The soft light of dawn crept through the edges of Niklaus's tent, stirring him from sleep. He blinked against the pale hues spilling across the canvas, the morning chill clinging to his skin like a stubborn shadow. His fingers twitched instinctively, seeking warmth, but instead of the familiar fur of his old companions, he felt only the coarse weave of his blanket.
Memories tugged at him, vivid and bittersweet—the nights he'd spent nestled among the wolves and dire wolves of Lupé's forests. Back then, there was no need for a tent; the pack had been his shelter. When the cold crept into his bones, a wolf would sidle up beside him, their breath warm against his neck, their bodies shielding him from the harsh northern winds. The wolves had watched over him, their loyalty fierce and unwavering, earning him the names "Wolfheart" and "The Prince of Wolves." The forest had embraced him in ways no human ever had, and the echoes of howls still haunted his dreams—a symphony of wild comfort.
Shaking off the weight of nostalgia, Niklaus sat up, the tent rustling around him like an awkward cocoon. He scratched at his head, his hair a tangled mess from restless sleep, and glanced at the meager supplies scattered near his pack. Survival lessons from Jonathan Kaine surfaced in his mind—practical, grounding advice that had kept him alive during countless nights in the wilderness. "Always know your surroundings," Jonathan's voice echoed in his memory. "Water sources, shelter, and food—they're your holy trinity out here."
With a groggy stretch, Niklaus crawled out of the tent, the crisp morning air filling his lungs and sharpening his senses. He scanned the forest's edge, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow, ears attuned to the subtle rustle of leaves and the distant chatter of birds. His fingers itched, fidgeting with the strap of his satchel, eager to put his knowledge to use.
He ventured into the woods, every step deliberate but restless, his hands brushing against the rough bark of trees as he searched for edible plants and signs of game. The forest floor, damp with morning dew, yielded wild herbs and a few mushrooms he recognized from Jonathan's teachings—safe enough for breakfast. A small stream gurgled nearby, its clear waters reflecting the dappled sunlight breaking through the canopy. Niklaus cupped his hands, letting the cool liquid trickle over his fingers before taking a cautious sip.
Returning to his campsite, he gathered dry twigs and kindling, his movements fluid despite the persistent fidgeting. He arranged the firewood with the precision Jonathan had drilled into him, striking flint against steel until sparks danced into the tinder. The fire caught with a soft crackle, its warmth a comforting contrast to the cool morning air.
Niklaus sat cross-legged by the fire, roasting the herbs and mushrooms over the flickering flames. He nibbled on a little bit of bread as he waited for the food to cook. The simple meal filled the clearing with an earthy aroma, mingling with the scent of smoke and fresh mana. He let his thoughts drift as he ate, the memories of wolves and mentors blending into the present's quiet rhythm. The journey ahead was uncertain, but the lessons of the past and the promise of adventure pulsed in his veins, steady as the heartbeat of the wild.
As he finished his breakfast, Niklaus glanced toward the path leading to Graystone, his heart thrumming with anticipation. But his thoughts snagged on the peculiar goat from the night before. Did it have a collar around its neck? He replayed the chaotic scene in his mind, squinting inwardly as if focusing harder would clear the memory. His brow furrowed. If the goat had a collar, that meant it wasn't just some random forest menace—it belonged to someone. The thought itched at the back of his mind, an annoying buzz that refused to fade. What if someone was out there searching for their wayward, chaos-inducing pet? He tapped his fingers against his knee, his thoughts bouncing between possibilities, unable to shake the nagging worry, like wearing a shirt one size too small.
He tried to shove the thought to the back of his mind, but it clung like burrs to his restless thoughts. His fingers tapped against his thigh, his eyes darting back toward the forest as if the goat might suddenly reappear, demanding answers. With a sharp shake of his head and a dramatic sigh, he muttered, "It's just a goat," as if saying it out loud would convince him. Still fidgeting with the strap of his satchel, he finally forced himself onto the path—because if he didn't get moving now, he'd probably end up naming the goat and writing it a heartfelt letter.
The road to Graystone wound through ancient woodlands, where gnarled trees stretched their limbs toward the sky like old men shaking their fists at the clouds. The air—or mana, as folks in Lupé often called it—felt thick here, humming with unseen life. Each breath filled Niklaus's lungs not just with oxygen, but with the raw magic that pulsed through the land. He could feel it thrumming beneath his skin, mingling with his blood like an old friend he hadn't seen in years.
But even with the magic in the air, unease gnawed at him. The woods were dense, their shadows stretching long and dark, and rumors of thieves and marauders lurked in his mind like unwanted guests at a feast. He tightened his grip on Cindershard's hilt, the familiar coolness of the obsidian blade grounding him.
