Quills, Contracts, and Darkened Fields

Redfenn’s Adventurers’ Guild smelled of sweat-oiled leather, fire-roasted barley, and ink that never quite dried—an aroma Rowan decided was equal parts promise and threat. Stout oak beams braced a two-story hall crammed with tables, trophy racks, and a contract board so thick with parchment it resembled a thatched roof of quests.

A bored receptionist—half-elf woman with quills stuck in her bun like daggers—looked up as the five newcomers approached.

“Name of company?” she asked.

Rowan opened his mouth, stalled.

“Feathered Misfits,” Orrik offered.

“Too fluffy,” Marra grunted.

“Road-Soaked Redeemers?” Brother Joss boomed, earning wary glances.

Feylin cleared her throat. “Ashen Roaders. We all met on that road, and some of us carry ash in more ways than one.”

Rowan felt the katana hum in agreement. “Ashen Roaders,” he said.

The half-elf scratched it into the ledger, then slid five brass tokens across the counter. “Provisional grade: Iron D-tier—reassessed after three successful contracts. Standard guild rules apply: finish the job, bring proof, don’t burn villages unless specifically paid to do so.”

Brother Joss made a solemn sign. “Noted.”

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FIRST HUNTING GROUNDS

They drifted to the contract board, scanning parchment strips:

RankRewardJob TitleBriefD60 silverMire Boar CullDusk-gore boars overrunning spinach fields near Spinel Mire. Bring ten tusks.C120 silverMissing MillwrightsTwo workers vanished inside the Old Flint quarry tunnels.C140 silverCoach EscortMerchant coach to Glassford needs steel on the road—night travel.——(sealed in grey-blue wax)Confidential: recover courier satchel lost along Riverstone pike. Inquire at desk.

Rowan’s eyes lingered on the sealed slip—same Iron Quill wax crest Hale had carried. Glory is awesome but guaranteed coin came first.

“Boars,” Marra declared, tapping the D-rank tag. “Fast, dirty, good test of teamwork.”

Orrik nodded. “Spinel Mire’s only a half-day ride south; we can be back before the next rain.”

Rowan plucked the parchment free. “Boars it is. Then we look at the grey-blue slip.”

The receptionist stamped the contract, handed over a crude map, and warned: “Dusk-gores charge first and think never. Bring thick greaves.”

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STEEL AND SUPPLY

Preparations moved quickly:

* Rowan bought fresh vambraces and a whet-stone that claimed to “sing” with foreign steel.

* Orrik bartered for a coil of barbed chain—“Pig-catcher, mark two.”

* Marra purchased a jar of camphor paste to dull boar-scent.

* Feylin restocked rune chalk and vials of spark-dust.

* Joss accepted a keg of small beer as “holy morale tonic.”

Coin nearly gone, they departed Redfenn at dawn, guild banner tucked under Rowan’s cloak as proof of contract.

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SPINEL MIRE

No gem-bright swamp greeted them—just flat, reed-choked fens streaked with veins of glittering hematite. Farmers’ shacks squatted on stilts; every fence showed fresh repairs, each paddock conspicuously empty.

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An elderly crofter waved them over. Her arms were wrapped in bloody bandages. “Lost three sows last night,” she rasped. “Beasts come after sunset, eyes like furnace grates. They root the soil as if it owes them.”

Rowan studied the gouges through the mire: deep, straight furrows radiating from a single copse of black alders. “Lair’s there.”

“Or something uglier,” Orrik muttered, running fingers along a wooden post—fresh spiral carved beneath the bark. Smaller than the quarry sigil, but the same shape.

Rowan’s stomach tightened. “Boars with a brand?”

Feylin knelt, tracing the groove with glowing fingertips. “It’s not paint—it’s burned into the grain by directed Flow. Whoever controlled the assassin’s glass knives could sear symbols into wood.”

Marra hefted her lance. “Kill first. Questions after.”

