Chapter 12: Smoke, Spirits, and a Scholar’s Storm

  With our meal finished, we continued westward. The sun had nearly reached its peak, casting short shadows along the road. It had to be close to midday.

  As we walked, the landscape stretched wider, opening into the farmlands Veldrin had mentioned. The fields were massive, fifty acres, maybe more, each dedicated to different crops. One was lined with thick, bushy stalks bearing round, purple egg-shaped fruit. Or were they vegetables? I had no idea. Another closer to the road held tall, golden hay, swaying lazily in the warm breeze.

  The farm itself was heavily fortified. Sturdy wooden walls enclosed the main buildings, with tall watchtowers stationed at intervals. As we neared, the activity along the walls surged. Figures scrambled into position, climbing ladders, shouting commands, shifting along the ramparts. They had seen us long before we reached the gate.

  By the time we arrived, the large wooden entrance groaned open, revealing the heart of the farmstead. Several well-maintained buildings stood within. The largest, an obvious farmhouse, likely belonged to the owner, while a smaller structure nearby seemed to house the workers. Two enormous storage mills loomed further back, their frames built strong against the wind.

  As we stepped inside, a young woman approached. She moved with the kind of confidence that spoke of someone used to being in charge, though her expression wasn’t unwelcoming.

  "Welcome," she said simply. "I'm Endwin."

  She looked to be around nineteen, give or take, with neatly cut black hair that brushed just past her ears. Her attire was striking, an elegant white hood and cloak draped over a black robe, its design foreign yet purposeful. The flowing, layered fabric reminded me of something ceremonial, almost Japanese in style.

  Veldrin took the lead, introducing Bromm and me with his usual theatrical flourish before, at last, gesturing grandly to himself.

  "And I," he declared, "am Veldrin of the Umbral Arcanum—seeker of truths, scholar of the unknown, and, most importantly, the one who has traveled far to speak with Tarak."

  Endwin’s expression didn’t change. She gave a slow blink, then nodded. Without a word, she turned and led us up a worn path winding toward a structure perched at the farm’s outer edge.

  At first glance, it looked like an oversized tent, but as we drew nearer, I realized it was far more than that. The base was reinforced with thick wooden beams, each carved with intricate patterns, symbols that wove and twisted in mesmerizing designs. Moss and vines clung to the lower half, giving the place an ancient, almost sacred feel. Bones, feathers, and trinkets of nature hung deliberately from the structure, swaying gently in the breeze.

  At the entrance, Endwin stopped. She didn’t enter, simply gesturing for us to proceed before stepping aside.

  Bromm gave Bob a firm pat on the side. “You stay here, boy. Don’t go tearin’ up their fields while we’re inside.”

  Bob, too busy snuffling at the ground, gave a noncommittal grunt but didn’t protest. Satisfied, Bromm followed us in.

  Inside the shaman's tent, the interior was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of burning herbs and something faintly metallic. A fire blazed at the center of the room, its smoke curling upward, funneled through an opening at the top. Thick, woven rugs covered the floor, their intricate patterns faded with age but still vibrant.

  Veldrin wasted no time, sweeping into the room and settling himself onto one of the rugs in the middle. Then he turned a pointed stare on Bromm and me, waiting.

  When neither of us moved fast enough for his liking, he rolled his eyes so hard I thought they might disappear into his skull. “So particular with their shaman theatrics,” he muttered under his breath. Then, louder: “Come on, come on! Sit already! Or are we meant to stand here in reverent awe like slack-jawed tourists?”

  A deep, rumbling chuckle echoed from just beyond the firelight, carrying the weight of something ancient. The ground beneath us seemed to tremble with it.

  Then, stepping forward, a towering figure emerged, a bull standing upright on two legs.

  No. Not just a bull.

  A Tauren.

