Sylfir sits on her bed in the Weary Wanderer, gazing out of the window overlooking the ruined meadows that separate the village from the Wolff farm. Her room is humble, containing only what a traveller needs for a night or two. Usually, that's all she needs for a bounty, given that she would be in the wilds hunting her mark. Either that or the bounty would be complete by then if the target was especially stupid.

Now she faces the prospect of remaining in Summerfall for another half-tenday—perhaps longer—though she can't say she abhors the idea. It's true she's given to wandering, but even she understands the importance of weighing anchor now and then, and Summerfall isn't the worst place for that.

In some ways, it reminds her of home. The tight-knit community banding together in the wake of tragedy with the strongest providing for the weakest. There's a feeling that you have someone to lean on. Sylfir feels herself give in to her sense of longing, but it's tinged with subtle bitterness.

No village is ideal. Every village has their Old Joe—someone who separates themselves from the whole, or worse, someone who disrupts.

Sylfir is the latter. At least, that's what the people of her  village think. The thought feeds her bitterness, and her lips curl downward in a subtle sneer. They might think her flight from the village was an act of self-imposed exile, but as far as she sees it, they forced her out. And all for daring to have a heart.

Humans are rare in the High Forest, but they aren't completely absent. So it was that Sylfir stumbled across Bob's trainer, who was fleeing dogged mercenaries. When she guided him and his horses to the safety of her home, the village elders were furious. She had exposed their location. It earned their eternal ire... and the title of traitor, though they might not have spoken the word aloud.

But Sylfir wouldn't suffer a tainted reputation in silence. She dug her heels in, going as far to cite her "misbegotten" ideals in her defence, lamenting her people's insular ways and stony hearts. They raised fantasies of elven glory above the reality before them, a failing born of Morgwais Nightmeadow's ideals, the leader of the Caerilcarn, or the "Council of the Wood". She claimed it made them blind to people in need. They claimed she was naïve, owing to her years.

This life she leads—the life of a bounty hunter—is something she does to live above all else. Her skills were honed for the people of her village—to protect them—but in the end, she proved more of a hindrance than a help. She didn't want to leave, but she never likes being in places she's not wanted. So, she goes to places like Summerfall. Places she knows people need her. Still, her heart aches to stray too far from home, and so she remains in the Savage Frontier.

A great sigh plucks her from her memories and grounds her to reality. Now is not the time for such thoughts. She stands, brushing off her fresh blouse—one that is not her own but fits her well enough—and gazing out the window again. The sky is aflame with the colours of sunset, the sun's warm light overpowering a figure that emerges from the farmhouse in the distance. As they approach, she realises it's Ivan's father, Wolff.

After slipping her feet into her well-worn boots and ruffling her slightly damp hair, she departs from her room. She walks through the narrow corridor, the wooden floor planks creaking under her weight as she walks past the other inn rooms until she reaches the stairs. When she descends them, she finds the tavern a little less busy than before, though it is far from empty, and she catches sight of Old Joe just as he arrives. He has to angle his broad shoulders just to get through the door frame.

"There ye are, and back from the forest before nightfall this time, eh?" he says.

Heads turn from the disturbance, and the din grows a little quieter. Old Joe doesn't seem to notice, though, as he strides toward her, and Sylfir fights the urge to retreat. There's no worry about being overly familiar as he claps her on the back with a broad grin, and she almost rocks off her feet from the impact.

"I hear ye've got news fer us."

"Correct," Sylfir mutters. She feels the eyes of everyone in the tavern on her, followed by the creeping heat of embarrassment as her cheeks flush. She wishes the man could be more discreet, especially given the sensitivity of what she would discuss.

"Hmph! You were never one for subtlety."

Sylfir and Old Joe look toward the door to find the slender figure of Ivan's father stepping into the tavern.

"Well, if it ain't The Old Wolff. Didn't think ye'd bother to show yer face."

Wolff scoffs. "This village is my home just as much as it is yours. Probably more so."

The tavern grows deathly quiet now as the patrons wait for Old Joe to make his reply. His earlier jovial mood completely dissolves to give way to hot bitterness.

"This village wouldn't be here if it weren't fer—"

"Ahem!"

Sylfir turns to see Lorys at the bar with her arms crossed and brows raised, waiting for the two rivals to pay her attention like a scolding mother dealing with her sons.

"If you're done squabbling, Khaliss is waiting for you below. I'll have Nita show you to her." She waves over the nearest barmaid, a young girl with coffee-brown skin and curly black hair tied back in a bun. She comes dutifully to her employer's side, taking the pitcher of wine from the bar before heading toward the door beside it.

"Come this way," she says.

Sylfir, Old Joe, and Wolff follow her as she opens the door and walks through it, descending the steps into the cellars, with only small torches hanging from the wall to light their way. Soon they reach the cool stone floor, finding not much else save for the barrels of wine and ale, but at the centre of the dark room sits a low round table with a few chairs. Khaliss occupies one, and Alfie another, and they both pause their conversation upon seeing their new arrivals.

