Sylfir catches up to her Uthgardt companions on the main road, and the moment she falls in line beside Sonja, she spies the humorous glint in the woman's eyes. Then she notices the sly half smile that curls her lips.

"Who's the boy?" she mouths.

Sylfir frowns. "Which one?"

Sonja rolls her eyes, then signs, though Sylfir's eyes remain on her lips. "The one who looks at you with lovelorn eyes."

Sylfir scoffs and turns away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Arfin, having pulled ahead a little, looks behind him with wide and eager eyes. "What's this now?"

Torgrim chuckles, low and deep. "Our little wood elf has caught the eye of a farm boy."

Arfin's face contorts with disapproval. "Ack! Yer fawning over pretty lads now? Ye could do so much better, a strapping lass like yerself."

"I never said that!" Sylfir says, "...And there's nothing wrong with 'pretty lads.'"

Torgrim laughs. "You've spent too much time outside the forest, little one."

Sylfir scowls. "Hmph! I'm not little. And I don't see how my time away from the forest has anything to do with my opinions on aesthetics. Not every man who lives in the woods looks as weather-beaten and rugged as you."

Sonja huffs air through her nose, her lips parted in silent laughter. "If only they did," she mouths.

Torgrim hums, looking sidelong at the grinning woman. "I should think one of me is enough for you."

Sonja shrugs, playing coy, and he shakes his head, though the corner of his lip curls up in a subtle, lopsided smile.

"Enough about that." Sylfir nods to the crow perched on Torgrim's shoulder. "I see my bird found you well."

"Aye," he says, "And carrying my gift to you." He reaches for the bird, and it yields the tiny cyan crystal clutched in one of its talons, which he hands to Sylfir. She takes it, turning it over with her fingers until she sees the pale rune etched into its surface. She pockets it for safekeeping.

Torgrim hums. "It is good to know that its magic still works, and better still to know that you do not use it wantonly. If there was ever a time to call on me..."

"Aye," Arfin says, "The state o' the wood here is abominable. Stretches fer more than a day's walk toward the heart o' the High Forest from here."

"Well, I'm glad to know it ends, at least. From what I've seen, it seems like it stretches on forever in some parts. Sylfir catches Sonja signing in the corner of her eye, but she can't quite catch the words she mouths. "Have I been... venturing into the woods?"

"She wants to know if you have been spending time alone in the forest," Torgrim says, "And to add to the question myself, I want to know how you fell ill."

As they walk toward the village, Sylfir turns her head to the boundary between the woods and the crop fields, then looks away again as she feels her lips curl into a frown. "I... I came to this village alone. I met Khaliss here—a cleric of Eilistraee, the one who healed me. We were the only two who answered the call for help.

"We couldn't leave the village undefended, so I went ahead to gather components for rituals or conduct reconnaissance alone while she remained behind. It's how we created the wards and tracked the beast's movements. On my third outing, though, the beast attacked me...

"It almost carved me open. I tried to make it back on my own, but I was too weak. I only survived because Khaliss and Ivan rescued me."

Torgrim hums, his tone revealing his surprise and drawing Sylfir's attention, and when their gazes meet, that same surprise is reflected in the glint of his blue eyes. "The fair-haired boy has some courage, then. That, or he is a fool."

The sound of rushing air turns Sylfir's gaze toward Sonja, who wears a wry smile. She's laughing. "Or this Khaliss is a formidable warrior..." Sylfir doesn't quite catch the end of the sentence—she can't keep up with the rapid motion of Sonja's lips.

"Perhaps," Torgrim says, "If so, I should like to meet her."

Sonja tilts her head, her eyebrows shooting upward as she blinks rapidly. Her expression bears the expectation of an explanation... or a withdrawal of a statement. But Torgrim only grins, shaking his head. "Don't give me that look. You know there is only one woman for me."