  He was enormous, easily nine feet tall, his sheer presence filling the space. Towering, curved horns framed his head, each carved with intricate symbols and adorned with trinkets, feathers, beads, and small charms that swayed gently with his movements. Some were wrapped in thin strips of leather, while others bore signs of age, polished smooth by time and ritual. He wore a heavy robe of thick, well-worn hide, its surface etched with carvings of mountains, animals, and flowing rivers. Moss clung to the edges, woven between bones, feathers, and other natural relics, as if the very essence of the wild had claimed him.

  In his hand, he gripped an imposing staff, its top crowned with enormous feathers, the wood etched with the same ancient symbols as the totem structure outside.

  His gaze settled on Veldrin.

  When he spoke, his voice was like distant thunder rolling over the plains.

  “I am Tarak Wildbrand… and I see you seek my wisdom, Veldrin.”

  Veldrin scoffed, flicking a hand through the air as if brushing away an unnecessary formality.

  “Yes, yes, let’s dispense with the grand introductions, shall we? You’re an ancient seer of great wisdom, I’m a brilliant scholar burdened with too many questions.. Now, if we can forgo the theatrical posturing, I have need of that so-called wisdom of yours.”

  Without waiting for permission, Veldrin launched into the story, recounting the events surrounding the Aetherstone and its abnormal reaction.

  I considered interrupting, maybe asking if this guy was actually trustworthy, but seeing as Veldrin was spilling everything without hesitation, I figured that question had already been answered.

  As Veldrin spoke, Tarak’s eyes widened, his massive head tilting at each revelation. He had a habit of nodding slowly, occasionally rumbling out deep sounds of acknowledgment, grunts, hums, even the occasional single-word mutterings I couldn’t quite catch.

  Maybe that was just a mage thing here.

  Veldrin finished his explanation with a flourish. “So we have come to you, in the hope that you can provide insight into how to manifest his magic.”

  Tarak studied me for a long moment. Then, at last, he nodded.

  “Yes… I believe I can help. Give me a moment.”

  He moved deliberately, retrieving a thick log and placing it onto the fire. The flames hungrily devoured the fresh fuel, sending dense smoke curling into the air.

  Then, gripping his staff, Tarak struck its base against the ground. Once. Twice. The rhythmic thud of wood against earth matched the steady beat of his hoof.

  The air shifted.

  A breeze stirred within the enclosed space, brushing against my skin from all directions. It carried the scent of charred wood and something older, something primal.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The fire’s smoke warped unnaturally, twisting as if something unseen was shaping it.

  Tarak’s gaze sharpened, reflecting the flickering firelight. He leaned in, his deep voice a low, rumbling whisper that seemed to vibrate through my chest.

  “The winds speak of something waiting to awaken. They whisper of a force buried deep, an ember yet unlit. Such power is reluctant; it does not heed commands or rituals.”

  He straightened, his presence towering yet grounded.

  “The spirits know your name, Arthur. But only you can teach them to speak it.”

  And just as quickly as they came, the winds died down, the sensation of envelopment slipping away like a dream upon waking.

  For a moment, all was still. The smoke from the fire settled, no longer twisting in unseen currents, and the air returned to its ordinary, weightless state.

  Then—

  "Wonderful," Veldrin scoffed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He threw up his hands, turning sharply on his heel. "Brilliant. Fantastic. A truly profound revelation, Tarak. We have learned—" he made an exaggerated flourish, "absolutely nothing that we didn’t already know thirty bloody minutes ago!"

  He spun back toward the Tauren, eyes alight with barely restrained irritation. "‘Power slumbers within you, Arthur. You must be the spark. The spirits know your name’—" He waved his hands dramatically, mimicking Tarak’s deep voice with mock reverence. "Yes, yes, all very mystical and poetic, but perhaps you could provide something actually useful? Preferably in a language that doesn’t sound like it was plucked from the back of a dusty prophecy scroll?"

  Bromm let out a deep chuckle but wisely stayed quiet.

  Tarak, for his part, did not react immediately. He merely blinked slowly, his massive frame still as a boulder. Then, with all the patience of someone who had endured far worse than Veldrin, he tilted his head slightly.

  "Did you expect the spirits to hand you a neatly written instruction manual?"

