Fate - First Reply We Need A Hero

[demonz-r-us]

"An unknown creature threatens the end of the world in the south-eastern Ixchel Wilds...
And we need a hero.

Anyone who thinks they may be of service... Well, first-come-first-serve.
A fine reward will be given, whether it be in treasure, artefacts, or currency. You WILL be paid handsomely.

Please, anyone, this is urgent. The creature has killed many wanderers in the forests already. Who knows what it will do next.

Come to the old shack on the outskirts of Mallian for further details. Your travels - if fees are to be paid - will be paid by our team.

Urgently,
The Gavingsborough Society"


A note put up all around Alliria, Lazular and Fal'Addas.
A quest to be owned.
And a beast to be put to rest.

Who will rise to the occasion?

 

[Irman Harefoot]

After several weeks of trudging through the jungles of Ixchel, Irman Harefoot had finally made it to Mallian. The tropical port city was a welcome change to the crushing humidity of the in-land wilds, but with it came a familiar challenge… money.

The cost of getting a spot on a boat headed westward was steep, and the licenses needed to work as a guard or deckhand were tricky for a random adventurer to acquire.

That left Irman little time with which to earn funds, before the summer heat and his wanderlusting curse ate away at him to do something stupid.

The flyer he saw out on the tavern wall seemed almost too good to be true then. A monster hunting job with private pay? Odds were that it was a scam, but Irman could handle himself and it wouldn’t hurt to check.

The colorfully dressed Rabbit-man with Billhook in hand, strolled up to the old wooden shack and knocked on the frame of the entryway.

“Answering random flyers that promise handsome rewards in rotting wooden shacks, what is my life even coming to?”

 

[demonz-r-us]

From inside the shack came the scrape of a chair and the dull thud of something heavy being set down, followed by a pause that stretched a little longer than it should have. When the door finally opened, it did so only partway, revealing a man with ink-stained fingers, a travel-worn coat, and eyes that looked like they’d learned how to rest in pieces instead of all at once.

He looked the rabbit-man over without ceremony, billhook, ears, bright colors and all, then let out a quiet huff of a laugh.

“Fair question,” he said, voice rough, like he’d been talking too much and sleeping too little. “If it helps, most of us asked the same thing when we signed on. And being suspicious usually keeps people breathing longer.”

The door opened the rest of the way and he stepped aside. The interior was dim and cramped, maps nailed to the walls with whatever metal had been on hand, one of them so heavily marked it was more ink than parchment. Something sharp and medicinal lingered in the air beneath the smell of old wood and smoke.

“We’re not here to waste your time. Or your life, unless you’re set on doing that yourself,” he added, already turning back inside as if the decision had been made. “If you want a clean job, you picked the wrong shack. If you want one that pays and needs doing badly, then you’re in the right place.”

He glanced back once, expression tightening for just a moment, like he’d caught himself thinking about people who hadn’t made it this far.

“The thing in the Wilds is real. So are the bodies. And whatever it is, it’s not mindless. If you’ve still got jokes after hearing that, you’ll probably manage.”

 

[Irman Harefoot]

“I’m no stranger to difficult work, fella.” Irman said, stepping into the shack with his ears perked and a hand on his dagger.

“Beast-men like me don’t get much choice with what we do to buy our meals. Long as the pay’s as good as you claim I’ll jump in any viper pit or lion’s den you point me to.”

The numerous maps nailed to the wall drew Irman’s eye more than anything else in the modest dwelling. They were all of the jungles around Mallian. Marked with “X”s that Irman could only assume were tied to the “Killed Wanderers” the flyer had mentioned in town. The heavily marked map seemed to then be an attempt to connect these killings, use them to narrow a search for this mysterious quarry.

“And it certainly looks like you’ve done quite the work to find this Lion’s den already…”

Irman eyed the ragged shack man curiously. The whole thing stunk for reasons more than just the thick smell of balms and draughts. However, a wall like this too genuine for a cutpurse trying out a desperate “scam”.

“But, where are my manners.” The rabbit-man said—turning to his host with a genuine smile. (Or at least one meant to present as genuine)

“Name’s Irman Harefoot; mercenary, monster hunter, adventurer. I do believe I’d like to hear more about this jungle killing beast that might well be ‘threatening the world’.”

Irman took the hand off his dagger’s hilt and extended it to the man. A gesture meant to show that he now felt some modicum of trust.

 

[demonz-r-us]

The man did not take the offered hand right away. Instead he looked at it, then at Irman’s face, then briefly toward the back of the shack where two other figures lingered half-seen in the dim, one seated with a ledger on their knee, the other standing watch near a shuttered window with a spear resting easy against their shoulder. After a moment he did clasp Irman’s hand, firm and brief, like a habit learned in places where lingering meant danger. “Gavinsborough Society,” he said, as if the name alone had weight enough to fill the space. “And you’re right about one thing, there is maps here because we ran out of time for prayers.” He released the grip and gestured toward the ink-choked parchment. “Those marks aren’t guesses. They’re confirmed. Camps that went quiet. Guides who didn’t come back. A patrol that knew the Wilds better than most and still vanished between one dawn and the next.”

He moved closer to the wall, tapping a cluster of Xs with two fingers stained dark from ink and something else dried older. “This thing hunts patterns, learns routes, waits. What waits out there are not a beast that lashes out blind, it’s patient and that’s worse. We’ve lost good people proving that much.” One of the others shifted at that, the scrape of a boot on wood sharp in the hush. “We’re not selling heroics, Irman Harefoot. We’re buying survival, information, and a blade willing to stay steady when the jungle starts lying to you.” His eyes flicked back, sharp but not unkind. “Payment’s real. Coin, salvage, artefactts recovered from prior sites if you live long enough to earn them.”

The man exhaled slowly, then nodded once as if settling something internal. “If you sign on, you don’t walk alone. You move when we say move, you pull back when we say pull back, even if your gut tells you different. Disagree later, survive first.” A thin, tired smile tugged at his mouth. “You wanted to hear more, so here it is plain. We think the creature’s circling toward Mallian, testing how close it can come without being seen. If it finishes that lesson, a lot more than wanderers are going to die.” He stepped aside again, opening the space deeper into the shack. “Sit. Drink if you need it. Then we’ll tell you exactly what kind of den you’re walking into.”

Irman Harefoot

 

[Irman Harefoot]

“If you sign on, you don’t walk alone. You move when we say move, you pull back when we say pull back, even if your gut tells you different. Disagree later, survive first.”

“Sit. Drink if you need it. Then we’ll tell you exactly what kind of den you’re walking into.”

Irman was puzzled enough that it showed on his Lagomorphic face. It was a flash of inner thought that he was quick to hide, taking the seat offered to him with his billhook set aside.

“I’m fine with drinks friend, this Ixchel air is damp enough.”

Instead, the rabbit-man produced a long-stemmed smoking pipe from his pack along with a tinder box. The scent of burning tobacco mixed with the cabins thick herbal aroma to make a new odor that could be hardly considered an improvement.

“I must admit, I’m feeling rather split here.” Irman said “This cause sure does sound mighty Important, I’ll give you that. But these conditions of yours are a real deal breaker.”

At a glance it was clear that Irman wasn’t messing around. His voice was measured with a feint green glint in his eyes.

“Cause I ain’t no soldier, and I’m not interested in pretending be one if this creature is even half the threat you say it is. So how about we drop the useless crap from the contract or you go and bring this sort of stuff to the city guard instead of a freelance mercenary.”

Irman could easily see in his mind a scenario. One where the monster lay dead with the ragged man insisting that the contract was void because of some pointless stipulation being broken.