Dawn
Sun's Day
16th of Avril, Year 824 of the Silent Age
----
PROJO'S QUEST LOG:
+ [ACTIVE] Caravan Guard: Meet Silas Blackwood at the Wagoner's Rest Inn
+ Repay Bram (Owe 24 Gold)
+ Learn More About My Strange Powers
+ Return to Mira
PROJO'S INVENTORY:
+ Money: 4 Gold, 6 Silver, 27 Copper (after paying for the meal)
+ Weapons: Iron Longsword, Iron Dagger
+ Armor: Crude Leather Cuirass
+ Supplies:
- 1 Day's Worth of Trail Rations
- Flint & Steel
----
Projo sat up, every muscle in his back and neck protesting.
The alley was filled with grey, pre-dawn light and the city was slowly waking up around him. He could smell the promise of baking bread in the air, a scent that only made his own empty stomach feel colder. He got to his feet, strapping on the cuirass and the sword belt. He looked and felt like a vagrant, his clothes wrinkled and his face smudged with dirt.
His job, and the start of his new life, was waiting for him at the Wagoner's Rest Inn.
Fifteen years in the smithy hadn't erased the lessons learned in his first year as a terrified, solitary orphan.
After the argument with Bram last night, Projo knew he wouldn't be welcome to spend the night on his old cot. So he fell to his old ways, delving into the labyrinthine network of back alleys that snaked behind the respectable storefronts until he found what he was looking for: a narrow, dead-end alley between two tall stone buildings. An old, overturned cart lay on its side, providing a sliver of cover from the main path, and a pile of musty, discarded sacks lay in the corner.
It wasn't a bed—but it was defensible.
As he walked through the morning city, he tried to shake off the bone-deep cold, the smell of wet garbage, and the damp reminder of how quickly his world had been upended. He mentally steeled himself for his path ahead.
The yard of the Wagoner's Rest Inn was a hive of quiet, purposeful activity in the grey dawn light. The air was crisp and cool, smelling of hay and dew-damp earth. Teamsters moved efficiently, hitching mules to wagons and lashing down the last of their cargo.
Projo spotted Silas Blackwood standing beside a single, sturdy-looking wagon, its canvas cover tightly secured. He was directing two men as they loaded the last of the crates, already dressed for the road in a heavy wool cloak and leather boots.
As Projo approached, Silas looked up and gave a curt, business-like nod. "Smith. You're on time. A good start."
He gestured with his head toward a wiry, older man who was leaning against the wagon's wheel, checking the string on a heavy-looking crossbow. The man's face was a roadmap of old scars and wrinkles, and his eyes were a pale, washed-out blue that seemed to have seen everything and been impressed by none of it.
"This is Gideon," Silas said. "He's the other hired hand for this trip. He'll be taking the right flank."
Gideon looked Projo up and down, his gaze lingering for a moment on the crude leather cuirass and the simple iron sword. He grunted, a sound that conveyed a complete lack of enthusiasm, and turned his attention back to his crossbow.
"Alright," Silas clapped his hands together, tone brisk. "The wagon is loaded. Gideon, you have the right. Smith, you'll take point on the left. Stay within sight, keep your eyes open. I'll handle the driving. We make for the crossroads by midday and camp at the old watchtower tonight. Any questions?"
He didn't even wait for an answer, climbing up into the driver's seat and gathering the reins. "Good. Let's move."
With a jolt and the creak of wood and leather, the wagon began to roll out of the inn's yard. Gideon gave Projo one last, neutral glance and fell into step on the right side of the path.
The great northern gate of the city was just opening, the massive wooden doors groaning in protest. Projo walked through, stepping out of Greatbridge and onto the open road. The rising sun was just beginning to crest the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. The road to Shattercoast, and to his new life, stretched out before him, a long, dusty, and uncertain path.
The first hours passed in silence, Projo on the left flank, exhaustion battling nervous energy. Gideon strode on the right, his pale eyes scanning every ridge and treeline, wordless until they passed a burned-out farmstead. He muttered something about the poor choice of location and fell silent again.
