Ivan looks to the edge of the forest by the crop fields, but instead of the shattered wood of felled trees, he sees the sharp fangs of a lupine jaw. In the green of their ruined leaves he sees bright, dreadful eyes, and in the mud that cakes them, the brown feathers of an owlbear.

"Hey!"

Ivan snaps out of his reverie, turning toward the voice. He sees the concerned eyes of his brother, Erik. "What?"

"You're getting that look again," Erik says.

Ivan huffs. "I'm watching for the beast. That's what you do when you're on patrol."

"Waiting for it to leap from the same spot, are you? You're meant to be scanning the perimeter, not boring holes into a single patch of land."

Ivan clenches his jaw, and his grip on his bow tightens. "To hells with you."

Erik sighs. "We need a break. Sun's getting low in the sky and our thoughts are wandering. Come on."

But just as Ivan turns to leave, he spies movement at the edge of the forest farther up the main road. He squints, hoping to see them more clearly, and as they pull away from the trees, he makes out three people—one belonging to the smallfolk, while the others appear to be human.

"Look," he says.

Erik hums. "I see them. Brave to be travelling through the forest 'round these parts. Must be Sylf's friends."

Ivan watches as the trio walk the main road from the west, and he crosses the meadow with Erik to meet them closer to their house. The travellers are still some distance away, enough that they're rendered in miniature, but Ivan can see they have the look of forest dwellers. Some farmers on patrol farther up the road have spotted them, too, and gather around like sentinels, waiting to make contact.

"She's still sick," Ivan mutters.

"I don't think that will be too much of a problem. Khaliss seemed to think she'd be okay soon—maybe tomorrow—and her friends would need some rest before then. Afterwards, they can think about their next steps."

Ivan fiddles with his bowstring, looking out to the approaching travellers. "Well, as long as they don't involve Sylf going into the forest again."

Erik scoffs, shaking his head. "No one's going to make her do that. Never seen you fuss so much over a girl."

Ivan feels his anger return to him, and he glares at his brother. "This isn't about a 'girl'—it's about that thing out there. I'd be saying the same if it was you who went out into the forest that day."

Erik shakes his head. "That's my point, Ivan. Risk of death is part of a bounty hunter's job. No one wanted Sylf to get hurt, but they knew she might not come back from the forest—you're not supposed to get attached to people who hunt beasts and vagabonds for a living.

"There was no expectation to go searching for her, at least not for one of the villagefolk. Khaliss, maybe, but even she understood it was an unreasonable risk. It's why she bothered to call a council meeting before taking action."

Ivan scoffs, batting his younger brother away. "Whatever."

They remain in tense silence by the main road, watching as the travellers approach the farmers. Ivan can feel his brother's gaze on him, and it makes him want to smack him, but he resists, lest the travellers gain a poor first impression of him. Still, his frustration is barely tempered by the thought, and it almost surprises him. He's not so easily given to such a forceful emotion. At least, not usually, but these are far from usual times.

 Ivan sighs to relieve himself of the burden, and he feels himself cool off. The travellers are speaking with the farmers now, and are close enough for him to make out their details. One is very clearly a halfling, with a crown of auburn curls that lick the pale skin of his ears and forehead, ending just above a thick brow ridge and bright brown eyes. 

His face is formed of blunt features: a broad, rounded nose above thin, wide lips, a wide chin, and a squarish jaw, with the skin of his fleshy, pink-tinted cheeks peppered with a smattering of dark freckles. He wears animal skins that are closer to stitched rags on his pot-bellied form, along with furry boots, and together with the great axe at his back and formidable musculature, Ivan deduces he's a barbarian. Flanking him on either side are the two humans—a man and a woman—both wearing animal skins and furs as well.

The woman is tall, just a little shorter than Ivan himself, he reckons, and slender, but her sinewy, broad-shouldered, and leather-wrapped frame belies strength enough to bend the longbow at her back. On her hip, she wears a long, curved blade and a smaller dagger, as well as a small pouch. 