Arfin scoffs, looking back at Sylfir. "Can ye believe it? Been flirting the entire way to this damned village. Be glad ye weren't on the journey—ye wouldn't want to know what they get up to after sundown."

Sylfir grimaces. "More than I needed to know."

Torgrim and Sonja laugh. The latter signs and mouths too quickly for Sylfir to catch on to what she's saying, but Torgrim's laughter only rises to a crescendo, until he brings truth to his last name. If Sylfir was a blind woman, she might think she narrowly escaped a bolt of lightning, so thunderous is the noise that tears through his throat.

"All right, all right," she says, "You'll draw the attention of the entire village. We're not that far now."

Indeed, the few farmers that patrol the village perimeter are already glaring at them, equal parts perplexed and annoyed, but as they get closer, the farmer's confusion turns to suspicion. It's not something Sylfir anticipated, but in hindsight, she supposes this is an obvious problem—the Uthgardt and so-called "civilised" folk don't mix well.

They break through the boundaries of the village, probably by virtue of Sylfir's presence. She guides her companions through the dirt streets lined by ruined homes. Though the villagers have removed some debris, the sight is still dire enough for Arfin to gawk in wonder. He almost looks giddy when he looks at Sylfir.

"Ye weren't jokin' about this beastie, were ye?" he says.

"Don't look so excited," Sylfir hisses, "It just looks like you're revelling in their suffering."

"If I'm revelling in anything, it's the strength of the villagers," the halfling says, or rather bellows. He gestures broadly to the few villagers unfortunate enough to stand before him, and they look at him with mild disdain, though he doesn't seem to notice. "Surprised any o' them survived!"

"Shows what you know, prick," an old, weathered woman mutters, sweeping the bare wooden floor of her ruined porch.

"Even the ol' crones show spirit here!" Arfin barks laughter, and the old woman gives him a glare fit to put him in his grave. Sylfir winces.

Sonja claps the halfling over the head, hard enough to make him stumble forward, and he looks at her with angry eyes. Before he can say anything, she's making sharp gestures, her lips curled back and mouthing what Sylfir assumes are scathing words. Arfin's anger bleeds away, but to confusion rather than guilt. He doesn't seem to understand what she's saying either.

"Just keep walking," Torgrim says, "And quietly."

Arfin huffs. "None o' ye are any fun."

From that moment on, though, he holds his tongue, and Sylfir guides them through the rest of the village. She takes them past the barren markets on the dusty main road, where villagers give them wary glances, then along the back edge of the village, heading for the Weary Wanderer. She sees Sten smoking his pipe as he leans against the inn wall beside the ramshackle door. On her approach, he turns his head, his eyes flicking between her and her companions, though his neutral expression never changes. He has to be the only person in the village who doesn't care about their arrival.

"Friends of yours? Lorys'll want to see them." He wraps his lips around his pipe again and breathes deeply. Sylfir nods, and he flicks his head toward the door.

The moment they enter, all eyes turn their way, then remain there. Most people are perplexed, some are unimpressed, and others are shocked, but none stand in their way as they weave through the tables and chairs until they reach the bar.

If Lorys is surprised, she hides it well, a valuable skill for a barkeep. As she wipes down the bar, she looks between Sylfir and her companions. "Not my usual type of patron, but I've never been one to turn away a paying customer."

"We will be more than that," Torgrim says, "We would end the beast that laid waste to your village and the forest beyond."

With a subtle arch of her eyebrows, Lorys seems to regard the man with new eyes. "Well, you don't lack conviction, and if Sylf here vouches for you, I've got reason to trust you'll do what you say." She turns her gaze toward Sylfir. "Glad to have you back, by the way. Consider your next drink on the house—you look like you need it."

Sylfir's growing smile is sheepish. "Thank you."

Arfin clears his throat. "So, if she were to get, say, a round o' drinks, would that offer apply to all o' them, or just the one?"

Before Lorys can answer him, Sonja claps him over the head again, and he yelps. She scowls as she signs. "You know you have the coin to pay," she mouths.

