Old Man Hemlock's cabin smelled of dried herbs, cheap liquor, and unwashed laundry. It was a pungent combination that made my eyes water. The man himself was a gnarled root of a person, hunched over a small table and squinting at me through the smoky haze of his fireplace.
"Elara?" he grunted, his voice like gravel. "What brings you out here? Shouldn't you be tendin' to the hero?"
News traveled fast. I forced a smile, holding out the small loaf of bread I'd swiped from my mother's kitchen. A peace offering.
"I heard you had a narrow escape last night," I said, placing the bread on the table. "I'm glad you're alright."
He eyed the bread suspiciously, then me. "Aye. Cellar's good for somethin' besides storin' potatoes." He took the loaf and tore off a chunk with surprisingly strong fingers. "Spit it out, girl. You want somethin'. No one visits old Hemlock for the conversation."
Right to the point. I could work with that.
I took a breath, my mind racing. How to pitch this? I couldn't mention the system or the comments. I had to use what I knew of him.
"I was talking to Mama about the old trails," I began, leaning forward conspiratorially. "She said you knew the Red River Pass better than anyone. That you used to trap beaver there before the bandits moved in."
His eyes narrowed, a flicker of interest behind the bleary haze. "Aye. Good trappin' grounds once. Now it's a death sentence. Rolan's a fool for insistin' on that route."
My heart skipped a beat. Merchant Rolan. The comment section was confirmed. "He's coming through? The merchant?"
"Day after tomorrow. Thinks his hired swords can handle it." Hemlock snorted, a wet, unpleasant sound. "They can't. The bandits there… they're not normal. Too organized. It's an ambush, plain and simple."
He said it with the certainty of a man who'd seen too much of the world's cruelty. He wasn't just a drunk; he was a cynical realist. Perfect.
This was my opening. I lowered my voice further. "What if they didn't have to go through the pass?"
Hemlock stopped chewing. He looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time. "There is another way. The High Trail. It's older, steeper. Adds half a day to the journey. Most folks have forgotten it. Rolan wouldn't know it from a goat path."
A thrill shot through me. This was it. The key. But I needed more.
"Could you guide them?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
He burst out laughing, a harsh, barking sound. "Guide a merchant caravan? Me? Look at me, girl. I smell of piss and regret. Rolan wouldn't let me within ten paces of his precious silks."
He had a point. I needed a way to get Hemlock's knowledge to Rolan without Hemlock being the messenger. I needed a intermediary. Someone Rolan would listen to.
Someone like the local hero who had just single-handedly slain a Grimfang Wolf.
A new, audacious plan clicked into place. It was risky. It involved talking to Kaelen again. But the potential payoff was huge.
"What if you didn't have to talk to him directly?" I said, ideas sparking. "What if you told someone else the route? Someone who could… convince the merchant?"
Hemlock's cynical eyes studied me. He saw my desperation, my calculated hope. He was silent for a long moment, then he gestured to a dusty, rolled-up parchment sticking out of a cracked jug in the corner.
"The map's there. Drew it myself, a lifetime ago." He took another bite of bread. "You can have it. For a price."
Of course. Nothing was free. "What price?"
"A bottle of Old Widowmaker's best whiskey from the capital," he said, a sly grin spreading across his weathered face. "Not the cheap stuff they water down for villagers. The real thing."
It was a steep price for a poor village girl. But for a girl who planned on saving a wealthy merchant's entire livelihood? It was a pittance.
"Deal," I said, without hesitation. I walked over and pulled the map from the jug, unrolling it carefully. It was detailed, showing the snaking main pass and the fainter, dotted line of the High Trail weaving through the mountains above it. It was a masterpiece of survival cartography.
I rolled it back up, clutching it like a lifeline. "Thank you, Hemlock."
"Don't thank me," he grumbled, turning back to his fire. "Just get me my whiskey. Now get out. You're lettin' the cold in."
I left his cabin, the crisp air feeling clean and full of potential. I had the solution. Now I needed the leverage.
I looked down at the map in my hands, then towards the center of the village where I could already hear the rhythmic thwack of a practice sword hitting a wooden post.
Kaelen.
He owed me a favor, according to the system. It was time to collect.
[New Sub-Quest: 'The Messenger']
[Objective: Convince Kaelen to present the alternate route to Merchant Rolan.]
[Reward: 15 PDP, 'Kaelen's Favor (Grateful)']
I took a deep breath and started walking towards the sound. The comments were going to love this.
Romance4Ever:OMG she's going to see him again! This is it! The meet-cute after the injury! So tropey!
xXShadowBladeXx:Boring. Skip to the bandit fight.
SpoilerKing77:>>Kid's gonna be skeptical. He thinks the direct approach is always best. Good luck, kid.<<
I mentally shut them off. I needed to focus. I had to sell this to a brooding protagonist whose only solution to a problem was usually to hit it harder.
I rounded the corner and saw him. Shirtless despite the chill, muscles coiled and shining with sweat, working through a series of punishing forms. The bandage on his arm was a stark white contrast to his skin.
He stopped when he saw me, his chest heaving. Those storm-grey eyes fixed on me, wary, curious.
"Elara." He said my name like a statement, a question, and a challenge all at once.
I held up the dusty map, my heart hammering. "Kaelen. We need to talk. I know how you can repay your debt."
The deviation percentage in the corner of my eye gave a tiny, almost imperceptible flicker upwards.
[Overall Plot Deviation: 4.8%]