaving the direwolf alone overnight, he had to prioritize his real-world health and log out as soon as possible.
He sat beside the already-dozing beast, stroking his thick neck and scratching behind his ears while he waited. Half an hour later, the ravens returned from their sweep with no surprises to report. Hunter stood, gave Fyodor a goodnight pat, and prepared to log out.
“Keep an eye out, just in case,” he told the ravens. “And this time, please, don’t let anyone sneak up on us like Fawkes did, alright?”
Biggs and Wedge cawed their indignation at the jab and swore vigilance, and Hunter prepared to log out for the night. There was one last thing he had to do: anchor himself to the Place of Power behind the cabin. If anything happened to him, he’d rather respawn there than back in Brennai territory.
The Place of Power was a wayshrine to Ronnom, he recalled, the patron saint of wanderers and expatriates. He placed a hand on the weather-worn headstone—there were a few fresh offerings left there, he noted—closed his eyes, and reached out with his mind.
You are now anchored to this Place of Power.
Unlike the others he’d communed with, this one filled him with a quiet warmth, a sense of welcome. He knew, instinctively, that no harm would come to Fyodor during the night. No additional boons appeared, though. Those were a one-time only thing.
It was alright. A good night’s rest would be boon enough, if he could manage to get it.
***
Waking up in his room at the Happy Motel, Alex felt lighter for the first time in days. When one door closes, another door opens. Wasn’t that how the saying went? Oddly enough, that was how he felt. Being mobbed by Yuma’s lackeys and chased out of the Brennai village notwithstanding, his first proper day without Fawkes hadn’t been too shabby.
He headed to the cafeteria, hoping to run into Penny and catch up. She was nowhere to be found, so he settled for a solitary ham-and-cheese sandwich. A late dinner, a stroll in the cool night air, and a solid night’s sleep, that was exactly what he needed.
That, followed by a late morning sleep-in, a quiet day, and a fresh start.
When he popped back in Elderpyre the next day and entered the cabin, however, someone—something?—was already waiting for him.
A new notification blinked into view:
You’ve stumbled across an unusual place or occurrence. Your Serendipity is now 0.
Hunter stared at it, unease creeping in like a draft through a cracked door.
So much for uneventful mornings.
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