  The words barely left Tarak’s mouth before Veldrin exploded into a tirade so fast and vicious it was like watching a caged animal finally let loose. His hands flew into the air, pacing furiously in tight circles as he unleashed a rapid-fire string of scathing insults, obscure academic jargon, and words so convoluted I was fairly certain they weren’t even real.

  Something about "intellectual starvation," the "inherent uselessness of riddles disguised as wisdom," and, at one point, I was pretty sure he called Tarak a "sentient boulder with a penchant for vague half-truths."

  For five full minutes, Veldrin ranted, gesticulating wildly, muttering to himself, circling back for another round, then sighing dramatically like he’d aged ten years from sheer disappointment.

  Tarak, for his part, remained utterly unmoved. He merely blinked slowly, watching Veldrin’s theatrics with the same calm patience one might give to a particularly noisy storm, knowing it would pass.

  Eventually…mercifully, Veldrin spun on his heel and stormed toward the exit.

  "Come!" he snapped, sweeping his coat with a flourish. "Half the day wasted on shamanistic drivel! We should return to the Hollow and plan our next course of action properly, like civilized beings, not through vague whisperings and fireside riddles.

  Bromm, who had been watching the entire spectacle with thinly veiled amusement, let out a low chuckle as he stepped out after Veldrin.

  "Y’know, fer someone who claims to hate ‘riddles,’ ye sure do talk in a lot of circles, Veldrin."

  Veldrin shot him a venomous glare.

  Bromm just grinned, gave a sharp whistle, and Bob snorted in response, a happy, guttural sound as he fell into step behind us.

  Endwin stood by the gate as we passed, bowing slightly before giving a casual wave.

  As we walked out, I found myself glancing back at the farm’s fortifications. They really weren’t kidding, this place was built more like a stronghold than a simple homestead. Then again, considering the dangers out here, I supposed it had to be.

  We didn’t have any reason to linger. There was no shop or merchant to browse, no reason to restock supplies. And after Veldrin’s tirade, I had the distinct feeling our welcome wouldn’t have lasted much longer. Tauren seemed like the patient sort… but even they must have limits.

  We set off eastward, back toward the Hollow.

  The journey was quiet at first, but Bromm soon broke the silence by pulling me aside whenever we passed a patch of wild growth, pointing out clusters of berries and nuts nestled within the foliage. Some were for eating, others for alchemy or medicine. He’d grab a few, toss them my way, and name them off like a walking field guide, his hands always busy sorting, testing, or showing me which plants to avoid.

  Vaelthorn Fields was rich in natural resources, far more than the Hollow, at least in terms of quantity. The Hollow had its fair share, sure, but this place? This place was abundant. Every few steps, there was something new to pocket.

  By the time we neared the treeline, my pack was noticeably heavier. The open, rolling hills gradually gave way to dense woodland, the landscape shifting as towering trees pressed in around us. The golden light of the fields faded, swallowed by the thick canopy overhead, casting everything in deeper, shadowed hues. The air changed, becoming cooler, quieter, the distant hum of the plains replaced by the rustling of unseen creatures moving through the undergrowth.

  I took in the awe-inspiring surroundings, letting myself breathe for a moment. The Vaelthorn Fields had reminded me a lot of home—real home. Earth. The wide, grassy hills, the meandering river, even the trees, Beech and Oak, or something close enough.

  But this... this was different.

  The treeline felt like a wall, a towering barrier of bark and leaves, each tree unnaturally massive, their trunks as wide as sheds and their roots twisting like petrified serpents. Just the sheer scale of it all drove the point home. I wasn’t on Earth. I was in Selion.

  As we passed beneath that monstrous canopy, the sunlight all but vanished. Only faint traces of bioluminescence lit the way, glimmers from strange plants, flickering softly beneath the undergrowth like forgotten stars.

  I’d need to keep an eye out for Glimmergill. In a place like this, that was more than a curiosity, it was a priority.

  As we walked, Veldrin and Bromm fell into a heated back-and-forth about how best to manifest my magic. Or rather, Veldrin was suggesting increasingly chaotic methods, and Bromm was shooting them down one by one. It was like watching a fire try to negotiate with a bucket of water.

