Jacob smiled at Sandra across the tavern, the small crowd or people comprising the entire village. He'd rushed over after the soldier had told him to, his grandfather tagging along, having only slowed him slightly. Sandra smiled back at him and gave a shy wave, and he did his best to not grin like an idiot back at her.
He was certain he'd failed at that, if the snickers from Travers and his friends were any sign. He turned back to his table and sipped from his mead, doing his best to keep his shaking hands from showing his nerves. His eyes darted around the room, roving over his neighbors, old and young, before they landed on the stranger in their midst.
The Fieflord had sent down the soldier from the capital, who'd brought with him news that they would investigate the spree of disappearances that had happened across the hill country the past summer. It had surprised Jacob when the soldier had met his Papa in their ancestral home.
The Silvers were the oldest family in the sleepy farming village of Stolskun, practically the noble family of the region they lived in. Not that the family was that large, as it was just Jacob, his grandfather, and his mother (who'd married into the family). His father had died during an outbreak of Sanguine Tears eleven years ago, when Jacob was only five.
He'd been raised by his mother and Papa all his life and... well, his mother hadn't taken his father's death well. She never remarried, and she inducted no one into the family to help repopulate.
Studying the soldier, it still surprised Jacob at what he saw, as he'd never met one before. A mutt of an elf and a Dormaer, they were tanned and lean, hair a jet black and straight, pulled back along the crown of their head into a long-braided cord. Jacob's mother had smacked him upside the head when he met the man, his eyes locking on the brand just below the soldier's left eye.
Marku'rea
Slave.
Blackheart, the shadowed forests of the elven people, was a dangerous place for any who didn't have the literal-blue blood of the resident near-immortals. Calculating and in tune with the mystical energies of the world, the elves of Blackheart served an immortal vampire queen, their nobles all similar undead. They viewed the shorter-lived races as chattel, either as servants or food.
Elves weren't supposed to breed with any servants, as doing such a thing was viewed as others would view a man coupling with a goat. It happened, of course, as the world was not a kind or fair place, but the elves liked to pretend they were above such things.
That half breeds occurred every so often made the long-eared folk upset and treat the resulting offspring as a more skilled servant, typically a combative one.
Those that found their way out of the wretched kingdom rarely told good stories of their time stuck there. Judging by the hard red eyes the soldier had leveled at Jacob, he will bet that the man had no happy tales to tell.
That had been five days ago, and the soldier had returned shortly before dawn. Jacob had been working the fields just south of the chestnut groves under the guidance of his Papa (he'd been sitting atop the plow as Jacob pulled it), when the soldier had stalked out of the underbrush, scowling.
"Gather your people, Mister Silver," the man had growled, walking by without sparing Jacob a glance as lifted the yoke off his shoulders. "I need to speak with you all at once."
A village the size of Stolskun, it was an easy feat to pass along to everyone with the need to meet. The town priest, Reverend Hawkins, had taken to using his weaker magics to send whispered reminders to those a few miles out in the other outlying farms, if what Barbara had been saying to William near the door was to be believed.
Looking over at the wrinkled Torkram, leaning heavily on a knobby cane while stroking his longer red and silver beard, Jacob could believe it. The man was a gossip and loved to talk to anybody he'd had a hand in raising.
Because of his age, and the fact he'd been the only priest in the village for the last forty years, he had practically raised everyone.
The dull hum of conversation died down as the soldier walked down the steps into the tavern proper. William, the balding tavern keeper, rolled his one bloodshot eye at the dour-looking man and gave a sharp bark in his creaking groan of a voice.
"Shut it, the lot of ya!" He bellowed, leaning over his bar while pounding a muscled fist on the countertop. "Lest ya want to see me angry, then?"
Middle-aged he might be, William Kith'Mimir was a former soldier in the Heliner Infantry, and a half-breed himself. The surly mix of Torkram, Orc, and what some would only whisper when they were certain old William was too busy to listen in, Ogre... it made for a broad, towering figure of tanned skin, jutting jaw, and sloped brow.
