For a while, it seemed as though Brock was genuinely trying to redeem himself. He was more subdued, less arrogant, and genuinely seemed remorseful for his past actions.
But old habits die hard. The other hunters, particularly those who had once looked up to Brock, began to mock him. They called him "Brock the Backstabber," "Brock the Coward," and other demeaning names. They reminded him of his humiliation, his defeat at the hands of a "mere boy."
Brock tried to ignore them, but their taunts chipped away at his resolve. He began to feel resentment, a slow burn of anger that threatened to consume him. He had tried to make amends, but they wouldn't let him. They wouldn't let him forget.
One evening, after a particularly harsh round of mockery, Brock snapped. He stormed away from the village, his face contorted with rage. He had tried to redeem himself, but they wouldn't let him. They wanted a villain, and he would give them one.
He no longer sought redemption. He craved revenge.
He would make them pay for their mockery, for their scorn. He would prove to them that he was not a coward, not a backstabber. He would show them the true meaning of fear.
Brock knew he couldn't openly challenge the Hunter's Guild. That would be suicide. He needed allies, but he needed them discreetly. He couldn't afford to be seen as a rebel, a mutineer. He had to work in the shadows, whispering in the ears of those who were already disgruntled, those who felt slighted by the Guild, those who harbored their own resentments.
He sought out hunters who felt overlooked, those who believed they deserved more recognition, more power. He found them in the taverns, in the remote hunting lodges, in the dark corners of the village. He spoke to them of injustice, of the Guild's favoritism towards Gordon and Markus, of the Keeper's seemingly undue influence.
He didn't openly advocate for rebellion. He simply planted seeds of doubt, nurtured their discontent, and offered them a sympathetic ear. He spoke of the "good old days" when hunters were respected, when strength and skill were valued above all else, before "outsiders" and "magic-wielders" interfered with their traditions.
He painted Gordon and Markus not as heroes, but as symbols of the Guild's decline, puppets of the Keepers, their "heroism" a carefully orchestrated performance. He reminded them of Gordon's "freakish" powers, the uncontrollable bursts of wind, the whispers of "dark magic." He subtly suggested that Gordon was not to be trusted, that he was a danger to the old ways.
He was careful not to be seen meeting with these hunters too often, keeping his interactions brief and clandestine. He knew he was being watched, that his every move was being scrutinized. He had to be patient, play the long game.
He was building his network of influence, not with open defiance, but with subtle manipulation, playing on the insecurities and resentments of those around him. He was gathering his allies, not for a direct confrontation, but for a more insidious purpose: to undermine the Guild from within, to turn the hunters against each other, and ultimately, to seize control for himself.
He met with his friends in secret, in hidden clearings deep within the forest, far from the prying eyes of the Guild hunters. There was Willow, a woman as silent as the trees themselves, her eyes like a hawk's, always watching, always observing. She brought news of movements within the Guild, of whispers and rumors, of the growing unease surrounding Gordon's powers.
And there was Carl, a mountain of a man, his fists like boulders, his loyalty bought with promises of power and recognition. Carl was Brock's muscle, his enforcer, the one who ensured that his plans were carried out without question.
"The time is coming," Brock would whisper, his voice low and menacing. "The Guild is weak, divided. They trust these… outsiders. They fear what they don't understand."
Willow would nod silently, her gaze fixed on some unseen point in the distance. Carl would grunt in agreement, flexing his massive arms.
"We will take what is ours," Brock would continue. "We will restore the old ways. We will show them the true meaning of power."
Willow would then produce a map, marking key locations within the forest and the village, outlining potential weaknesses in the Guild's defenses. Carl would nod, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face.
Together, they formed a dangerous alliance, a shadow operating within the very heart of the Hunter's Guild. They were patient, methodical, waiting for the perfect moment to strike, to seize control and reshape the hunting community in their own image.
