The dirt path gives way to cobbles as Sylfir approaches the iron gates of Wynn's Hold, and the clip-clop of Bob's hooves signals her arrival. She sees the guard at the top of the modest stone watchtower turn his gaze her way, and he shouts for someone to open the gate.

They open with a screech owed to rust, and Sylfir strolls through with her captive just as the sun reaches its zenith on the third day of travel. She'll be glad to be rid of him—he's been nothing but trouble on the road. Every time she turned her back or let down her guard somehow, he tried to escape, and every time she inevitably caught him, he levied insult after insult or spat in her face. In one instance, he even levied his weapon against her. She's sick of having to hunt and care for him, and though most of her bounties are somewhat troublesome, she's never had to endure one so harrowing.

"We're here, you bastard." She doesn't wait for a reply. Not one that's scrutable, anyway. He won't be able to get his words past the cloth she's stuffed in his mouth.

After walking the streets for a while, people gather outside houses or workplaces, glaring at the man Bob carries. Sylfir can only imagine his shame, being dragged back to this "backwater," as he so eloquently put it, being spat upon by the locals. As far as she's concerned, it's what he deserves.

"It seems you underestimated how loved the girl was," Sylfir mutters.

She's not sure the man hears her over the curses and insults the townsfolk throw at him. Not that she really cares—it was more a thought spoken aloud than the beginning of a conversation. The abuse continues unabated until Sylfir turns the corner, coming into clear view of the Watchmen's headquarters.

"You!"

Sylfir stops dead in her tracks as the half-elf storms in her direction. She's slight of frame, but that does not take away from the ferocity of her sharp amber eyes, burning like the wild flame of a forest fire, bright against the golden brown of her skin and the onyx of her tightly coiled hair. Her grim, determined expression almost gives her the look of a fighter, but she wears civilian clothing—the threadbare apron of a baker—and it soon dawns on Sylfir who she is.

The half-elf strides toward Bob, and he snorts softly. Sylfir pets him around the ear.

"Let him down!" the half-elf demands.

"...I can't do that."

"Yes, you can!" she screams.

She pulls at the man's legs and he tries to kick, though the vines restrict his movements. She's not strong enough to haul the man off Bob's back. The destrier sidesteps with a grunt, his tail flicking this way and that.

"Please, you need to stop," Sylfir says.

"Let him down!" the girl screams again.

A woman rushes out of the headquarters' doors, frantic eyes locked on the half-elf. From the resemblance alone, Sylfir knows she is the girl's mother. She takes her daughter by the shoulder, just as she begins to cry, and holds her close.

"I'm sorry," she mouths.

"Don't worry." Sylfir  reaches into her pack and retrieves the silver band the man had stolen. "I believe this belongs to your daughter."

The mother takes it, even as her daughter continues crying into her chest. She frowns as she beholds yet another reminder of the loss she and so many others have suffered. "Thank you."

Sylfir bows her head, then continues onward, leading Bob with a soft tug of the reins to the Watchmen's headquarters. She ties him to a nearby post where the town-appointed marshal meets her.

The woman is a stocky, hammer-wielding dwarf, tall for her kind, with thick and greying braided hair. A scar cuts into her tanned, leathery skin from jaw to temple, with another one crossing her lips, not unlike the one Sylfir has herself. She flicks her brown eyes toward the man on Bob's back and sneers.

"Was wondering when ye'd drag this sack o' shite back." She comes to stand before him, looking up into his black eyes, and he stares back with hatred. "Ralf Bonecrusher. More like Ralf Bonehead. Thought ye could get away with killing one of our own, did ye?"

Ralf growls behind his gag.

"That's right—yer no better'n a common beast. Fitting that ye should sound like one," the dwarf says, "Come on, lads! This one's fer the dungeons!"

The watchmen—a ragtag group of the strongest arms and backs in the town—spring into action. It's a half-orc that reaches Ralf first, plucking him from the destrier and throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. His peer reaches for the large keyring attached to his belt, sliding the many keys along its frame before he finds the right one and heads inside their headquarters.

"Ye did well, lass. Come with me an' I'll make sure ye get yer due." The marshal beckons Sylfir to follow her into the headquarters.

"Keep the money. Better yet, give it back to the blacksmith. He's lost enough already."

The dwarf stops just before she reaches the building, looking over her shoulder with a hint of mild confusion, but it soon gives way to quiet stoicism. "Strange. Most bounty 'unters I know only do what they do fer the cash... or the killing. Never met one what was kind." She hums with joyless laughter. "Either that, or yer stupid, but ye don't strike me as the type."

Sylfir shrugs. "Call it a kind heart."

"Could do with more o' that 'round 'ere." The marshal crosses her hand over her chest. "I thank ye kindly fer yer work. Stay as long as ye like. Maybe long enough t'watch the 'anging. Or maybe just long enough fer a cold pint—Skaris would like t'see ye afore ye leave."

Sylfir nods. "You don't mind if I leave Bob here, do you?"

"We'll take good care o' the beastie."

"Thank you," Sylfir says, and the two women part ways.

Sylfir gives Bob a pat on the nose, then scratches along his snout, and he nods his head, letting out a quiet sigh as he chews. She reaches into her pack, strapped to her saddle, and produces a sweet red apple. The fruit entices the destrier, and as she holds it to his mouth, he eagerly consumes it. When he's done chewing, she strokes his snout again.

"I'll leave for now, but I'll come and see you soon."

Bob flicks his understanding gaze toward her and continues to chew in contentment, and she leaves him there at the post, taking to the streets of Wynn's Hold again.

