Chapter 3: The Weight of Whispers
The return to Greywater Keep with the spoils of the Whispering Woods expedition was… impactful. Hal and Timms, despite their exhaustion and minor wounds, carried themselves with a newfound swagger, their hushed, awestruck recounting of events to old Tom and the few other servants painting a picture of their young lord that bordered on the mythic. Elian Hollow, the boy who had supposedly tumbled from the ramparts addled, had apparently faced down a dozen hardened bandits and emerged not just victorious, but utterly dominant. They spoke of arrows that never missed, of their lord briefly taking to the air like a vengeful spirit, of a chilling calm in the face of bloodshed.
Tom, the grizzled steward, listened with wide eyes, his gaze constantly flitting towards Elian, who was calmly overseeing the sorting of the captured goods – a few serviceable swords, a handful of dented shields, some leather armor better than their own pathetic rags, a small pouch of mixed coins, and, most valuably, several usable bows and a good stock of arrows.
"M'lord," Tom finally managed, his voice hoarse with emotion, "You… you have your father's strength. And something more."
Maester Hannis, who had rushed out upon their arrival, looked paler than usual. He'd seen the bodies of the first three bandits, but the scale of this latest encounter, relayed in breathless whispers, was something else entirely. "The Seven protect us… and you, m'lord. Such… decisive action."
Elian, or Momonga within, merely inclined his head. "They threatened our lands and people. They paid the price." He internally assessed the reaction. Fear, yes, but also a burgeoning, desperate hope. These people, so long accustomed to hardship and insignificance, were seeing a flicker of strength in their young, previously unremarkable lord. This was useful. Loyalty born of fear was effective, but loyalty born of hope and respect, backed by fear, was far more potent.
The newly acquired coins, though meager by any significant noble house's standards, were a fortune for Greywater Keep. Elian immediately allocated a portion to Tom. "See to urgent repairs on the gatehouse and the south wall, Tom. And purchase grain, if any can be spared from Fairmarket or the villages. We need to bolster our winter stores."
He also set about a more structured, if still rudimentary, training regimen for his 'garrison' – which now consisted of Hal, Timms, and three other aging men who could still hold a spear. Drawing on half-remembered historical documentaries and the countless tactical discussions within Ainz Ooal Gown, he began to drill them in basic formations, shield discipline, and coordinated attacks. It was a painful process. The men were old, set in their ways, and often clumsy.
"No, Hal! Keep your shield up! It's not a serving tray!" Elian's youthful voice cracked with exasperation one afternoon in the muddy courtyard. He was demonstrating a simple shield-wall advance. "Timms, your spear thrusts are like a drunken farmer swatting flies! Precision! Economy of motion!"
His corrections were often accompanied by demonstrations that were unnervingly swift and precise for a boy his age. He didn't use magic openly in these drills, relying on the physical prowess of his teenage body, guided by his Overlord mind. It was enough to leave the men panting, bruised, and thoroughly convinced of his superior martial understanding. His own mana reserves, now noticeably larger, hummed within him. He could sustain [Fly] for nearly a minute, cast a dozen [Magic Arrows] without depleting himself, and was even contemplating experimenting with a low-level [Fear] aura if the need arose. The efficiency of soul-based mana expansion was proving incredibly effective.
His nights were spent poring over the few moldy books Maester Hannis possessed – mostly local histories and ledgers – and attempting to map out the political landscape of the Riverlands. He also continued his mental projections, sending his call out into the darkness, stronger each time, a silent beacon for his lost children.
Hundreds of leagues away, in a modest rented room above a bakery in the river town of Maidenpool, Sebas Tian sat in perfect stillness. His human guise was that of an elderly, dignified scholar named Master Tian, his silver hair neatly tied back, his simple robes impeccably clean. He had been in this world for several weeks, having arrived with a disorienting lurch in a storm-tossed fishing boat off the coast of the Vale. His paramount concern, overriding even his own survival, was the location and safety of his master, Lord Ainz.
The first mental call he'd perceived, days ago, had been faint, like the whisper of a dying breath, yet it had resonated with the unmistakable signature of the Supreme One. It had given him a general direction – north-west from his initial landing point. He had traveled with quiet urgency, gathering information with his customary polite discretion, his keen senses and profound insight into human nature allowing him to sift truth from rumor with ease.
Then, two nights ago, the call had come again, stronger, more defined, imbued with a nascent power that sent a thrill of hope through his loyal heart. It was still distant, but the signal was clearer, the direction more precise. It pointed towards the central Riverlands, a war-ravaged territory of countless minor lords and simmering resentments.