Brock maintains a facade of normalcy within the Hunter's Guild. He participates in hunts, attends meetings, and even offers advice to younger hunters. He's careful to avoid any overt displays of dissent or ambition. He often uses Carl as a sounding board, venting his frustrations and refining his plans. He enjoys the feeling of power he gets from manipulating others, even if it's just on a small scale for now. He's always observing, always listening, searching for weaknesses he can exploit. He's particularly interested in Gordon, watching his every move, trying to understand the source of his powers, seeing him as both a threat and a potential tool.
Willow is the most active of the three, constantly moving through the forest, gathering information. She's like a ghost, rarely seen, but always present. She tracks Gordon and Markus, observing their interactions with the Keepers and any other unusual activity in the forest. She also keeps tabs on the other hunters, noting their loyalties, their fears, their weaknesses. She's the one who relays messages between Brock and his scattered allies, using secret trails and hidden meeting places. She's patient, willing to wait for the perfect opportunity. She's also the most pragmatic of the three, less driven by emotion and more by calculated strategy. She sees Brock's ambition as a means to an end, a way to increase her own influence and power. She often disagrees with Brock's more impulsive ideas, suggesting more subtle and effective approaches.
Carl's daily routine is the most straightforward. He's the muscle, the enforcer. He trains regularly, honing his already considerable strength. He's also the one who carries out Brock's more… delicate tasks. He might intimidate a hunter who's getting too close to their operation, or "persuade" someone to join their cause. He's not particularly bright, but he's fiercely loyal to Brock, seeing him as a strong leader. He enjoys the feeling of power that comes with being part of Brock's inner circle. He's often the one who lets slip details of their plans, requiring Willow to cover for him. He's eager for action, constantly pushing Brock to make their move, but Brock always reins him in, reminding him of the importance of patience.
Brock, pacing in a hidden clearing, slams his fist against a tree trunk. "That fool, Finnigan, is getting suspicious. He's asking too many questions."
Carl cracks his knuckles. "Should I… persuade him to be quiet?"
Willow shakes her head. "Too risky. It would draw attention. We need to be more subtle."
"Subtle?" Carl scoffs. "I'm tired of being subtle. I want to crush them now!"
Brock silences Carl with a look. "Patience, Carl. We strike when the time is right, not before. Willow's right. We can't afford to make a mistake."
Meanwhile during one of Willow's scouting missions, she discovers something disturbing. She witnesses a ritual deep within the forest, performed by a group of shadowy figures. These figures are not the Keepers of the Flame, but something darker, something more sinister. They're drawing on a sinister magic and they are powerful, perhaps even more powerful than the Hag. Willow, shaken by what she has seen, returns to Brock and Carl.
"I saw them," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "In the deepest part of the forest. They were… different. Not like the Keepers. Darker."
Brock raises an eyebrow. "Darker? What do you mean?"
Willow hesitates, trying to find the right words. "They were… drawing power. Raw power. The kind the hag uses, but… amplified. It was… unsettling."
Carl shifts impatiently. "What were they doing? Tell us!"
"A ritual," Willow says. "They were chanting, moving in strange patterns. They were… summoning something."
Brock leans forward, his interest piqued. "Summoning what?"
Willow shakes her head. "I don't know. I couldn't see clearly. But it was… powerful. And I felt repulsive like it something disgusting."
A chill runs down Brock's spine. He had suspected that there was more to all this chaos. Now, Willow's report confirms his fears.
"This changes everything," he says, his voice grave. "We need to know what they're planning. This could be a bigger threat than we imagined."
Carl grunts. "So, what do we do? Do we attack them?"
Brock shakes his head. "No. We're not ready for that. We need to gather more information. Willow, can you identify their leader? Anyone you recognized?"
Willow closes her eyes, trying to recall the details of the ritual. "Their leader… she was tall, cloaked in shadows. Her face was hidden. But… I saw something. A symbol. On her hand."
She traces a shape in the air, a complex design of interwoven lines and circles.
Brock studies the symbol, a look of unease on his face. He recognizes it. It's an ancient symbol, a mark of a forgotten cult, a group that was said to have worshipped one of the dark god, a group that was thought to have been eradicated centuries ago.
"This is bad," he whispers. "Very bad."