Chapter 5 : Fragile Scent and Ego

R oderick was on edge—angry, irritated, and dangerously close to losing his temper. It wouldn't take much for him to snap, and if that happened, there was a good chance he'd reduce the entire station to a smoldering heap. His clenched fists and tightly set jaw hinted at the storm brewing within him as he sat in the cramped, dimly lit interrogation room. From the looks of it, the guards had no intention of letting him leave anytime soon. If they kept him here until sunset, he might very well make good on his unspoken threat.

This was far from how he'd envisioned his day going.

The morning had started out promising—or as close to promising as his miserable, aimless existence could manage. After leaving the tavern, he’d indulged in his usual routine of avoiding responsibilities, content to wallow in the empty monotony of his life. But that fragile peace was shattered when two city guards banged on his door, demanding he accompany them to the Central District Guard Station for questioning.

The reason? An incident at the Barrel Hound Tavern.

Apparently, Gerald Brennan, the tavern’s canine-halfling owner, had filed an official complaint about certain individuals who had, as he so delicately put it, “trashed” his establishment that morning. Names had been mentioned, and one of them was Roderick Barrenworth, and also eight half-orc, members of the Horn Raiders guild, who is currently still recovering in the nearest healing-hall.

The accusation ignited a fury within him, not because he had been dragged into another mess, but because, for once, he really wasn’t involved.

For once, when a fight broke out, he had stayed out of it. For once, the chaos wasn't his fault.

And yet, here he was, wasting away in this suffocating room, his mind racing with ways to exact revenge on Gerald Brennan for dragging his name through the mud. If only the halfling had taken a moment to get his facts straight, Roderick might still be enjoying his miserable, uneventful day.

After what felt like an eternity, the heavy door of the interrogation room creaked open. A guard stepped inside, clad in a full suit of armor that clinked faintly with each movement. Despite his protective gear, he looked less than confident—his gaze darting around nervously before settling on the man glaring at him from across the table.

The man in the chair exuded an aura of barely restrained menace. His low-cut blond hair framed a sharp, angular face, his piercing gaze like twin daggers aimed directly at the guard. Those eyes, brimming with a predatory intensity, seemed to promise violence with the slightest provocation.

He was a towering figure of raw power, his muscular frame barely concealed beneath a tailored button-up vest and a striking crimson coat that flared at the edges like a pool of blood. His hands, wrapped tightly in weathered bandages, bore silent testimony to countless battles. The fabric was frayed and stained, muttering tories of shattered bones and broken enemies.

Even without the whispered legends of his unparalleled ferocity, his appearance alone was enough to inspire dread. There was something primal about him, something that made the hairs on the back of the guard's neck stand on end. The kind of unease that wasn’t just fear—but the instinctive knowledge of being in the presence of a predator.

With a shaky voice, the guard began, "W-Well, Mr. Barrenworth, the incident has been reviewed, and we—"

"I’ve told you a thousand times—I didn’t do anything!” Roderick bellowed, his voice echoing off the stone walls as his fists slammed into the wooden table. The impact made the guard flinch, his armor clattering as he instinctively recoiled.

“Y-Yes, Mr. Barrenworth,” the guard stammered, “that’s why I’m here. You’re… free to go.”

The heat radiating off Roderick seemed to dissipate instantly, the tension in his frame loosening ever so slightly. Finally, some good news. Without a word, he shoved the chair back and strode out of the station, the guard exhaling in visible relief behind him.

However, Roderick’s fleeting sense of relief evaporated the moment he stepped outside.

Across the cobblestone street, a figure stood out against the bustling backdrop of the city. Tall and slender, his attire was meticulously neat—an ensemble that radiated a demure and almost disarmingly respectful demeanor. Yet, what truly drew attention were the two large, furred ears perched atop his head, twitching incessantly as though they had a life of their own.. Gerald Brennan, the halfling tavern owner who had dragged him into this mess in the first place. The man was waving awkwardly, his sheepish grin plastered on his face like a child caught stealing cookies. In one hand, he held a plain paper bag, which he pointed at with exaggerated gestures.

“A peace offering,” Gerald mouthed.

Roderick glared at him, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. He wanted nothing more than to stomp away, leaving the foolish halfling to stew in his guilt. But his stomach growled loudly, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten all day, thanks to being detained at the station since mid-noon. Begrudgingly, he accepted the so-called peace treaty, his hunger winning out over his pride.