Sebas had increased his pace, his inquiries becoming more focused. He listened in taverns, markets, and at the gates of minor holdfasts. He heard the usual tales of post-war hardship, of banditry, of lords struggling to rebuild. But then, a new thread emerged in the tapestry of rumor, originating from the lands near the confluence of the Trident's forks.
Whispers of a boy-lord, Elian Hollow of Greywater Keep, a holdfast so insignificant it was barely a footnote in any ledger. This boy, it was said, had suddenly displayed uncanny prowess. A small band of bandits dealt with summarily. Then, a much larger group, notorious for haunting the Whispering Woods, utterly annihilated. Some tales claimed the boy fought with the strength of ten men, others that he commanded strange, dark powers, that he could vanish into shadow or strike with unseen force.
The location of Greywater Keep, as far as Sebas could ascertain, aligned disturbingly well with the strengthened, more focused call from Lord Ainz.
Sebas Tian, the consummate butler, the epitome of calm control, allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile. Lord Ainz… you are truly magnificent, even in a new, unfamiliar guise.
He would proceed with caution. He needed to verify these rumors, to observe this "Elian Hollow" without revealing his own nature or alerting any potential enemies. But the hope that had flickered within him now burned with a steady flame. He was close.
Word of the "Butcher of Whispering Woods" – or sometimes the "Savior of the Streams," depending on who was telling the tale – began to spread beyond the immediate vicinity of Greywater Keep. Fear was a swift messenger. Other bandit groups, hearing of the brutal efficiency with which the Whispering Woods gang had been dispatched, began to give the lands around Greywater Keep a wider berth.
This had an unexpected consequence. A delegation arrived at Greywater's creaking gates one morning. It consisted of three men and one woman, their faces etched with hardship, their clothes patched and worn. They were from a small, unnamed hamlet a few leagues south, nestled precariously close to the now-pacified Whispering Woods. Their elder, a stooped man named Borin, acted as spokesman.
"Lord Hollow," he began, his voice raspy, bowing low before Elian, who received them in the meager hall, flanked by Hal and Timms who stood straighter and looked fiercer than they ever had before. "We… we have heard tales. Of your strength. Of how you cleared the Whispering Woods of the jackals that preyed on us."
Elian listened, his youthful face impassive. Internally, Momonga analyzed. This was an opportunity.
"The bandits were a threat to my lands," Elian stated simply. "They were dealt with."
"Aye, m'lord, they were," Borin affirmed. "For years, they've stolen our crops, our animals, even… even our people. No lord would help us. We were too small, too poor. But you, m'lord… you have shown you are different." He hesitated, then plunged on. "Our village… we are but a handful of families. We have little to offer. But we would gladly swear fealty to House Hollow, pay you what meager tribute we can muster, if you would extend your protection over us."
Tribute. Protection. Fealty. The cornerstones of power in this feudal world. More resources, however small. More people under his nascent banner. And, if they were attacked by other threats, more souls for his ever-hungry mana reserve.
"Your village is small," Elian observed, his gaze sweeping over them. "What tribute can you offer?"
"We have good barley, m'lord, when the bandits don't take it. Some chickens. We can offer a portion of our harvest, and our men can offer their labor for a few weeks each year, to help with your keep or your lands. And… and our loyalty, m'lord. Our undying loyalty to the lord who gave us peace."
Momonga considered. The resources were negligible. But the precedent was significant. And the potential for future soul acquisition, should new threats arise against his people, was strategically sound.
"Greywater Keep is not a wealthy house," Elian said, his voice carrying a new weight of authority. "But it does not shirk its responsibilities. If your village swears fealty to House Hollow, you shall have our protection. But you will be expected to contribute to the upkeep of our defenses and report any suspicious activities in your area immediately."
Borin's face lit up with relief. "Oh, thank you, m'lord! We swear it! By the Old Gods and the New, we swear it!"
And so, House Hollow, for the first time in generations, expanded its influence, however slightly. Elian sent Hal with the villagers to survey their hamlet and assess their needs, a symbolic gesture of his newfound lordship.
The act of accepting their fealty resonated within Momonga. This was different from commanding NPCs who were programmed for loyalty. These were humans, willingly offering their allegiance out of a mixture of desperation and hope. It was… novel. And it reinforced his understanding of this world: power, visibly demonstrated, bred respect and attracted followers.