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NIGHTFALL CHARGE

They formed a loose semicircle by twilight: Rowan and Marra up front, Orrik and Brother Joss wide sides, Feylin centered for spell-support.

The mire breathed fog when the first dusk-gore burst from the reeds—six hundred pounds of slab muscle, hide mottled scarlet, tusks curved like scythes. More erupted behind—five, eight, a dozen—eyes glowing ember-orange exactly as the crofter said.

“Hold!” Rowan shouted.

Orrik’s barbed chain whirled; he looped a boar’s foreleg, yanked, and Brother Joss clubbed its skull with a sanctified thud. Feylin drew a sigil mid-air—blue runes ignited, flinging sparks that dazzled, buying space. Marra pivoted, lance stabbing through a boar’s shoulder plate; she roared triumphantly as the shaft snapped but the beast went down.

The largest tusker barreled straight for Rowan. Steel Flow flooded his limbs, the katana sang, and he sidestepped into a draw-cut that opened the boar from jowl to sternum. Steam and gore sprayed; Rowan gagged on copper but kept moving, carving a tight defensive arc.

Minutes stretched like hours—then the mire fell silent save for hissing mud and the wheeze of dying beasts.

Ten tusks collected. Twenty, even. Yet Rowan’s gaze fixed on the largest boar’s flank: under clotted blood the spiral emblem had been cauterized into flesh.

Brother Joss crossed himself. “Who brands swine with heresy-marks?”

Rowan knelt, touching the burn. The katana hummed—a disturbed, questioning chord.

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BURROW BENEATH THE ALDERS

Following churned prints and rivulets of fresh blood, they found a burrow below the alder copse—tunnel mouth framed with more spiral sigils. The air stank of iron and ozone.

Feylin conjured witch-light. They advanced single file until the passage widened into a stone-lined chamber, likely an abandoned root cellar from a forgotten homestead. At its center sat a wooden crate draped in black velvet, surrounded by half-melted tallow candles.

Rowan pried the lid. Inside lay vials of thick crimson serum and slivers of obsidian identical to the assassin’s dagger—and a folded parchment bearing the spiral-in-flame crest.

He read aloud: “Phase-Three stock delivered. Payment routed through Redfenn Hall, attn. Purveyor V.”

Marra’s nostrils flared. “Redfenn again.”

“And ‘Purveyor V’,” Orrik echoed. “Sounds like an aristocrat’s alias.”

Rowan pocketed the letter and shards. “This isn’t a simple smuggler gig. Someone in Redfenn bought elixirs to make boars—and maybe people—into blood-drunk weapons.”

Brother Joss set a boot on the crate. “Then we ferry this evil to the guild and shine light upon it.”

They hauled the crate out, torched the lair, and left the corpses for mire buzzards. Overhead, clouds snuffed the stars; thunder muttered like distant drums. Rowan felt the feather pin on his cloak tremble against the green ribbon—history shifting beneath his feet again, faster than a sword stroke.

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RETURN AND REVELATION

Back at Redfenn’s gate before dawn, they delivered tusks to a half-awake clerk who gaped at the surplus. The moment he counted coin, Rowan laid down the spiral letter and vials.

Needless to say, the guild master—an older woman named Commander Selva Arden—was roused in minutes. She scrutinized the evidence, pupils narrowing.

“Iron Quill slip came in tonight,” Arden said, producing the grey-blue sealed notice Rowan had ignored. “Quill courier lost on Riverstone pike—same route your crate label mentions. Might be linked. You ready to earn a C-rank?”

Rowan looked at his companions; each nodded, fatigue forgotten.

“Riverstone pike, then,” he said.

Arden handed over the sealed notice. “Find the courier. Dead or alive, satchel intact. And if Purveyor V shoves his aristocratic head into view—lop it off and bring receipts.”

Orrik grinned through soot-blackened beard. “Hero-bits maintenance, coming up.”

Rowan felt the katana hum—a fierce, anticipatory chord that matched the quickening of his own pulse.

The Ashen Roaders had their next page, ink still wet, danger already bleeding through.