Khaliss turns her gaze to Nita. "Thank you."

The barmaid walks toward the table, where she places the pitcher. "If there is anything you need, just let me know."

"Of course," Khaliss says.

Nita nods, then turns on her heels, quickly ascending the steps to serve awaiting patrons.

As she disappears through the door, Sylfir turns her attention to the round table in this unlikely meeting place. "Odd that we should meet here."

"Not at all," Alfie says, "This is where we hold the important meetings away from prying eyes and eager ears. It's neutral ground—a place where everyone can agree to meet. Come on, take a seat."

Sylfir, Old Joe, and Wolff take their seats around the round table, settling in as Khaliss brings forth the items Sylfir secreted away from the abandoned druid's sanctum.

"What's all this, then?" Wolff grumbles.

"These are the things Sylfir found on her sojourn into the forest today," Khaliss says, "I'm sure she would be happy to elaborate for your sake."

Sylfir nods. "I'll keep it short for the sake of brevity. I found the beast's tracks in the forest and followed them back to its lair, where I found these objects. It makes its home in an old druid's sanctum north and east of here, covered by an elaborate illusion, easily missed by those without keen eyes.

"Within, I found the carcasses the beast feasted on, and I believe I found the ritual responsible for the corruption of the woods. That is where this knife comes from," Sylfir says, nodding to the ritual blade.

"Its design is commonly found among Lolthite drow. It is safe to assume that our mystery woman is among their number," Khaliss says.

Alfie furrows his brow. "What about the robed man?"

"Likely a favoured disguise of the woman, given her skill at crafting illusions and the fact that I only saw one tent in the sanctum," Sylfir says.

"So our blackheart is a drow lass—what does that mean fer the village?" Old Joe says.

"Means nothing," Wolff says, "What I want to know is why you've got that crystal ball and that lock of hair."

Sylfir follows his gaze as it flicks between Khaliss' silver locks and the small bundle of hair that sits on the table, and she immediately understands that he's come to the same conclusion she did at the sanctum.

"The crystal ball is a focus for scrying, and the hair... the hair is likely mine, used to spy on me," Khaliss says. The admission weighs on her shoulders like a physical burden, forcing them into a subtle downward slope.

The room falls silent, save for the grunting coming from Old Joe. he furrows his thick brow as she strokes his chin, appearing like a caricature of a man in deep thought. But then he starts, his eyes growing wide as he looks back at the crystal ball.

"That beast attacked not even a day afore ye arrived," he says, flicking his beady brown eyes at Khaliss. The short-lived tension in the room breaks as Sylfir scoffs, but before she can say anything, Wolff lets free a bitter laugh.

"Only you would be so dim-witted to turn against the woman who saved your son's life. Woe betide the person who ever does you a favour."

"I ain't turning against her!" Old Joe growls, "Just putting two and two together."

Sylfir shakes her head as the lines of a scowl carve into her face. "That's mere speculation. Besides, it makes no sense for the woman to attack an entire village if she's interested in Khaliss. Also, there's still the matter of why she corrupts the nearby forest."

"Aye, there are a lot of things that simply don't add up," Alfie says, "It makes it difficult to know how to move forward."

Wolff shakes his head. "Hmph! We can't move forward until that wretched thing is gone."

"Lorys told me you had allies incoming," Alfie says. It's subtle, but Sylfir sees the hope in his blue eyes as they turn her way.

"I do... but it will take some time. They're coming from deep within the High Forest."

"How long?" Wolff says.

"...Perhaps five days if my message has reached them, perhaps more, but no less than that."

The air in the room grows heavy as everyone becomes deathly quiet. The tension between each person increases to a point of criticality, and Old Joe is the first to break under its ever-growing weight. He groans, shaking his head, and the childishness of his countenance is striking to Sylfir, like a toddler on the verge of a tantrum.

"No new trade's come in since the attack. No one from Wynn's Hold or Amber Hill wants to send people here fer fear they'll be killed by the beast. We'll be destitute afore long!"

Wolff scoffs. "Do me a favour! We'll be destitute? You don't think you can survive half a tenday without all your fineries and trinkets? The beast didn't even see your brewery, let alone touch it!"

The shock of the outburst leaves Sylfir paralysed—she can do little more than watch, and Khaliss doesn't fare much better. It's only Alfie who tries to calm the situation, raising his hands to pacify the two men. It's clear he's had to do this before.

"Gentlemen, now's not the—"

"This ain't about me property, or did ye miss the effort I put in t'feed the people of this village?"

"You? Your wife and children, more like, and half of your workers besides. And those damned oranges only went as far as the village because of there's been no bloody trade. You've never had the heart to give away such a bounty during good times.

"And what a meagre bounty it was. Barely a fraction of the vegetables me and my boys grow for the village year-round. You want to talk about effort, but you wouldn't know an honest day's work if it took a hatchet to your head!"

Old Joe growls. "You—"

"All you've ever cared about is how full your pockets are, how much food your wife piles onto your plate, and how much drink slips down your gullet." Wolff juts an accusatory finger at the man. "All you ever do is think about yourself! Funny how it's the worst of us who gets off easy."