At midday, Silas halted at a crossroads and handed out lunch consisting of bread, cheese, and smoked sausage. Gideon ate on watch, Silas measured Projo's stamina with a few curt questions, and soon they were back on the road.
The land shifted into dense forest, and they soon passed a wrecked cart that marked the work of bandits. As night fell, the crumbling shell of an old watchtower became their camp. Projo built a fire while Gideon circled the perimeter, silent and sharp-eyed. Supper was hard rations, eaten in wary quiet before watches were set.
On his turn, Projo kept to the tower wall, the dark forest alive with imagined threats. He was deep in thought, remembering Mira's warmth as a distant comfort, when a sharp crack broke the silence. He froze, hand gripping his sword. No follow-up came, but Gideon's open eye across the fire confirmed he'd heard it too. After a long, tense minute, Gideon's head settled back down, but Projo knew the old man wasn't truly asleep.
The rest of the night crawled by tense and sleepless.
----
Dawn
Moon's Day
17th of Avril, Year 824 of the Silent Age
----
PROJO'S QUEST LOG:
+ [ACTIVE] Caravan Guard: Day 2 of the journey to Shattercoast
+ Repay Bram (Owe 24 Gold)
+ Learn More About My Strange Powers
+ Return to Mira
PROJO'S INVENTORY:
+ Money: 4 Gold, 6 Silver, 27 Copper
+ Weapons: Iron Longsword, Iron Dagger
+ Armor: Crude Leather Cuirass
+ Supplies:
- 1 Day's Worth of Trail Rations
- Flint & Steel
----
At dawn, Silas stamped out the fire and gave the order to march. Mist hung low, the forest heavy and still. Projo fell back into step, sore and wary, the long road to Shattercoast stretching ahead.
Then, a change.
The air grew sharper, carrying a clean, salty tang. The dense woods began to thin, replaced by hardier, wind-swept pines. Through a break in the trees, Projo saw the coast return, a more open view than one could get in Greatbridge: a vast, endless expanse of churning, grey-green water sat under a pale sky.
The Menhir Sea.
The road curved, and soon they emerged from the forest completely, the path now a rugged track that hugged the cliffside. The quiet of the woods was replaced by the cry of gulls and the low, constant roar of waves crashing against the rocks far below. Gideon, seemingly unaffected by the change in scenery, kept his steady pace, eyes scanning the rocky shoreline as diligently as he had scanned the forest.
They stopped for their midday meal in the lee of a massive, wind-carved boulder. The lunch was the same—bread, cheese, sausage—but the atmosphere was different. Here, the danger felt more open somehow. Silas pointed a thumb out toward the grey sea.
"Shattercoast is another four hours, gods willing," he said. "This part of the road is known for rockslides. And worse."
As if to punctuate his words, Projo noticed a splintered piece of a ship's mast washed up on the rocks below, tangled in a bed of seaweed.
The afternoon's journey grew more perilous. The road narrowed further—the cliffs becoming sheer rock faces on one side and a dizzying drop to the sea on the other. The coastline was a jagged mess of sharp rocks and hidden coves.
Suddenly, Gideon stopped.
He held up a single, sharp gesture with his hand, and the whole caravan froze. He was staring intently at a jumble of large, grey boulders just ahead, where the road curved sharply around an outcropping.
Projo followed his gaze but saw nothing.
"What is it?" Silas hissed from the driver's seat.
Gideon didn't answer. He slowly raised his crossbow.
Projo drew his sword, his heart beginning to hammer, and scanned the rocks again.
And then he saw it.
A flicker of movement. One of the "boulders" wasn't a boulder.
It unfolded, rising up on six spindly, rock-like legs, a massive, flat-shelled creature the size of a small cart. Its two huge pincers, thick as Projo's thighs, snapped the air with a loud clack. Another one, and then a third, emerged from the rocks, their mottled grey shells a perfect, deadly camouflage.