She is undoubtedly a huntress. Her long, black, twisted locs—decorated with thin, golden rings—are held half-up half-down, tumbling down her back to her waist, and her wolf fang necklace is stark against her ebony skin. Her almond-shaped black eyes flick between the farmers with a friendly gleam, a subtle smile curling her full lips, softening the already soft and broad features of her face.

The man, on the other hand, is broader and taller, on par with the Tapper twins, wearing a wolf fur mantle with a wolf's head hood. His sharp eyes are a piercing, icy blue, made even more striking by his messy, jet-black, shoulder-length hair peeking free of his hood and the smeared band of black paint covering the top half of his face. His sharp, thin lips are painted with black paint, too, and punctured with animal bone piercings to accompany the ones through his thick, bushy eyebrows and the septum of his broad and broken hooked nose. At his back, he carries a giant maul with a small stone tablet wrapped to the wooden haft, and a rectangular iron head. It's caked in the blood of his enemies, Ivan thinks, looking at its red-brown specks and streaks. 

It's only upon closer inspection that Ivan realises there's a crow perched on the giant man's fur-covered shoulder. Maybe it's one of Lorys' ravens.

The farmers point them in Ivan's and Erik's direction, and they stride over with the halfling in the lead, walking the rest of the main road before cutting into the meadow. The halfling stops before them, placing his meaty hands on his hips and looking around, brown eyes trailing over the ruin of the meadow. Granted, it's clean now, but the grass has yet to fully recover, and the wounds of the land have yet to truly close.

"Looks like the place," the halfling says with the slight twinge of a northern accent. "And ye must be the poor sods that live here. The name's Arfin Copperberry."

Ivan and Erik look at each other, mildly perplexed, then back at the stout halfling.

"Welcome," Ivan says, before gesturing to himself. "I'm Ivan. This is my brother, Erik."

Erik nods. "Welcome."

Arfin looks back at his companions. "C'mon then, introduce yerselves!"

The woman performs a shallow bow, then mouths some words and makes a series of sharp gestures with her hands, but their meaning is lost on Ivan.

"Her name is Sonja Nighthawk," the human man says, with a voice impossibly deep, like the growl of an angered bear. He gestures to himself with a scarred hand, and Ivan notices his shortened pinky and ring finger—likely hacked off in battle. "I am Torgrim Stormcaller, and we are of the White Eagle clan."

Ivan frowns.

"Sounds like an Uthgardt tribe," Erik says, "Thought your kind didn't care for us 'civilised' folk. Didn't think you ventured this far south, either."

Torgrim grunts, but the subtle curl of his lip betrays his good humour. "Shows what you know, boy. We go where we wish, and we have more hatred for any who would destroy nature's bounty over those who choose an easy life."

Erik scowls.

Arfin laughs. "Ye bit down on a lemon, lad?"

Sonja leans down, tapping the halfling on the shoulder. When he turns to her, she shakes her head, wearing a scowl of her own, and she signs something, her movements sharp to reflect her displeasure.

Arfin rolls his eyes. "All right, lassie. Was just a bit of fun, is all."

"What's all the fuss?"

Ivan turns to find his father walking through the kitchen door with a subtle scowl on his face. He looks over the haggard trio with some measure of scepticism, but realisation soon dawns on his features.

"Ah. I think I know who you are." He takes a few paces toward them. "Hmph. Not who I was expecting."

Arfin gives Ivan's father a blatant, appraising look. "Heh. You must be the Man o' the house. The name's Arfin Copperberry. This here is Torgrim and Sonja."

Torgrim's brow furrows in annoyance. He gestures to himself, then to Sonja. "Torgrim Stormcaller, and Sonja Nighthawk, of the White Eagle clan."

Ivan's father hums, looking the man up and down, taking his measure. Torgrim shows no signs of cowing. In fact, he seems to enjoy being sized up.

Arfin clears his throat. "Anyroad, ye couldn't direct us to a certain wood elf, eh? Sylf's her name."

"Look no further."