She remembers walking this same route but in the other direction, having received news of the bounty from the Golden Lady less than a tenday ago. The mood in the town is not much changed since then, though that doesn't surprise her. The sense of loss they feel will not be easily assuaged.

She walks past a butcher's, then a carpenter's, following the twisted, cobbled streets until she reaches the town square. At the centre lies an eroded statue of the founder of the humble town, the Lady Wynn, though she's drifted more into legend than accurate history, as Sylfir understands it. On the other side of the square, jutting above the door of a two-storey building, hangs a distinctive tavern sign bearing a voluptuous golden silhouette. 

Just outside the Golden Lady, patrons of the establishment share drinks and conversation, and Sylfir makes her way across the square to meet them.

They greet her with solemn nods as she arrives. Many of the patrons here are honest workers—farmers from just out of town, or artisans from nearby shops—though there are a few adventurers that spend time here before moving on to the next town. She sees more than a few when she ventures inside. It's busy at this time of the day, and the barmaids are busy serving patrons their lunches as the owner of the establishment—a short, fat, sulphur-coloured and ram-horned tiefling—wipes down the bar, slick with the spillage of their patrons' drinks.

They look up and catch sight of Sylfir, their fiery eyes the colour of a summer sunset, contrasting their jet-black, short-cropped curly hair. They beckon her with a wave of their tablecloth and a warm smile on their round face.

Sylfir moves through the tavern, passing occupied tables heavy with hearty lunches, to reach the bar, squeezing between patrons to find her place there.

"Skaris," she says in greeting.

"Could spot those antlers a mile away." The tiefling eyes the antler crown she wears. "What news?"

"I captured him. He was a pain to haul back, but I got him here in the end. Marshal Embercliff has him now."

"Would feel sorry for him if he was any other bastard, but he deserves what's coming to him. But on a lighter note..." Skaris takes a pint glass, cleaning the rim with a cloth and placing it down in front of Sylfir. "I'm sure you're eager to wet your whistle with a few coppers worth of drink. I know you're good for it after clearing a bounty like that. Old Henrick was paying a pretty sum to see justice done for his little girl."

But Sylfir is caught between a smile and a frown, a little nervous laughter leaving her lips. "Actually..."

Skaris squints, looking at her with eyes that could almost be described as suspicious. "No. You didn't..."

"...I did."

Skaris tuts, shaking their head. "Kind of you. Stupid, but kind." They take the pint glass and hold it under the tap anyway, filling it to the brim with sweet apple cider. "This one's on the house."

They slide it to Sylfir, who takes it eagerly and drinks. It's sweet, almost sickeningly so, and when she drinks her fill, she sighs long and deep.

"Wow," Skaris says, "You needed that, didn't you?"

Sylfir wipes her mouth. "More than you know."

"Well, I'm happy to oblige. And maybe that pint'll sweeten you up for the next bounty."

"Oh?"

"Details are sparse. Got them a couple days ago from a friend of mine in a nearby village east of here. Summerfall's the name."

"Tell me more," Sylfir says.

Skaris reaches beneath the bar and produces a torn envelope, sliding it over to her. She takes it and plucks the parchment inside, following each stroke of the quill. 

"A different kind of beast than the one you just hunted. It's been terrorising the sleepy village, and they're looking for someone to rid them of it," they say.

"That's not all, though, is it?" Sylfir says, "They don't have a clear description of the beast except that it's uncommonly large and ferocious, and there's talk of a mysterious figure—a human man from what they can tell—though they don't elaborate further. Says here he was sighted when the beast attacked."

"Right," Skaris says, "You're going to have to ask Lorys—the lass who sent the letter—for more information at the local inn. 'The Weary Wanderer', it's called. And, though it seems you don't care about that sort of thing, it pays well."

"I noticed." Sylfir's gaze dips to the bottom of the letter where the reward is written in a neat and winding hand. She folds the parchment and places it back into the ripped envelope. She tries giving it back to Skaris, but the tiefling holds their hand up.

"Better that you keep it. Tell Lorys I gave it to you when you meet her and she'll know you for a friend."

"Right," Sylfir says.

"But for now, take your ease. I'm sure the townsfolk'll be happy to have you for another night."

"And we'll be happy to buy you another drink."

Sylfir flicks her gaze toward the gravelly voice to find it belongs to a stern-looking man with a thick chest and even-thicker right arm, with a shoulder like a boulder. He's of moderate height, and the lines on his face, and his greying, thinning hair mark him as an older man. He looks like he's come from a hard morning's work. As he takes his place beside her at the bar, she notices that the smell of coal still clings to him, just as the heat of the forge rolls off him.

"Heard you hauled in the scumbag that did for my girl. Least I can do is buy you a drink."

Sylfir doesn't refuse him. He doesn't seem the type to let debts go unpaid. Instead, she nods.

He turns his dull brown eyes to Skaris, nodding once. "Get the lass another pint. I'll have the usual."

"Got it," Skaris says, refilling Sylfir's glass before producing another for the old man, filling it with frothy beer.

"My girl would have liked you," he says, his eyes growing distant. "She always liked the kind-hearted lasses..."

"Well, to kind-hearted lasses," Skaris says, encouraging the blacksmith and Sylfir to drink. The blacksmith huffs a deflated sort of laughter, though a forlorn smile graces his wiry lips. He holds his pint up to Sylfir.

"To kind-hearted lasses."

Sylfir brings her glass to his and they ring with a satisfying clink! Then, they both drink until their glasses are empty.