Author’s Note: This piece was shaped with a little help from AI. It provided assistance on things like the structuring, some names, shortening some verbose language/ideas as I'd written, and gave me the odd turn of phrase here and there. The heart and shape of the story are my own (as adapted from live-play with others naturally), but I realise it is important to be transparent about my use of AI support in producing it ultimately.
Featuring: Vratni, Flent, Tivlyn, Wittkun, Feay, Meltharian, Cirvalad, Davus, Erthera, Tayschren
Location: Southern Ruins, Lone-lands
‘How had it come to this?’ Vratni asked himself.
‘The morning had started off so well…’
The caustic scent of burning metal now filled the air instead as Vratni watched the iron shackle bubble and hiss beneath the corrosive liquid. It was slow, too slow for his liking, but at least it was working. Better than trusting in a sword swing, he muttered, though he tightened his grip on his axe as the battle raged behind him.
The young lady captive ((Erthera)) wasted no time when the chain finally crumbled apart. She staggered forward, grime and ash clinging to her tattered clothes, but there was still strength in her. Good. If she could stand, she could fight. Without hesitation, she grabbed a loose stone, her gaze flicking toward the nearest orc.
The stink of blood and burning filth churned in the air, thick as fog, pressing against the ruins like a living thing. The cries of battle rang sharp against broken stone, arrows whistling past, blades flashing in the dim light. The fight had begun with intent…. precision, silence, the careful dance of hunters slipping through the brush. But now?
Now, it was chaos.
A bargain struck on the road, a demand for aid in exchange for safe passage. A reluctant agreement, a simple goal: to rescue lost souls from the grasp of orc-kind. And yet, the ruins had become a battlefield. Two Eglain warriors already lay dead, their cries swallowed by the roars of war and metal striking metal. The scout-leader's words echoed in Vratni’s mind: “You’ll be watched. Don’t mistake our weariness for weakness.”
Weak? No. The Eglain understood struggle. And now, so did this ragged band.
But if they were to leave, they had to do so soon. The orcs would not falter, not until the last blade fell, not until the last breath was spent. If they lingered too long, their only prize would be another grave among the ruins.
How had it come to this?
And how would they make it out alive?
In the distance, Tivlyn was locked in a brutal tumble with a snarling orc, her axe swinging in desperate arcs as they rolled down the hillside. She had taken a savage blow to the side, but she wasn’t giving up. Meltharian moved fast, charging forward with spear and shield in hand to intercept another orc closing in on Tivlyn.
Further back, Wittkun, bloodied and battered, roared and lashed out, his gauntlets cracking against a monstrous orc, sending ripples through its patchwork armour. Beyond, Tayschren loosed another arrow, his elven precision cutting through the melee as his bolt struck a crossbow-wielding orc. Flent parried a blade, but his counterstrike went wide, this wasn’t a fight against mindless brutes... these were seasoned killers.
Davus nor Feay could be seen, but Vratni could at least see Cirvalad, striking one orc but narrowly missing another, forcing him into a defensive retreat as the enemy pressed forward. That is until he drew a mighty blade and uttered something Vratni couldn’t hear.
The blade flashed like a streak of silver fire, astounding… and then nothing…. for all had gone black. Vratni collapsed to the ground; one last thought passing out of his conscious mind…
“How had it come to this?”
Featuring: Vratni, Flent, Tivlyn, Wittkun, Feay, Meltharian, Cirvalad, Davus, Erthera, Tayschren
Location: nearing Ost Guruth, Lone-lands
Vratni staggered forward, his boots dragging against the ashen ground, every step a test of will. The party limped alongside him, bodies battered, breath shallow, but alive.
The fight had escalated from nowhere. Orcs, no, ‘Uruks’, as the elves called them. Vratni didn’t know the difference, only that they struck harder, faster, their blades carving the air with brutal precision. They had been outnumbered, outmatched, and yet they stood. Luck, some might say. Fortune favouring fools who should have fallen.
But Vratni knew what he saw.
Cirv’s fire.
The memory burned bright in the haze of exhaustion… the way his sword seemed to wreath itself in flame, how his eyes also burned with something beyond mere battle-fury. Vratni had faltered then, stumbling back, his own weapon feeling suddenly small in the face of that inferno.
He wasn’t the only one. Others had fallen too, not to blade, but to astonishment, awe, a feeling of weakness, a draining of mind and body…. Perhaps even fear itself.
And yet, when the fires settled, when the screams died away, only death remained.
But not for them. Not this time.
The Eglain moved among them, solemn-faced, carrying their dead with the quiet reverence of those too familiar with loss. Vratni stole a glance at the bodies, then to his own group; bruised, bloodied, but standing. Well, limping… The elves seemingly no worse for wear, aided those less fortunate. Tivlyn, body burned to cauterise a wound. Wittkun, bandaged haphazardly around his head, blood still trickling from a gash across his face that wouldn’t relent.
They had survived, but the weight of what had nearly been their grave clung to them as they approached Ost Guruth.
Some might call it luck.
Vratni wasn’t sure it was that simple.
Vratni exhaled slowly, rubbing at the aching muscles in his arms, the weight of the day pressing down on him like the very stones of the bloodied ruin they had left behind. What had started as a simple endeavour, helping a people barely scraping by, had twisted into something far more brutal, far more dangerous.
They had thought themselves prepared. The party had grown in numbers, their ranks filled with warriors and hunters, with blades sharp and minds sharper. And yet, when the Uruks came, when the sheer force of their ferocity hit, it had been plain as day…. they had been outmatched.