"All right, lassie! Forget I said anything," the halfling mutters, rubbing his head. Sylfir almost expects to see a sore bump when he removes his hand.

Embarrassed, she looks at a grinning Lorys. "Sorry. Arfin can be... unbecoming‌."

Torgrim hums with gentle laughter. "We are Uthgardt. Most civilised folk find us 'unbecoming.'"

The tavern grows quiet upon hearing the name, and Lorys' slanted eyes grow wide for a second, but she shakes her head. "Well, I suppose that should have been obvious from the first. As long as you don't cause any trouble, then we'll be fine with you staying. We can't exactly choose who comes to our aid."

"They won't cause any trouble." Sylfir flicks her gaze toward Arfin for a wary moment, then brings it back to Lorys. "Nothing major, anyway, and I accept full responsibility for them."

"All right then, lass," Lorys says, "Anyroad, I assume you've come here wanting a place to stay? Afraid we've only got two rooms left."

Sonja and Torgrim look at each other, the former wearing a sly smile on her face.

"That won't be a problem for us," Torgrim says.

Lorys catches on quickly, flicking her golden eyes between the pair and humming with laughter. "All right then. In the meantime, why don't you get something to eat? There's probably a free table large enough for you in here somewhere. I'll have one of my girls get you the menu."

"Thank you." Sylfir pushes off the bar and heading deeper into the tavern with her companions to look for a table. They find one by the window overlooking the beaten streets of the village, letting through the warm light of an ageing sun. Sylfir is the first to take her seat, looking out at the view.

Arfin's stomach rumbles, a low, gurgling sound that makes Sylfir sneer in subtle disgust. Arfin purses his wiry lips. "Don't give me that look, little lassie. Ye'd be making the same noises if ye'd travelled half  the distance I have without eatin'."

A wry smile forms on her face. "The irony of you calling me little. Also, I'm an elf—we don't have to eat as much as most other folk."

"Ack! Sometimes ye make me wish ye never found me bleedin' out in the forest."

Sonja laughs as she brings her hands forward to sign. "Speak for yourself," she mouths, "I'm glad she was there to bash a few orc skulls when we needed extra hands."

Sylfir bobs her head with a slight theatrical flair. "Why, thank you. I'm glad to know someone appreciates me. You know, Arfin, you could stand to be a little more grateful toward the woman who saved your life."

"Ack! Get off yer high horse—I'm here, ain't I? Speakin' o' horses, where's ye black steed? Rob, was it?"

"Bob. Really Arfin, it's not a hard name to remember," Sylfir says.

"You forget how much the man drinks. I'd imagine most things are hard for him to remember now," Torgrim says, a teasing smile curling his lips.

Arfin bats his companions away with a wave of his hands. "Yer all insufferable."

"To answer your question, the family that lives in the farmhouse a little farther east from here is helping me take care of Bob. They own the only stables here in the village," Sylfir says, "He's probably missing me. I'll visit him tomorrow—let him know I'm okay."

"Hmm, a noble beast like Bob shouldn't be caged in a stable," Torgrim grumbles.

"I agree, but he needs a place to stay after sundown, especially with this beast about. He's usually out to pasture during the day."

It's then that Sylfir notices the barmaid approaching their table in the corner of her eye. It's Sonja who takes the menu with a nod of thanks when offered, her black eyes eagerly raking over its contents.

"I'll give you some time to make your choices," the barmaid says.

"Thank you," Sylfir says, and the woman turns away, heading back to the bar.

"Give it here." Arfin reaches over the table for the menu with grubby little hands, but Sonja keeps it out of reach. Torgrim says something about Arfin being greedy, but Sylfir's mind is already drifting. Despite her condition, or perhaps because of it, she finds she doesn't have much of an appetite. She turns her gaze to the window, drinking in the sorry state of the village as her thoughts wend their way to a place a little farther west, conjuring memories of a pair of lovelorn eyes.