Old Joe goes red in the face, and Sylfir worries his head will explode as he rises from his seat like the slow ascent of a great mountain, his eyes growing dark as they glare at Wolff. Never has he looked more like a giant than he does now, standing at his full height with his great, broad chest puffed, his nostrils flaring like an angry bull. Wolff rises to meet him, though he doesn't make as imposing a figure with his maimed arm and more slender stature.

"It's my family who built this village. It's my brewery that brings in the coin and makes yer job worth doing—makes this village worth marking on a map. Ye'd do well to remember that afore ye spout more o' ye nonsense!"

Wolff bats him away like an inconsequential fly. "My job is worth doing because it means people in this damn village go to bed with full stomachs, but a man like you wouldn't understand that kind of satisfaction. Too greedy by half, and by Lathander's light, does it show!"

Khaliss rises to her feet, finally finding her voice. "Please, calm yourselves!"

Old Joe slams his open palms into the table and Sylfir flinches as the pitcher of wine topples, spilling its contents all over its surface. She watches with wide eyes as the wine pools on its lacquered wood, almost surprised that it's still intact despite the force Old Joe levied against it.

"Calm? This sorry excuse fer a man insults me and ye expect me to be calm?" He looks Wolff in the eye, heaving breath escaping his nostrils, his thin lips pressed into a severe line as if to hold back the worst of his insults. "Ye know, ye weren't half so bad when Yelena was alive. It's a mercy she's not here to see ye now."

If Wolff has words for him, he chokes on them. His once-raging eyes grow soft from his hurt as he falters. Sylfir aches to see such pain, but his sudden sorrow lasts only a moment before his wroth returns to him.

"You dare," he growls, his lips curling back, and Sylfir half-expects to see the teeth of a panther, so vicious is the expression.

"Enough!" Alfie shoots to his feet. Anger is a strange mask on him, forcing his features to twist in ways they were never meant to, and he directs his rancour toward Old Joe. "That was a low blow, even for you."

"Only serving like with like."

Wolff barks with ironic laughter. "Like with like? You're lucky I'm a better man than you, otherwise I'd have more than a few choice things to say about the state of your marriage."

Old Joe sputters, his face turning that uncomfortable shade of red again, but this time from embarrassment, Sylfir realises. It's strange to see such a large man try to make himself small.

Alfie raises his hand. "Stow it! We're not getting anywhere by trading insults."

"We're not getting anywhere no matter what we do," Wolff grumbles, taking his seat again. "It's a waiting game now."

Old Joe and Alfie return to their seats, too, dejected. With everyone cowed, Khaliss takes her seat, also.

And then there is silence.

"...We can still learn more about the ritual I discovered," Sylfir mutters, "From that, we can learn more about the beast—if I can get my hands on the right books, that is. The knowledge would help me purify the corrupted land when we finally fell the beast—both the fallows and, eventually, the forest."

"...Good," Alfie says, "We'll need to get on our feet quickly once we rid ourselves of this threat. We need farmable land for the sowing this autumn, and we need land for grazing—not that I've got a lot of livestock now. Half my sheep are gone, and more of my cattle."

"You can find books in the church library. Can't say if they're the ones you need, though," Wolff says.

"They're her best bet unless she's willing to brave the road to Wynn's Hold or Amber Hill." Alfie hums, a sound filled with doubt. "Not sure she'd even have time for that."

Khaliss shakes her head. "She shall remain in case the beast chooses to attack before her allies arrive. All that stands between this village and the beast are the wards, and if they need to be strengthened, I will require her aid. I cannot defend this village alone."

"Then you won't have to," Sylfir says.

Khaliss nods.

"Well, it's settled then. One of the more... lively meetings, but I think it's safe to conclude for now," Alfie says.

"Couldn't agree more," Wolff says.

Old Joe scoffs.

Wolff is the first to leave, scraping his chair along the wooden floor as he rises, long legs taking him to the foot of the steps. He ascends them two at a time, their wooden planks protesting under the force of his footsteps as though he's beating the remnants of his anger out of his slender frame. Alfie follows him almost as quickly, though he seems more keen to catch up with the man rather than get away from the cellar. 

In contrast, Old Joe takes his time. He hasn't uttered a word since Ivan's father alluded to his marriage troubles, and Sylfir can't suppress her growing curiosity on the subject. He seems to turn away from the weight of her gaze, plodding up the steps that practically scream as he takes a foot to them until he walks through the door and disappears.

"I did not expect the meeting to be so... inflammatory," Khaliss mutters.

Sylfir huffs humourless laughter. "You and me both."

"I begin to understand why those two men keep their distance from each other." Khaliss rises from her seat. "Well... I propose we head to the church. There is still time enough in the day to learn more about what you saw in the forest."

"Agreed. Besides, I could do with a change of scenery. Dank cellars aren't my usual haunt," Sylfir says, rising to her feet.

Khaliss follows suit with a chuckle, heading for the stairs. "Nor mine. Let us quit this place."