  My thoughts drifted, drawn not to spells or training, but to something else they’d mentioned.

  Adventuring.

  When Bromm talked about his old guild, Starward. Something about it stuck with me. Purpose. Direction. I didn’t want to be some weird experiment. I wanted to do something. So I interrupted.

  “Can you tell me about Dungeons?”

  They both turned to look at me, mid-bicker. Veldrin blinked. Then his eyes lit up.

  “Well,” he said, an all-too-eager grin spreading across his face, “there’s an idea.”

  Bromm let out a long sigh through his nose, like he was already tired of where this was going. But after a pause, he spoke.

  “Dungeons...” He scratched his beard, eyes drifting somewhere far off. “They’re ruins, aye—but not just any ruins. Leftovers from a time when the world weren’t so... neighborly. Back when the Races—humans, elves, gnomes, dwarves, tauren—all fought tooth and nail over dirt, magic, pride. You name it.”

  He adjusted the straps on his gear as we walked, voice deepening.

  “Most of those old strongholds are long gone now, swallowed by time and the land itself. What’s left? Broken towers, buried keeps, forgotten temples, twisted and reclaimed by beasts, bandits, and worse. Places steeped in old magics and older grudges.”

  He gave a little grunt. “Guilds like ours—Starward—we made our names clearin’ those places. Runnin’ the dark halls, diggin’ out relics, slayin’ what needed slayin’. Potions, scrolls, weapons—aye, treasure enough to retire a dozen times over. But it weren’t just about loot. Every dungeon cleared meant fewer attacks on farms. Fewer folks disappearin’ in the night.”

  He paused then. His stride didn’t slow, but something in his tone shifted…Quieter, rougher.

  “But don’t go thinkin’ it’s all glory and gold. Dungeons take their toll. The kind of toll that don’t always show on the outside.”

  I noticed his hand drifted to his belt, fingers brushing against the leather strap where that little iron token hung, worn and polished from years of touch.

  “Some dungeons,” he muttered, “don’t let your friends walk back out with you.”

  Veldrin, for once, didn’t say a word.

  I glanced at Bromm, then down at the trail ahead. I didn’t need to ask...Whatever happened to Robert, it had happened in a place like that. A dungeon. A ruin. I wasn’t going to press him. If he ever wanted to tell me, it would be in his own time.

  The silence lingered just long enough to be uncomfortable before Veldrin broke it, rubbing his hands together like a merchant about to pitch a terrible idea.

  “A dungeon,” he mused aloud, his lips curling into a slow, thoughtful smirk. “Now there’s a notion worth entertaining. Of course, if we’re going to do something that suicidally delightful, we’ll need someone to keep your insides from becoming your outsides… There is one person I can think of”

  Bromm grunted, skeptical. “You think she’d come with us?”

  Veldrin spun on his heel, arms spreading as if presenting a grand idea to an invisible audience. “Elunara? My dear dwarven pessimist, the woman practically aches for another delve! She may huff and scoff and act like she’s tethered to that inn of hers, but underneath that composed druidic exterior is a storm of barely restrained nostalgia and pent-up adventure lust. Tempt her with danger, sprinkle in a whisper of treasure, and mention—just in passing, mind you—that I might die horribly without her healing touch, and she’ll be packed before nightfall.”

  Bromm let out a hearty, rumbling laugh that echoed through the trees. “Hah! Now that’s a conversation I wouldn’t mind overhearin’.”

  We kept walking, the conversation fading, but the unspoken understanding between us said enough. After a time, the woods began to thin, the twisted roots giving way to a well-worn path. We rounded a bend of moss-covered trees, and there it was, the Hollow.

  The village appeared like something out of a painting, nestled among the roots of colossal trees, each home built into the natural flow of the forest. Smoke curled from the crooked chimney of the Frog Leg Inn, and drifting on the air came a warm, nutty scent that wrapped around my senses like a blanket.

  Elunara’s cooking.

  I’d never stop looking forward to that.