The two of them ended up sitting in the nearby central park, sharing a meal. The park was serene, a sprawling expanse of greenery dotted with elegantly carved bushes and ancient trees. Bronze and marble sculptures of dragons stood proudly among the flowerbeds, adding an air of majesty to the space. Benches lined the walkways, providing a place for visitors to rest, which is precisely where Roderick found himself now, gnawing on a pork sandwich while Gerald squirmed beside him.

“I’m deeply, deeply sorry, Mr. Barrenworth,”

Gerald began, his words tumbling out in rapid succession. “Truly, I am. I didn’t see the whole commotion—I was, well… cowering behind the counter. Which means I didn’t, uh, witness how things unfolded. But, you know… considering your track record—”

Roderick turned a slow, searing glare toward the halfling, daring him to finish that sentence. Gerald wisely pivoted.

“Anyway! Thankfully, the guards sorted out the actual sequence of events from the half-orcs, and, uh, it turns out you were innocent. So… I’m begging for your forgiveness. Really, I am. I hope this doesn’t… affect our business arrangement.”

Roderick chewed the last bite of his sandwich, then swallowed. “By ‘business arrangement,’ you mean me coming to your tavern to buy nightshade every day? That ‘business arrangement’?”

Gerald nodded, his expression pained. Admitting it clearly stung his pride, but Roderick wasn’t wrong. His daily consumption of barrels of nightshade was likely the only thing keeping the Barrel Hound afloat.

“Exactly that,” Gerald muttered, his ears burning.

Roderick leaned back on the bench, crossing his arms. “For your sake, Brennan, let’s hope you don’t forget that again.”

With the last crumb of his sandwich gone, Roderick stood, ready to leave and retreat to the comfort of his luxurious mansion. Yet, once again, his plans unraveled.

Gerald reached out, grabbing Roderick by the wrist—a bold and foolish move. This was the second time that day someone had dared to lay a hand on him. Was his once-intimidating presence waning? Why had people suddenly lost their fear of him?

"Please, don't go yet," Gerald pleaded.

Roderick’s fiery gaze bore down on the halfling, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Gerald. Remove your hand. Now."

Gerald swallowed hard but held firm, though his grip trembled under the pressure of Roderick’s sharp glare. “I’ll do that, but only if you promise to sit back down and hear me out. Please.”

Roderick dropped back onto the bench, his movements stiff with irritation. "Fine. What is it now?"

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Gerald hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, as you know, my tavern is wrecked. My only source of income is no longer operational. And, unfortunately, since you’re not the one responsible, I can’t exactly sue you for damages. So... I have to find the real culprit.”

“The real culprit? You mean the hooded man?”

“Exactly,” Gerald said, nodding fervently. “And I say this with all humility and out of sheer desperation—”

“You want me to help you track him down?” Roderick interrupted, crossing his arms. His tone dripped with annoyance.

“Yes, but not quite,” Gerald admitted, his expression uneasy. “Tracking him down isn’t the problem. I’m a canine-halfling—I’ve already memorized his scent.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

“The issue,” Gerald said carefully, “is what happens when I find him. The guards told me what really happened. If their account is accurate, this man took down an entire squad of fully trained half-orc warriors by himself. Confronting him alone, especially for money, feels... less than safe. Which leads me to the favor I wanted to ask you.”

Roderick exhaled loudly, already seeing where this was headed. “You want me to be your bodyguard?”

“Not for free, of course!” Gerald said quickly. He reached into his pocket, producing a pouch heavy with coins. He placed it on the table with a faint clink. “This is everything I have left—nearly two hundred grish. And, as an added bonus, I’ll throw in three barrels of nightshade. Surely that’s a fair deal?”

Roderick leaned back, his expression calm but unyielding. “I don’t want your money, Gerald.”

“What? Why not? Is it not enough? I can—”

“No,”

Roderick interrupted, his voice steady but final. “It’s not about the money. I don’t want it because I’m declining your offer. I don’t do quests anymore. I have all the wealth I need.”

He leaned forward slightly, his tone edged with a quiet authority that silenced any further protests. “Find someone else to play hero. I’m done.”

