Naevrien

The last rays of the setting sun were fading from the sky, and the village hurried back to the safety of their houses, doors locked and curtains drawn. Superstitious? No, careful, as only people living at the edge of the Arlavath Forest could be. There was wisdom in old tales, and when each transgression proved them true, they became laws taught as bedtime stories.

Dark settled quickly, as it always did in this part of the realm, and even the breeze did not dare make the trees rustle. The crooked streets were empty, valiant lanterns bearing Caelaure’s symbol standing as only ward against the obscurity seeping from the forest.

Shadows swirled as Naevrien entered the village for one of his rare outings, his dark coat whispering in the hushed air. He had paced this exact path a hundred times already. His steps were purposeful and quiet on the cobblestone, the resilient sprigs that dared grow through the cracks withering to ash under his feet. Spotting an open window that had not been fixed since his last venture, he leapt through it and found himself inside a merchant’s house. Bingo. Silently, he filled his knapsack with food and occasional supplies — a bundle of matches, enough food to last a fortnight, a clump of wicks — and in their place he left a heavy purse of gold, far more than necessary. The merchant would find it in the morning, confused, adding fuel to the murmured rumours.

Having acquired only what was strictly necessary, Naevrien made his way back toward the forest, retracing his steps while mentally noting what he might need for his next expedition. After all this time, he did not worry about someone seeing him; the fables usually ensured he remained the only soul braving the moonlight. That’s why he froze like a deer facing a hunter when he heard a breath hitching, a breath that was not his. Azkaroth’s powers stirred beneath his skin, leashed but ready should this unprecedented encounter reveal dangerous. A few cautious steps resonated behind him, and slowly, he turned, breath controlled as his face was revealed.

"You must not be from here, to ignore the warnings against wandering around at night, firefly," he said, voice barely above a whisper, worn smooth by solitude and time. "I’ve walked this path a hundred times under starlight, yet no soul has ever met me here. Were you curious about the monster?" One of his hands, long-fingered and clawed, twitched slightly at his side, a subtle tell of his discomfort. "Either way, you have wandered too close to the edge," he stated, voice firm — though his head tilted with curiosity, almost wondering why they still had not run away screaming.