Nobody wished to anger such a man.
The soldier gave William an unreadable expression before turning to face the room, red eyes smoldering like drying embers. "My name is Sevare, and I was sent here by Clan Vakt to investigate the string of disappearances in the area. As a skilled tracker and hunter, I hoped to find trails that would be cold to others and find where these people could have gone."
Jacob's eyes swept the room as the man spoke, somberly noting nobody was making a noise, all too entranced at what Sevare was saying. "We were worried that perhaps the region had gained a rogue manticore, or a wandering ice drake. Or perhaps a wild bogger tribe had grown too bold and would need to be culled. Maybe even a troll or three."
He fell silent, arms crossed across his chest. He took a deep breath and continued. "If it were that simple, I could likely handle it myself. Sadly, we're not so fortunate."
He pulled from a side satchel, hidden beneath his cloak, a length of yellowed bone, riddled with curved spurs. "Has anyone seen anything like this in the forests of late?"
A few people muttered as a forester raised his tankard. "Aye, a few times. Over the past year, at least a half dozen of 'em have been found near the forest's edge. Figured something like a stag, or a Fae, so just packed a few cold iron bolts for my crossbow. What is it?"
"A husk of a calcified flesh. Shed and old, it's as hard as stone, but when it was fresh on the Flensewraith, it would have been far more dangerous." He held it high overhead. "Residents of Stolskun, by order of the Jarl of Heliner, I am decreeing a Call for Adventure!"
The crowd, hushed up until that moment, broke into a mixture of raucous cheers and angered hisses and hurled insults. Flagons of mead clacked tabletops angrily, spilling, as the tavern devolved into heated arguments, jeered insults, and declarations of an intent to slay the Flensewraith!
Jacob could only be confused. This was what was taking people from their homes in the night, shouldn't it be slain by noble heroes?
"I can see what you're thinking there, Jackie." An old voice grumbled to his left, the dour dead-eyed stare of his grandfather boring into Jacob's soul as he turned to look at the old man. "You're not cut from that cloth, boy. Not like my father was."
Jacob frowned. His great-grandfather had been an adventurer, a hero that had helped slay an Ivoryheart Wyvern in the freezing peaks of Stalkinosk, one of five such brave men and women that had the courage to fight the creature that had slain over thirty soldiers on patrol in the region. He'd been one of the three to return and had taken his reward from the Nortur Council and moved to the picturesque valleys of Heliner. He'd bought a massive amount of land and started a farm, and had a family... some hundred and forty years later, here Jacob stood.
"I think I am, actually." Jacob replied, smiling at the hunched old man.
"Your mother coddled you, and you're nowhere near as big as Samson was when he passed, Odin, bless him." The old man snapped, calming slightly as he patted at his sunken chest for a moment.
The gnarled fingers of his reached down the front of his tunic, where he lifted the small holy symbol to his chipped lips over the wispy white beard.
Jacob frowned. "Dad was big, you're right. But I'm still growing, Papa, and you're forgetting I have the family sword. That should be a big help, right?"
Papa frowned. "You're too young, and don't have the heart to be the man that swings a sword for a living. Stick to the sickle and plow like your father and I, trust me. All you'll end up doing if you take sword out is getting killed by whatever a Flensewraith is."
Jacob heaved a sigh and ran a hand down his face. "Fine, but I'm still going to see if I can help somehow. Maybe they'll need, like, a guide, or... I could carry stuff, or something."
Papa raised a bushy eyebrow at this. "Why would you want to do that, of all things? Adventurers may save the day like the bards sing, boy, but remember how so many of those songs go. Henchmen and servants dying, being eaten, or left behind as the so-called heroes make their grand escape."
Jacob's eyes drifted across the tavern to where Sandra was, the wheat-haired woman dressed in a simple stained tunic and dress with furs thrown over for warmth. Her eyes danced in the lantern light as she gushed with her friends and sisters, her hands clasped over the miller's daughter, Jane, as she spoke in excited whispers.