“Please,” Gerald said, resorting to outright pleading. “Mr. Barrenworth, may I be frank with you?”

Roderick sighed, already bracing himself for another headache. “Sure. Why not? Go ahead.”

Gerald took a deep breath, his voice trembling as he began. “Two years. It’s been two years since Barrel Hound opened its doors. It’s not the best tavern in the world—not even the best in this district—but you’ve been there since day one. Every morning, without fail. And for that, I’m grateful.” His tone shifted, heavier with emotion. “I came to Amorette fleeing my hometown, escaping the civil war tearing apart the Morrian Kingdom. I lost everything, Mr. Barrenworth—my wife, my little girl... my entire family. The celestials saw fit to let me live, to let me escape. But for what? To be haunted by their absence?”

Gerald’s eyes glistened with tears now, his voice cracking. “I built Barrel Hound because my daughter—my sweet girl—always said I had a gift for cooking. ‘You could open a tavern, Papa,’ she used to say. Who would’ve thought? That place... it’s more than a tavern to me. It’s her legacy. It’s the only thing that keeps her memory alive, that keeps me connected to her.”

Roderick sat back, rubbing his temples as Gerald poured his heart out. Instead of sympathy, his expression reflected pure annoyance. He loathed sob stories, especially when they were weaponized for personal gain. It was, in his eyes, emotional manipulation at its finest—a surefire tactic to guilt someone into compliance.

“Please, sir… don’t do it for me, do it for my little girl”

Yet, once again, Roderick found himself ensnared by it. He let out a sharp, exasperated sigh. “Alright, alright! Fine. I’ll say yes, just to stop you from gouging your own eyes out.”

Gerald blinked, stunned. “Wait, are you serious? You’ll help?” He paused, half-disbelieving. “I mean, I could keep going—I haven’t even told you the tragic details of how I lost them, it’s a real tear-jerker—”

“Gerald,” Roderick interrupted, his tone flat and his face etched with irritation. “I said yes. I’ll help. Stop talking.”

Gerald’s somber expression melted into a grin. “Well, well, Mr. Barrenworth, who knew? Behind that grumpy, stone-cold demeanor, there’s a heart after all.”

Roderick stood abruptly. “Goodbye.”

“No, wait! I’m sorry!” Gerald yelped, leaping to his feet. “Please don’t leave. You can slap me if you want!”

Roderick rolled his eyes, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Whatever. We start tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Why not now?” Gerald asked, his ears twitching nervously.

“Because,” Roderick said with a sharp glare, “one: I’m exhausted. Two: I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in hours. And three: I need to scrub the stench of that damned guard station off me.”

Gerald, ever persistent, raised a hand as though delivering a counterargument in a court of law. “While I understand your reasons, might I suggest we begin immediately? The scent trail of our culprit will grow weaker with every passing hour. By tomorrow, it may be too faint to track effectively. As you know, I can memorize scents, but city trails don’t last forever. The best chance we have is to act now.”

Roderick groaned, leaning back against the bench. “You just don’t quit, do you?”

“I’m simply trying to ensure our success,” Gerald said, his polite tone barely masking his insistence.

With a resigned sigh, Roderick stood again. “Fine. We’ll start now.”

Gerald clapped his hands together, practically vibrating with excitement. “Ohoho! I had a feeling this was going to turn into quite the adventure!”

Roderick muttered under his breath, already regretting his decision. “If I don’t regret this in the next five minutes, it’ll be a miracle.”

As Roderick and Gerald celebrating their newly form fellowship of hunting-the-right-guy, meanwhile, elsewhere within the cold stone walls of the Horn Raiders’ stronghold, a storm was brewing. The air hung heavy, dense with dread—a far cry from triumph, celebration, or even the thinnest sliver of relief. No, what stirred in that hall was something far more sinister: fear.

Marshall stood at the center of it, one cheek swollen red with the imprint of a cane’s fury. The sting still pulsed sharply beneath his skin, a reminder of both his failure and the shame that now curled around his spine like a vice. Head bowed low, he dared not lift his gaze toward the throne that loomed before him.

“My sincerest apologies, Master…” His voice was tight, barely audible. “I misjudged him. I won’t let it happen again.”

The master of the guild, seated upon his personal throne of dark lacquered wood and jagged bone, didn’t answer immediately. A haze of corrupted animus seeped from him, poisoning the very air. Every breath drawn in the chamber tasted of ash and malice.