Ivan turns toward his house to find Sylfir standing in the kitchen doorway. Her long, fiery hair tumbles freely past her shoulders, and she wears clothes that are not her own—a billowy blouse and dark leather trousers, harsh against her pale skin, yet to regain its colour. Maybe loaned to her by Khaliss, given their ill fit, slightly looser around her shoulders, hips, and thighs.

It only enhances the gaunt look of her face and her sunken eyes, which are haloed by dark circles. She looks as fragile as the smile she wears—not much different from yesterday. He almost can't believe she's standing before him now.

"By Tempus, lass! What happened to ye?" Arfin says.

"The same thing that happened to this forest," she says, averting her bashful eyes, "I wasn't as careful as I should have been."

Torgrim moves forward, and Ivan and Erik make way for him on instinct, like the parting of the ocean for a frigate. He goes straight for Sylfir, and as he stops before her, he closes his eyes, letting primal magic form from his fingertips until its teal aura engulfs his entire hand. He seems to stroke the very air with his magic as if to pluck what he seeks from it, and with each passing second, his frown deepens. Then he opens his eyes again, giving the wood elf a cursory examination.

"Impressive. I expected to sense the same corruption I saw in the forest, but there is none. Whoever healed you must have consummate skill."

Sylfir hums with gentle laughter. "Khaliss is one of the best I've seen. I'm sure she will be happy to hear you say that."

"Aye, she's good all right, but it's obvious yer not up to scratch. Yer not takin' down any beasties in that state, lassie," Arfin says.

Sylfir shakes her head. "You'll get no argument from me. I'm not keen to face the beast like this."

Something seems to catch her attention just as the words leave her mouth, and Ivan follows her gaze back to Sonja, who's in the middle of signing. She's shaking her head.

Sylfir frowns. "Something about not fighting...?"

"We don't need to think about fighting, she says. The day is at an end," Torgrim says, "And I agree. The journey here has made me bone-weary. We need a place to rest."

"The only place for that is the Weary Wanderer," Erik says, flicking his head eastward. "In the village proper."

"Let me take you," Sylfir says.

Ivan frowns. "Are you sure?"

She smiles. "Don't worry, fresh air will do me some good. Besides, I need to get used to working my muscles again."

Ivan fights the urge to protest. Instead, he nods, though his displeasure must be writ on his face, judging by the growing sympathetic smile on hers.

Sonja is the first to move, beckoning for the others to follow her to the main road. Torgrim and Arfin follow, but Sylfir lingers for a moment, her eyes flicking between Ivan, Erik, and their father.

"Wolff, I never thanked you for convincing the council to rescue me."

Ivan's father nods. "No problem, lass."

She hums. "I'll see you later, then." She turns around, her movements lacking their usual grace and made slow by her injury. But then she pauses and looks over her shoulder.

"Ivan?"

He tilts his head curiously. "Hmm?"

"Thank you for giving me your room for a while."

She turns toward the main road again before he can say anything else, but he catches the beginning of a bashful smile before she leaves. His eyes linger on her as she catches up to her companions, wishing he could go with her.

Then, a waving hand flashes across his field of vision, breaking his stare.

"Hmph! Hello? Time to make dinner. You're helping me sort out the kitchen," Erik says, walking toward their home. Ivan's gaze returns to the main road, however, watching as Sylfir grows smaller and smaller. When he turns back toward his house, he sees his father waiting for him, watching him with gentle eyes. He flicks his head to the kitchen door, and Ivan follows the unspoken command to follow his brother inside.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

A bit of trivia: the term "Uthgardt" describes an ethnic group of humans whose typical features are blue eyes, black hair, and tall, robust frames. The Uthgardt tribes, however, have been known to adopt others who show the same reverence for their ways and religion(s). In the lore, there are eleven tribes, but I created a twelfth, the White Eagle Clan, for flexibility in storytelling, including the territory they roam, for example (they roam farther south than any other Uthgardt tribe).

They primarily worship the human hero-turned-deity Uthgar, venerating a totem animal that reflects an aspect of his being. For the White Eagle Clan, that is the great white eagle. They might also venerate other gods related to the art of war, such as Tempus.