Eyes never drifting from their target, he smiled. "I think if I do that, I could snag a gem or something. Something that could fetch us some coin, or... whatever."
Papa's eyes, as old and rheumy as they were, followed his grandson's gaze, adopting a puzzled look before he realized what the boy was thinking. Cracked lips stretched wide, yellowed teeth bared as he chuckled, a dry rasping hack that sounded like broken glass and gravel being mixed in a barrel. Jacob, hearing this disturbing noise, glanced back at his grandfather.
"What?" He asked, confused. "Papa, are you okay?"
The old man continued chuckling, leaning partially from his seat to clasp a boney hand onto his grandsons, smile seemingly still growing in intensity. "Now this actually is something that makes me think you might do this."
Jacob blinked before shaking his head. "Papa, I'm sorry, but what the Hel? You just told me I couldn't do it, and now that I say I want to for money, that changes your mind? You get I would have asked for payment either way, right? Not some paladin or whatever."
"No, I was wrong!" Papa exclaimed, clapping his hands as he leaned back in his chair. "You don't get it now, but this will make so much more sense in the morning. Come, come! We need to go speak with the ranger; I believe dear William is attempting to threaten him right now."
Papa stood, slowly because of his advanced age and with the aid of a lean walking stick, and grasped Jacob by the shoulder. He pushed him forward, and the two walked to the bar where the burly frame of William towered with a glowering frown, one massive arm propped on the bar as he leaned down to growl at the impassive half-elf across from him.
Jacob only made out the last half of William's crude threats as he was pushed close enough, wincing when the red eyes of the ranger snapped over to him with a veiled look. "...or I'll make sure ya get sent there without yer hands and, er," William only noticed Jacob and his Papa as they stopped at the bar and the old man whacked the countertop twice for attention, "evenin' Horace. Need a drink, then? Got a fresh bottle o' the Red Bear Mead 'idden away somewhere, jus' gimme half a tick..."
William stood, sending one last glare at the half-elf, before stalking to the other side of the bar to root around in one of his cabinets. The ranger's eyes never left Jacob's through the entire encounter, his face as featureless as stone. He stepped forward once William's attention was elsewhere, hand extended in greeting.
"Thank you for that." His voice was more somber when he wasn't publicly speaking, a deep baritone. "He fears for your village, though not for the right reasons."
"There seems to be no shortage of reasons to be afraid of that, what'd you call it... Fleshwraith?" Jacob said, smiling as he took the half-breed's hand, surprised when the man grasped at his forearm instead of his hand. He did the same on impulse. "Jacob Silver, honored to meet you."
"My name is Hunter, ironically." The half-elf said, a tight smile gracing his tanned face. "And we know the beast plaguing these lands as a Flensewraith. Elven in design, they're a cyclical undead that feeds for a period before becoming inert. So long as the skull remained intact, it would reform centuries after feeding, and repeat the cycle."
"Undead?" Jacob asked, intrigued. "I've read through what books Reverend Hawkins would let me peruse. Those are things that were once alive but have been reanimated by arcane magic instead of divine, correct?"
Hunter shook his head. "Not precisely. They are created through a branch of magic known as Necromancy. There are divine instances of necromantic events, where undead rise. Almost as many as arcane, if what I have seen over the years represents how the foul powers work."
Papa cut whatever Jacob was about to say off with a snap of his creaking fingers. "Enough chatter!" He declared, leaning forward to tap Hunter on the chest. "You send in the order yet then, soldier?"
Hunter looked from Jacob to Papa before shaking his head. "No," he said, clearly uncertain of what the old man wanted, "but I am honor bound to send my report and recommendation to the Commander in Gavel's Rest."
"That still Amelia Vakt, or has her father finally died and gifted her the title of High Warden yet?" Papa demanded, Jacob choking at the sheer gall of the question.