“You misjudged him,” the old man repeated, voice low and sharp as a dagger’s edge. “Twenty-four of our finest. One elite. Three trained riders astride blooded gryphons. And you were bested… by a cloaked vagabond and an unlicensed girl barely out of her robes.”

The words dragged across the hall like iron chains, clanking with rising fury. Behind Marshall, the gathered ranks of the guild stood frozen—no one dared speak. No one dared breathe too loudly.

“And not one of you—” he said, leaning forward with a sickening grin, “—not one of you landed a single hit, did you?”

Silence.

“Somehow, they got away. Somehow… they took down the riders. Killed all of them” His tone dipped into a false amusement. “Now that’s unbelievable”

Then came the turn.

“DO YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND HOW MUCH THOSE GRYPHONS COST?!”

The throne room erupted with his roar. The walls shuddered with the sheer force of his voice. Shadows danced violently across the pillars. Several lesser members flinched, some outright stumbling backward. Marshall didn’t flinch—he didn’t dare—but even he knew, this rage was only beginning to boil.

The master’s eyes, bright with wrath and rimmed with veins of black animus, bored into them all.

"Corrin!" the guild master bellowed, his voice shaking the rafters. "Where are you? Step forward!"

His furious eyes scanned the crowd like a predator searching for a weakling to devour.

From within the tight ranks of the Horn Riders, a scrawny figure was shoved forward—nudged, pushed, and finally kicked into the open by those too eager to redirect their master's wrath. Corrin stumbled into the light, a gangly half-orc barely seventeen, his frame trembling under his own weight. Sweat poured from him like rain, his glasses fogged into uselessness.

“Y-yes, Master…?” he croaked, voice cracking under the weight of fear.

Seated like a vulture upon his jagged throne, the master fixed the boy with a stare that could melt steel.

“You,” he growled, pointing a single gnarled finger at him. “You were in charge of the background check. You said they were no one. A cloaked drifter and an unlicensed sorceress. Easy prey, you said. Easy revenge.” His voice deepened into something more like a growl. “And yet—what did we get? Explosions. Humiliation. Gryphons turned to ash.”

Corrin’s mouth quivered as he tried to find the words. “I-I searched, Master. I swear I did. The man has no city records, no guild affiliations, no trace of origin. He’s a ghost! And the girl—she’s just a recent graduate from Orias Academy, average scores, barely even licensed. That’s all I found, I promise you, sir…”

“A recent graduate,” the master repeated with unsettling calm, rising slowly from his throne. “Who conjured a wide-area incendiary spell strong enough to annihilate three aerial units.”

The tip of his cane cracked down against the stone floor, unleashing a burst of dark animus. The energy rippled through the room, making the air twist and burn with unseen pressure. Several members gasped, some stumbling backward. Corrin collapsed to his knees, breath caught in his throat as the sheer presence of his master pressed down upon him like a mountain.

“By the five Celestials… by the angels, the ancient beasts, and every last cursed Outer God, I’m telling the truth,” Corrin choked out, eyes wide and pleading. “There was nothing else on them… nothing else to find…”

“Then clearly you didn’t dig deep enough,” the master hissed, striding forward. His cane scraped with each step until he reached Corrin—and placed a boot upon his throat.

“I want everything on those two,” he snarled. “I want names. I want history. I want to know who trained them, who sponsors them, who breathes their name at night. You bring it to me by dawn… or I will educate you on pain in a way that will make you think that those Gods has abandoned you.”

Corrin nodded as best he could. “Y-yes sir… I will, sir…”

He stepped back, allowing Corrin to gasp in air like a drowning man. The guild master turned to face the rest of the hall.

“And as for the rest of you…” he said, voice once more booming with command, “Prepare yourselves. For tomorrow, the full strength of the Horn Riders rides out. We will find those who dared shame us. And we will bury them in flame and fury.”

There was silence for a breath—then, a single cheer broke the air. Another followed. Then another. Until the entire hall thundered with roars of allegiance, of fear, of bloodlust.

“I,” he bellowed, eyes gleaming with rage, “Arkesh Douthon Mailard, Guildmaster of the Horn Riders, will have my vengeance!”

Officially, declaring the second hunt, the real hunt.