At first.
It had taken everything. Steel, fire, sheer will. And even that hadn't been enough for some, the Eglain carrying their dead was testament to that. Vratni knew well enough how easily the scales could have tipped, how fate had teetered too close to swallowing them whole.
And yet, here they were. Not finished. Not yet.
His fingers tightened briefly on the haft of his axe, his mind drifting toward the Misty Mountains, the destination that once felt like a far-off goal but now seemed like a challenge far greater than he’d let himself think.
If this was what awaited them here, what horrors would they face in the peaks of ice and shadow?
He glanced toward the elves. Tayschren. Meltharian. Cirvalad. Their presence had been more than useful, it had been vital. In the chaos, in the blood hue, their precision, their discipline had held the line when others faltered.
Vratni was no fool, he knew enough to recognize strength where it lay, even if he wasn't in the habit of admitting reliance aloud.
Still, he felt a rare flicker of gratitude.
If they ever made it to the Misty Mountains, he’d be glad to have them there.
Because one narrow victory was enough for one day. He didn't plan on repeating it.
Featuring: Vratni, Flent, Tivlyn, Wittkun, Feay, Meltharian, Cirvalad, Davus, Erthera, Tayschren
Location: Ost Guruth, Lone-lands
In the heart of Ost Guruth, the party found what respite they could, resting beneath the wary eyes of the Eglain; a people hardened by the wilds, their hospitality scarce and given only in measured portions.
Tivlyn lay still, her usual restless energy tempered by the pain in her side. The cauterized wound was a brutal thing, and though the healers worked with steady hands, there was only so much they could do. Ointments, salves, whispered instructions on how to breathe through the pain. Vratni watched her from a distance, noting the way her jaw clenched each time a healer pressed against the tender skin.
Wittkun sat nearby, his wounds less dire but no less frustrating; his face bore the angry mark of a gash that could have blinded him, but luck or skill had kept his eye intact. It was filled with blood, obscuring his vision, but he would see again, given time. He bore it with the stubborn pride of his kin, grumbling about the fussing hands of the healers while sipping from his ever-present flask.
Erthera, despite her physical injuries, carried a weight far greater; the shadow of captivity. The way she moved was careful, measured, as if reacquainting herself with the freedom of her own limbs. The Eglain gave her space, for they understood the unspoken burden she bore, though a quiet watchfulness remained.
Flent stood apart, his usual sharp gaze cast toward the settlement’s walls, as though his mind still lingered on the ruins they had left behind. He was a man who counted his victories and his losses it seemed, and the day had given him plenty of both. Meltharian, steady as always, helped where she could, tending armour, sharpening blades, preparing for whatever came next.
Tayschren, ever composed, observed the exchanges between the Eglain healers and their own wounded with a careful eye, seeing if he might gleam something of aid to his fellows. His demeanour held little warmth, but there was precision in his manner. Someone who had seen a lot worse in his lifetime.
Feay, in contrast, seemed unaffected by the grim air of suffering, still tinkering with her odd mix of mushrooms and remedies. Vratni had learned not to question her methods… he had seen them work when nothing else did. Davus kept close to the fires, rubbing warmth into his hands, he didn’t speak much, and seemed lost to whatever he was writing in his journal.
And then there was Cirvalad. Even in the quiet of Ost Guruth, where wounds were tended and exhaustion pressed heavily upon them, Cirv’s presence lingered like a spectre of fire and steel.
Vratni couldn’t forget it…. the way the elf had stood against the tide, how the battle had changed the moment Cirv had wielded something beyond mere skill. Vratni had been on the ground, breath ragged. He had seen warriors, seen fighters, but Cirv had fought like something else entirely.
The flames. The sword wreathed in fire.
It was more than just blade-work, more than well-honed skill, it was something ancient, something that had sent fear through even the hardened hearts of the Uruks before they fell to its wrath.
And yet, Cirv had not spoken of it since.
He had not sought recognition, nor explanation. He had simply stepped away, quiet in the aftermath, neither basking in victory nor questioning the weight of his actions. If anything, he seemed calm, as if such a display were nothing out of the ordinary. As if he had been… elsewhere.
Vratni wanted to ask, to demand answers, because he didn’t trust such mysteries, especially ones that had kept him alive. But Cirv did not seem the sort to indulge curiosity just because a man wanted clarity over fate.
So for now, Vratni held his tongue.
Because whatever had happened in those ruins…. it had changed everything.
…. meanwhile, fortunate not to have much to complain about physically himself, Vratni did what he did best, he negotiated.
The Eglain did not part with their supplies easily, not even after the group had risked their lives to rescue one of their own. This was not a people who gave charity; they bartered, they weighed, they measured the worth of deeds not in words, but in action.
Vratni matched their tone, speaking in clipped phrases, speaking not of debt, but of mutual survival. They had helped the Eglain before, and they would do so again…. The party wasn’t looking for handouts, only what was fair. Food, medicine, supplies for the road ahead.
Even so, when the terms were set, he found himself having to reach into his pouch and pressing a single gold coin into the hands of the chief healer.
No words passed between them.
It was not for supplies. It was for his own.
For Tivlyn. For Wittkun. For those too wounded to barter for themselves.
It was not known by the wider group, nor did he intend for it to be. But this was the price of ensuring the Eglain would do absolutely everything they could to mend his companions; and not merely patch them up. And for now, it was a price he was willing to pay.
