Riven had landed himself in yet another sticky situation and this time, it wasn't slimes he had to worry about. It was the very real possibility of getting his head blown off by a stern-looking old man with a rifle.
"I swear!" Riven blurted, hands raised. "I woke up on a beach with no memory and I was naked! Please, you've gotta believe me, sir!"
He kept his hands Raised, green eyes locked on the man's piercing brown gaze. For a moment, the old man's eyes narrowed sharp, but then they softened.
The old man raised a fist to his mouth as a rough, rattling cough escaped him loud and deliberate, but with a hint of something deeper beneath it. He steadied himself, then slowly lowered the rifle.
Riven exhaled sharply, sweat trickling down his forehead. That was way too close; he'd nearly been shot.
His dog trotted up to him, barking once before letting out a soft, concerned whine.
"Oh, Spark—I'm fine," the old man said, giving the pup a reassuring pat on the head. Then, he turned his gaze back to Riven, studying him for a long moment.
"I believe you, kid," the old man said with a sigh. Then, shaking his head, he added, "And for Barbatos' sake, put some clothes on, will you?"
He reached into his pack, pulled out a spare pair of trousers, and tossed them over.
Riven caught them midair and gave the man a grateful nod before hurriedly slipping them on. They were a bit tight and rough, but better than nothing.
"Thanks for the pants… and for not blowing my head off," Riven said, adjusting the waistband awkwardly. "Uh… do you, by any chance, recognize me?"
The old man studied him for a long moment, then slowly shook his head.
"No. Can't say I do."
Riven's shoulders slumped as he let out a quiet sigh.
"I was kinda hoping you might… but I guess that was too much to ask."
"Kid, don't look so down," the old man said, turning away as he adjusted the rifle slung over his shoulder.
Suddenly, distant shouts echoed from deep within the forest—multiple voices, rough and urgent. Riven stiffened, a chill running down his spine at the thought of what might be out there.
"Well, kid?" the old man said, glancing back. "You gonna stand there all day, or are you coming?"
"Huh?" Riven snapped out of it, watching as the old man turned and started walking away, his dog trotting by his side.
"You said you don't remember who you are. Sounds like you've got nowhere to go. Lucky for you, I've got a spare bed. But don't think it's free," he called over his shoulder.
"Now get moving, I don't want you drying out here. I'd rather help a man live with a clear conscience than let him die with a guilty one."
Riven gladly accepted the old man's offer, slinging his bag over his shoulder and falling into step behind him.
Still, something gnawed at him Logan believed his story about the memory loss. It was the truth, but part of Riven couldn't help feeling surprised… and grateful.
As they walked, he took a moment to truly absorb his surroundings, the warm sunlight filtering through the trees, the forest swaying gently with the breeze, and the soft earth beneath his bare feet, blanketed in wildflowers and fresh grass.
One thing was certain, this place was beautiful… well, aside from the slimes, of course.
"Alright, kid, do you remember your name at least?" the old man asked, stopping to face him.
"No, but I've decided to call myself Riven," he replied.
"Riven, huh? Well, I'm Logan Steinwald, and this here's Spark, my loyal buddy," the man said with a friendly smile.
Spark barked happily, wagging his tail and panting.
So, the old man's name was Logan, and his dog was Spark. Riven watched the husky for a moment until it barked at him, tail wagging.
"I think your dog's saying you're his best friend," Riven said with a small smile.
Logan raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh? You understand what my dog's saying now, do you?" He gave Spark an affectionate pat. "Well, you're not wrong. He is my best bud. Don't know what I'd do without him, truth be told… After all, I'm out here on my own."
Riven blinked, unsure what to say. Alone?
Was the old man… lonely?
Before Riven could ask more, those strange, guttural shouts echoed through the forest again.
This time, Spark growled low, his ears up and tail stiff.
"Don't worry, Spark," Logan said calmly, patting the dog's side. "Just some Hilichurls loud, and usually more bark than bite."
He glanced toward the trees, though his hand subtly rested near his weapon. "Still… best keep moving."
They followed a narrow forest path until it opened up to a wooden bridge spanning a clear, babbling stream.
Riven paused for a moment, resting his hands on the railing as he leaned over the wooden bridge. Below, a school of silvery fish glided through the clear stream, sunlight dancing across their scales like scattered gems.
The old man had mentioned Hilichurls earlier, and the word tugged at something in Riven's mind a faint itch, like he should know what they were. But the more he tried to recall, the more his headache.
He lingered a moment longer, soaking in the peaceful scene before finally letting go of the thought. With a quiet sigh, he jogged to catch up with Logan.
"So… what exactly are Hilichurls?" he asked, curiosity flickering in his voice.
Logan gave a gruff chuckle. "Think of 'em like the trolls, though that won't mean much to you, I reckon." He sighed, then stopped as a large wooden cabin came into view ahead, nestled among the trees.
Then he let out a rough cough, covering it with his fist. "I said they bite more than they bark. That's 'cause I've got a Vision."
Riven tilted his head at the mention of the word. Vision? he thought. His gaze drifted to the glowing object hanging from Logan's belt—a small, red gem encased in gold, faintly pulsing with warmth.
Is that what he's talking about?
"Anyway," Logan continued, "they're small, tribal creatures. But don't be fooled, they're dangerous in packs, and they don't always come alone.
The bigger ones Mitachurls, they're the real trouble. You, kid, almost got yourself killed by the weakest monster, a mere slime. If I hadn't found you when I did, you'd be food."
Riven blinked. Logan had a point he really was lucky the old man found him when he did. A chill crept up his spine as he gulped. He could've died out there. Again.
That would've made it the second time… or third, if he counted waking up on the beach with no memory as a near-death experience.
They continued walking until they reached a weathered wooden door. The cabin had a small porch with a gently creaking rocking chair and two dog bowls sitting by the steps—one filled with water, the other with dry kibble. Spark let out a happy bark and trotted over, eagerly lapping at the white bowl.
Logan eased into the creaking chair on the porch, resting his rifle across his lap. He took a deep breath, then coughed into his fist before fixing Riven with a steady look.
"Look, kid," he began, voice low and firm. "I'm just an old man. I don't know you, and I don't trust easy. But Spark's got a good nose for people, So listen carefully—don't talk, just let me finish."
Riven nodded silently.
"You say you don't remember anything. That means you're set on wandering the world, hoping to piece together who you are?"
Another nod. That was the only goal he had—besides staying alive.
"Then hear this—you won't last out there without learning how to survive. So here's my offer: you can stay here, as long as you pull your weight. That means chores, daily work, no slacking. And as for food—you hunt for it. I ain't got the luxury of feeding another mouth."
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly.
"But don't worry. I'll teach you. Hunting, tracking, foraging… whatever it takes to get you ready. And when you feel you're ready to head out on your own, the nearest town is called Oakfield. You'll find your next steps there."