"Spindle Crabs," Gideon rasped, his crossbow aimed squarely at the first creature. "Drawn by the mules. Smith, stay sharp. Aim for the legs or the eyes."
Before Projo could even nod, Gideon's crossbow fired with a sharp thwack. The bolt struck the first crab's shell, but it ricocheted off with a screech like tortured metal, doing nothing. The creatures, startled into aggression, began to scuttle sideways toward the wagon with pincers raised.
Projo charged the nearest crab, instinctively falling back on the brute force he knew well. A heavy two-handed arc brought the blade down on the creature's main shell with a deafening CLANG that sent a painful vibration all the way up to his shoulders. The iron sword left a white scratch on the rock-like carapace, but did no real damage.
The crab skittered back, its pincers snapping angrily.
From the other side of the wagon came the sharp thwump of Gideon's crossbow. The bolt struck the second crab with pinpoint accuracy in the soft, fleshy joint of a leg. There was a sharp crack as the leg joint shattered, and the creature stumbled, letting out a high-pitched, chittering shriek.
His own attack having failed, Projo remembered Gideon's advice.
He feinted another heavy overhead swing, and as the first crab raised its pincers to block, he dropped low and thrust his sword forward, aiming for its multiple, stalked eyes.
He was too slow.
The crab scuttled sideways with surprising speed, and his blade scraped uselessly against its shell.
In focusing on the first crab, he lost track of the third.
A pincer shot out from his flank, clamping down on his sword arm with unbelievable pressure. Projo yelled out in pain and shock, his fingers going numb as the pincer bruised muscle and threatened to shatter bone. His longsword clattered to the road, useless.
The crab began to drag him forward, off-balance and helpless. The other pincer rose high, a jagged point aimed directly at his exposed throat.
He was pinned.
He was going to die.
A silent scream for survival tore through his mind, and in a desperate, instinctual, attempt for protection, he threw his free hand forward.
The world exploded in a flash of light.
A torrent of raw, crackling energy erupted from Projo's outstretched palm. Arcs of lightning, jagged and uncontrolled, blasted into the Spindle Crab's body. The creature convulsed violently, its rock-like shell cracking under the sheer force. A high-pitched, electrical squeal filled the air accompanied by the acrid smell of cooked shellfish.
The massive pincer around his arm went slack, and the creature collapsed into a smoking, twitching heap.
The sudden silence was deafening.
Gideon had finished off the second, injured crab and now stood with his reloaded crossbow lowered, his pale eyes fixed on Projo. The old mercenary's face was a mix of combat focus and blatant shock.
Silas was frozen in the driver's seat, his mouth agape.
Projo was on his butt in the middle of the road, his left hand tingling with a strange, buzzing energy, the charged air tingling around him like a shroud.
The silence was finally broken by the sound of Gideon's crossbow firing one last time. The thwump was deafeningly loud. Projo looked up to see the last crab, the one he had been fighting initially, collapse with a bolt protruding from one of its eye stalks.
The battle was over.
Gideon reloaded quickly and raised the crossbow again, its aim shifting from the dead crab to a point somewhere in the middle distance. He scanned the rocky terrain for any other threats.
After a long, tense moment, he finally lowered it, giving a single, sharp nod. "Clear."
Silas let out a long, shaky breath. He finally managed to calm the spooked mules, then looked from the smoking crab to Projo, who was slowly getting to his feet.
"Gods, Smith," the merchant breathed in a mixture of shock and newfound respect. "I didn't know you were a mage."
Projo's mind was a roaring chaos. He could feel the phantom buzz of lightning in his fingertips and the cold terror of his secret being exposed. He looked at Silas, then at Gideon, whose stony expression was now one of intense suspicion and scrutiny.
He had to say something, anything, to seem like this was normal.
He forced a lightness into his voice he didn't feel. "You didn't ask."
Silas stared at him for a long moment.
Then he let out a short bark of surprised laughter. "No," the merchant conceded, a slow grin spreading across his face. "No, I suppose I didn't."