Nestled beside the winding road on the edge of Southern Chetwood sat a small hut. A sweet scent caught the wind from the fragrant blossoms that curled around the timbered walls; creeping ivy and honeysuckle vines adorned the wooden beams. The surrounding garden was scattered with well-worn tools. Some nets lay draped over a low fence, and nearby, a faded quiver with slender arrows leaned against the wall. Around the residence, wildflowers spilled in cheerful clusters along the edges of a clearing, upon which a workbench and timeworn traps stood. On the southern edge, where the ground caught the most sunlight, humble vegetable patches thrived in rows. Some leeks stood tall, slender, and peppered with dew; purple and yellow carrots pushed eagerly through the soil, and tangled, sprawling tendrils of peas curled around some wooden stakes. They were blossoming a pale white, promising a harvest that might be forgotten soon.
They had split up in the late watches of the night, and daybreak had befallen the May-green rolling hills of Bree-land. The sound of heavy footsteps was soon joined by a sharp caw. Perched confidently on the windowsill, a sleek black crow tilted its head, its beady eyes gleaming as if it had been waiting for him. From the underbrush, a slender hunting dog burst forward. It was a rough-coated, scruffy bundle of life with bright, eager eyes and a clumsy gait. Its fur was mud-caked and tangled, and the hound moved with the awkward enthusiasm of a young animal still getting used to its own limbs. He looked a little dopey but happy nonetheless - the kind of dog cast off by another hunter, but Flent had taken him in without hesitation.
“I see you’re still here,” came the warm voice just as the beast leapt into his arms. Flent braced himself, ribs still aching from the long days spent wading and fighting through the marshes. The sprawling pup seemed almost small nestled against him, but standing on its own, the dog would have reached most men’s thighs already - an awkward, lovable giant with a goofy, trusting gaze. “I can’t leave ye alone for this one. And ya still need a name,” the fowler said with a grunt, setting the rough-coated pup down. He lingered for a moment, eyes sweeping over the familiar lines of his hut. The soft green climbing the walls, the wildflowers dancing with the bees of his hives. Relief and an uneasy restlessness warred across his face.
He had returned to this place countless times before, but never quite like this. The memories of the expedition and the ruins clawed at him - the spider’s unfathomable malice, the fierce battle-fury of Wittkun the Dwarf, the Elf-maid’s mythic courage that had saved them all from certain death. Vratni, the curious Dwarf whose greed had discovered something in the depths of those ruins. And then there was Tivlyn. His thoughts found her like a hidden ember in the dark, glowing a little warmer and longer than the rest. A woman born of the same wild blood, yet somehow different. Beneath the dull ache in his chest, a strange and restless thing flickered - like a thread woven through his thoughts whenever he thought of her.
The impatient dog’s bark jolted Flent from his reverie, nudging him across the threshold of the cabin. Inside, the quiet stirrings of the animals that shared his home greeted him - the rustle of feathers, scurrying paws, a low coo of a nesting pigeon. He set to work unpacking and tending his wounds, though a strange stillness clung to him, deeper than mere fatigue.
The familiar simmer of the kettle on the hearth did little to comfort him. Something had shifted. Even as he moved through the familiar motions of feeding and caring for the creatures he so loved, a bitter taste lingered. Be it restlessness or longing, for the first time in his life, he yearned for the road ahead. Like a fledgling sensing the call of open skies. They would meet in three days at the Forsaken Inn - but in truth, his mind was already made up. These final days at home, he would spend readying the beasts in his care: finding shelter for the helpless, strengthening those who might endure without him. The pup, of course, would come with him. And any others he couldn’t bear to part with, or that could not do without his hand.
The days passed quickly, filled with a quiet urgency. Flent moved with a purpose that felt only half his own, as if some unseen current had taken hold. He harvested what crops were ripe, bundled provisions, and made ready what he could. But he lingered longest by the hives.
Their steady hum, ever soothing, met him like an old song. He knelt beside them, watching the bees slip in and out of the hives he had built with his own hands. Each one was capped with a thatch roof to shield against the rain, and he had stacked twigs to ward off mice. “You’ll have to manage without me for a while…” he murmured, brushing his calloused fingers along the rim. It left a sting - sharper than he’d expected. He had tended these hives longer than he had other friendships. They had never asked much of him, only a place to be.
After several trips into town, the cabin grew quieter. With each creature he placed in a trusted hand or set loose in a safe place, it felt to Flent as though bits of his soul were peeling away from the place - until it barely felt like home at all.
Then came the packing. Hours of reorganizing, re-rolling, retying, and no small amount of cursing aimed at the stubborn clasps on his pack. At last, Flent stood back and surveyed the result. It was a respectable monstrosity of gear. Bedroll, tarp, cooking tins, snares, rope, provisions, spare boots, and perhaps a dozen other items all lashed into a system only he understood. Beside it sat a curious addition - a small, lopsided pouch made from an old seed sack, its inside lined with wool, the edges secured by loops of leather. Within, nestled with the blissful ignorance of the road ahead, lay a blind ferret. She twitched her nose once and blinked toward nothing, then drifted back to sleep.
Flent looked down at the pack and the dog, who sat proudly in front of the bundle, tail thumping like a drumroll and tongue hanging out in anticipation. The beast buzzed with a sense of excitement. The fowler sighed, crouched, and ran a hand through the dog’s wiry coat. “Yer a fool,” Flent muttered, scratching the fur behind the dog’s shoulders. “A big, slobberin’ fool.” The dog only sneezed in response and licked his face. The man broke into a grin, half-sided but real. He stood up and shook his head. “My fool now, I suppose.”
Just then, the house-crow came tapping its beak against the windowsill, as if impatient with all this sentiment. Flent sighed and heaved himself to his feet, lumbering over to push the window open. The crow tilted its head in quiet curiosity, but before he could grumble at it, his eyes caught movement on the road.
A lone rider was making her way down the winding path toward his hut. Even from the distance, he knew the posture - tall and familiar, there was something unmistakable in the way she sat her horse. Tivlyn. Of course she followed up on his offer. Their eyes met across the distance, and he found himself standing just a little taller without meaning to.