With his slightly increased manpower (as the village could provide a few able-bodied men for militia duty in dire need) and the small trickle of additional resources, Elian focused on reconnaissance. He needed to understand his small domain intimately. Maester Hannis had spoken of old ruins to the north-east, on the very edge of Hollow lands, bordering the territories that were vaguely claimed by House Piper. Supposedly, they were remnants of an older, forgotten age.
Taking Timms, now his most trusted man-at-arms, Elian rode out to investigate. The ruins were little more than crumbling stone foundations, barely visible beneath centuries of overgrowth, situated on a lonely, windswept hill. Most of it was unremarkable. But as Elian walked the perimeter, his [Detect Magic] spell active – a constant, low drain on his now more substantial reserves – he felt a faint flicker.
It was weak, almost buried, but definitely magical. He traced it to a section of what might have once been a cellar, now choked with rubble and dirt.
"Timms, clear this area," he commanded.
Timms, though puzzled, set to work with a small shovel they'd brought. After an hour of digging, they uncovered a heavy, stone slab, clearly a hidden entrance. It took both their efforts to shift it, revealing a dark, narrow staircase leading down into the earth.
A musty, ancient smell wafted up.
"Stay here, Timms," Elian ordered. "Guard the entrance."
He drew the best of the swords taken from the bandits and, focusing his mana, cast a simple [Light] spell, a globe of pale illumination forming in his palm. He descended the stairs cautiously.
The cellar was small, stone-lined, and remarkably intact. It was empty, save for a single, dust-covered stone pedestal in the center. And upon that pedestal, resting on a faded velvet cushion, was an amulet.
It was a simple, unadorned disc of what looked like obsidian, strung on a plain leather thong. As Elian approached, his [Detect Magic] registered a stronger, yet still subtle, magical aura emanating from it. It wasn't powerful in the YGGDRASIL sense, not a World Item or even a Divine-class artifact. It felt… different. Older. More primal.
He reached out and picked it up. As his fingers closed around the cool stone, he felt a faint, almost imperceptible thrum, a resonance with the ambient magic of this world, faint as it was. It didn't seem to have any immediate, overt powers. No stat boosts, no active abilities he could discern. But it felt… like a key. Or a focus.
He examined it closely. There were no runes he recognized, no markings of any kind. It was utterly plain. Yet, his instincts, the finely tuned senses of Ainz Ooal Gown, told him this was significant. Perhaps it was a component, or something that could amplify certain types of this world's native magic, if such a thing existed beyond simple hedge witchery.
He slipped the amulet around his neck, tucking it beneath his tunic. Another piece of the puzzle.
As they rode back to Greywater Keep, the sun dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, Elian felt a different kind of satisfaction. The soul harvesting was a direct path to personal power. But this, this discovery, hinted at deeper mysteries, at the underlying rules of this new reality.
He was about to enter the courtyard when he saw it – a raven, circling overhead, then swooping down towards the keep's small, dilapidated rookery where Maester Hannis kept his few birds.
Tom was already there, taking the small scroll from the raven's leg as Hannis emerged, blinking in the twilight.
"A message, m'lord," Tom said, holding out the sealed parchment.
Elian took it. The seal was unfamiliar: a direwolf, grey on a white field. House Stark? No, that wasn't right for the Riverlands. Then he recalled Hannis's lessons. This was the sigil of a lesser house, but one with a fierce reputation, often tied to the Starks through marriage or allegiance, but ultimately sworn to House Tully in the Riverlands. This particular branch, however…
He broke the seal. The message was short, curt.
To Elian, Lord of Hollow, Greetings from Lord Rickard Karstark, currently encamped near the Ruby Ford.
It has come to my attention that you have shown… initiative… in dealing with lawlessness in your lands. Such actions are commendable in these trying times. I am tasked by Lord Tully to ensure the King's Peace is maintained in this section of the Riverlands as northern forces withdraw.
I require your presence at my camp three days hence to discuss matters of mutual security and allegiance. Bring a suitable retinue.
Lord Rickard Karstark, Lord of Karhold.
Karstark. A Northern lord, fierce and uncompromising, here in the Riverlands. Likely part of the forces that had helped Robert Baratheon win his throne and were now slowly making their way home, ensuring stability en route. A summons. Not from a minor neighbor, but from a significant military commander acting with the authority of House Tully, the overlords of the Riverlands.
Elian looked up from the scroll, his young face thoughtful. His actions were already creating ripples far larger than he had anticipated. This was a test. An opportunity. And potentially, a significant danger.
He needed to prepare. And perhaps, just perhaps, it was time to reveal a little more of the power that lay dormant within the young Lord of Greywater Keep. The game was escalating.