Hunter's face seemed to shift into a half-grin, eyes glinting with humor. "You know the Commander of the Heliner Infantry, then?"
"Know her, she's practically kin!" Papa cackled. "Her elder brother helped kill a pesky wyvern over a century ago, and my father was the one that sank the blade that killed the beast into its pale heart!"
Hunter's eyes seemed to lose their glow, and went from Papa to Jacob, back and forth. "You two are related. Directly."
Unsure of what to say at the not-question, Jacob nodded bashfully. "Er, yeah? H-he's me grandfather... sorry, I know he has no filter, but he means no disrespect—"
Hunter held up a hand, looking down at Papa with curious eyes. "What do you need, Mr. Silver? Commander Vakt has spoken of you and yours and the... frank nature you are infamous for. Be yourself and speak your mind."
Papa reached up and grasped Jacob's shoulder, joggling him. "This is Jacob Silver, great-grandson of Domnule Silver. And he wants to adventure to gain wealth worthy of his bride!"
Jacob could feel his face grow hot as his grandfather, a man who was hard of hearing at random moments, began near bellowing these words during a somewhat low lull in the tavern's background hum of conversation.
This led to the room slowly growing quiet, to listen to Horace "Papa" Silver, one of the richest men in town, announce how his grandson's intentions, and reasons for them, all while in front of the woman he'd been in love with since they'd been children.
He was brought out of his reverie when he realized the conversation was still going on, and he was being addressed by the serious-looking ranger. "I'm sorry, what?"
"I said you are indeed worthy of having a first claim on this quest by right of Family Honor. I'll amend my report to have it announced that heroes looking to partake in this venture must seek you out to join your group. Will the interviews be at this tavern? Or will you be traveling to the capital with me and returning once assembled?"
"Uh..." Jacob replied, mind frozen as the crowd broke into excited whispers, and more than a few snickers. He shakily turned to look out, wincing with every snort or chuckle that echoed across the room. He could feel his world falling away, panic and embarrassment paralyzing him. "Um, well... I... no, you see—"
"You can do it, Jacob!" Sandra jumped to her feet; fists pumped into the air with stars in her eyes. "Save us from the dreaded Flashwraith—"
"It's called a Flensewraith!" Hunter snapped, though nobody seemed to notice, as the entire room was locked onto Sandra. As she spun and shouted at the room.
"—he comes from a line of heroes!" She continued, pumping her fist as she spoke. "And he'll keep the freaks back, because he'll get the best and bring them here!"
"That would be best," Papa said, hobbling around Jacob to look at Sandra. "Your father, does he have any shipments going out soon?"
Sandra grinned. "Yes! He has the Brendale twins loading three wagons right now. They're to leave at dawn for Gavel's Rest!" She looked at Jacob, racing forward and snagging his hands in hers as she leaned in close. "Do you need a ride there? I bet father would let you go along as extra protection!"
Hunter eased between them, Jacob suddenly realizing he needed to breathe and gasping as spots danced before his eyes. "He and I would appreciate a group to travel with. Your father is a merchant?"
She leaned back, smiling. "Yeah, dad's a weaver. Takes all the flax in the region and has it spun into linen before reselling it in bulk."
Hunter nodded. "Good." He looked at Papa. "Can you have him ready to leave by dawn?"
"He'll be at the stables... yes, at the stables by sunrise, you have my word." Papa said slowly, before finishing when Sandra nodded happily. "Come boy, we have to go tell your mother the news!"
Jacob felt himself to be guided once more by his grandfather's firm hand, mind slowly coming to terms with what had just happened. By the time he was being pushed out into the crisp mountain air, he was able to finally speak.
"D-did Sandra j-just stand up for me?" He asked, looking down at his grandfather.
The old man glanced up, snorted. "By Odin, you are hopeless... come on then, got to dig out my father's old gear. Kept him alive, should keep you alive as well."
Jacob could only nod, visions of the life he and Sandra would lead after he returned from his adventure laden with riches dancing through his head.