"If anyone jumps out of those trees," Niklaus muttered, half to himself, "they're going to get a very pointy surprise."
"Oh, let's hope they do," Cindershard replied, a hint of excitement in its voice. "I'm getting rusty just hanging around here."
Niklaus snorted. "You've been in my possession for less than a day. You can't possibly be rusty."
"Details, details," the sword said breezily. "Let's find some trouble, shall we?"
As if on cue, the path opened into a clearing—and what a sight it was. Three merchants, looking like they'd lost a battle with a particularly vengeful laundry line, were wrestling with a massive, brightly colored tent that flapped wildly in the wind. It looked less like a tent and more like a giant, angry bird trying to take flight.
Niklaus couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. The first merchant, bald and wearing a patchwork tunic that clashed spectacularly with his bright red pants, was shouting at the second merchant, who was tangled in what appeared to be an explosion of lavender flowers.
"Lift that side, you oaf!" the bald man bellowed. "Unless you're trying to launch this thing into the stratosphere!"
"A stratosphere tent could be the next big thing," the portly, flower-covered merchant huffed, yanking at the lavender like it had personally offended him. "We'll be the first flying merchants in all of Leluine!"
"If that's your plan, I'm selling tickets!" Niklaus called out, stepping into the clearing with a grin.
The merchants froze, mid-struggle, and turned to him with varying degrees of hope and exasperation.
"Do you have any experience with rogue tents?" the bald merchant asked, his voice tinged with desperation.
"Can't say I do," Niklaus replied, "but I've got a sword and a healthy disregard for common sense."
"Good enough for me!" the flower-covered man exclaimed, flinging a handful of lavender into the air like confetti.
Before Niklaus could step forward, a third merchant—wiry and bespectacled—sprinted past, chasing after a goat that had clearly decided it was the star of this circus. Niklaus froze, his eyes widening as recognition sparked. "Wait a second," he muttered, his mind racing. "That's the goat from last night." The one with the collar. The one he'd worried about that morning. Relief washed over him like a cool breeze—at least the mischievous little beast wasn't lost. But his thoughts jittered, bouncing from relief to curiosity to a fleeting worry about who might be missing their four-legged troublemaker. "Someone stop that goat!" the merchant cried, flailing his arms like a windmill caught in a hurricane. Niklaus couldn't help but smirk, his fingers tapping against the hilt of Cindershard, the absurdity of it all fitting perfectly into his already chaotic morning.
Niklaus's eyes flicked from the chaotic mess of tent poles and flailing merchants to the goat gleefully wreaking havoc in the background. His fingers drummed against the hilt of Cindershard, thoughts bouncing between helping, laughing, and wondering why life kept throwing him into bizarre situations.
"Alright, alright," he muttered to himself, glancing at Cindershard with a smirk. "I'll give them a helping hand. Or, well, a helping blade."
Without further ado, he unsheathed Cindershard, the blade gleaming ominously in the sunlight, reflecting both his determination and the lingering amusement at the absurdity of it all.
"Are you really going to fight the tent?" Cindershard asked, sounding far too entertained.
"If it's between me and the tent, I'm winning," Niklaus replied, stepping up to the flapping monstrosity. He swung with practiced precision—and promptly missed the fabric entirely, slicing through one of the support posts instead.
With a creak and a groan, the tent collapsed in on itself, burying the merchants in a cascade of colorful cloth and rogue lavender.
"Nailed it," Cindershard said, thoroughly unimpressed.
Niklaus stood there for a moment, staring at the tangled mess, before bursting into laughter. "I call that 'abstract problem solving.'"
A muffled voice emerged from beneath the tent. "I call it 'property damage.'"
After a few minutes of untangling and far too much goat-related interference, the merchants finally emerged, red-faced but laughing.
"Thanks for the… help," the bald merchant said, brushing lavender petals from his shoulders. "And don't worry about the tent. It was messed up and ripped anyway."
"Yeah," the portly merchant chimed in with a chuckle, "you probably did us a favor. That thing was more patch than fabric at this point."
Niklaus grinned sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. "Well, in that case, I'm glad to have been of service."
As he continued down the road, the absurdity of the encounter lingered like the scent of lavender in the breeze. The path ahead was still uncertain, but with Cindershard at his side and a newfound confidence in his stride, Niklaus felt ready for whatever chaos the world had in store.
"You know," he said, glancing down at his sword, "I think we make a pretty good team."
"Just wait until we meet our first dragon," Cindershard replied. "Let's see if you can accidentally demolish that."
Niklaus whistled a jaunty tune as he walked wondering what other weird things he would see today. 'Well... whatever happens can't be much weirder than what just happened' he shrugged and kept on walking.