Cooking pot, firestarter, some pans and cutlery. A sleeping bag, a basic raincover and a magicked lantern. Ingalrada frowned, taking inventory of her pack, each item laid out on an unfurled mat. She also had a small knife, sharp but not very practical for combat. Three silver pieces and a handful of coppers. Enough to cover meals and lodging for maybe a few nights, and some military rations her father had stocked up on. She sighed. 

Reingard stepped back into the clearing, wiping sweat from his forehead. He placed a hand against a tree, catching his breath, before speaking. 

    “They haven’t left the village as of yet.” He said. 

    “That just makes it more confusing,” Ingalrada busied herself packing her bag once more, “Why would undead move into a village, it doesn’t make sense.”

    “It is odd,” Reingard said quietly, almost to himself, “Bespeaks an almost organised approach.” 

    Ingalrada let that idea sit in the air as she hoisted her pack over her shoulder. The lantern now hung from it, dangling at her hip. She started walking, roughly eastward at a steady pace. Reingard fell in beside her. 

    “So,” He said softly, “North, then.”

    “The Frigid Peak,” Ingalrada nodded, “The northernmost land before the White Wall.” 

    “This Mystic Tower is there?”

    “According to legend, anyway.” Ingalrada shrugged. 

    “We’re going to need provisions,” Reingard stroked his beard, “Supplies enough to make such a journey. How does one build up funds these days?”

    Ingalrada smiled, “Many ways. Odd jobs, mostly. I have a little experience adventuring but I’m not an expert.”

    “I see,” Reingard’s tone was light, “And so our first stop will be the closest settlement.” 

    “Fhura,” Ingalrada flicked her gaze to him, “A village to the northeast, through Fortwatch Fell.”

    Reingard nodded with a satisfied grunt and they continued on. 

The forest was dense, difficult to traverse at best. Underbrush snagged at their feet and trees gripped their clothes. The canopy above blocked out the afternoon rays almost entirely. Ingalrada’s village, Maryl, was surrounded on its east side by this forest. Very imaginatively named Maryl Woods, split into its north and south side. They currently trekked through the north Maryl Woods. There were no monsters local to these woods, the only life they saw the unassuming small creatures one would expect in woodland. Squirrels, rodents, the occasional deer. 

Their destination was almost directly east: the Lower Crossroads. The lands north of the Great River Fostar were simply known as the Riverlands for what Ingalrada assumed were obvious reasons. Her own village, Maryl, was a neutral town for the most part. They had kept a friendly relationship with Fostarra for decades, as long as the village had existed as far as anyone knew. That was more than could be said about many of the northern villages. They ranged from neutral in the truest sense to downright hostile towards anyone giving off the vaguest impression of the southern kingdom. Ingalrada had experienced it herself, despite being north of the river to many people she was no different to the Fostarrans to the south. It used to frustrate her, she would feel the need to prove herself their equal in northernness - but the effort was wasted. 

There were many crossroads in the Riverlands, mostly cutting around the Great Fostar Plains at their centre. As verdant and beautiful as the Great Plains were, the creatures that roamed them were not quite so keen to share their view. Ingalrada had only seen one in her life, and it was in the distance. Even so, it towered over the hills and trees close to her, the ones close to the beast like ants in comparison. She could have sworn the creature’s long neck had turned to gaze at her, though whether that was a trick of her mind like her mother had said she couldn’t have known. 

At the thought of her mother her chest tightened once more. Ingalrada had been coming home from training that evening, her muscles tired and her exhaustion apparent in her sluggish movements. She had barely said a word, barely gotten out a simple “Hello, mother,” when their house suddenly exploded. It felt like an explosion to her, in any case. She had been knocked back from the impact, flat on her back as the rock, mortar and tile was split apart with a single savage swing of a Black Rider’s chipped blade. She remembered the blood as it filled the air. The smell, like copper. Her mother, still looking at her through the doorway even as the house collapsed in on her. Even split in two at the chest. 

Ingalrada doubled over, bracing herself against a tree, her breaths coming fast. Tears sprang back to her eyes, throat constricted. Reingard was there, hand near her shoulder but not touching her. A reassuring presence should she need it. The images came unbidden, her father’s severed head. The riders in their black armour, the tattered black cloth. Chipped blades, blood and the ruins of her whole life around her. The smells, the sounds. She gripped the bark of the tree and gritted her teeth. Instead of a sob, she let herself scream. It was loud, too loud maybe. A ragged thing, edged with pain and anger. She turned immediately and lashed her fist out at the tree. Bark exploded and wood snapped, showering the underbrush with twigs and splinters. Tremors in her hand. Her knuckle was broken, swelling already. A deep, shuddering sigh and she turned to Reingard, whose gaze was soft and understanding.

    “I know I said it already,” Ingalrada started,

    Reingard opened his mouth to protest but she held up a hand, looking him in the eye,

    “Thank you, Reingard. Truly.” 

    The old man looked so tired as he stroked his beard, “I only wish I could have done more…” 

    “I know,” She said softly with a small smile, “I know.”

They stopped shortly after, as the afternoon dragged on into evening. A fallen log suited them well enough as a seat, the military rations from the bottom of Ingalrada’s bag acting as a makeshift dinner. While they ate, Ingalrada practiced. Magic was still quite the rarity in much of the Riverlands, some villages apparently insisted it wasn’t even real. Whenever a scroll did make its way into the inventory of travelling merchants or shady caravans they sold for incredible premiums. Not the kind of item she or her family would have been able to afford, though definitely the kind of thing one would find while adventuring. 

Ingalrada had been sixteen when she had first gone adventuring. She couldn’t say she was particularly well prepared, it wasn’t the profession of choice in Maryl. Her parents wanted her to take over the family business, and while she enjoyed baking it wasn’t something she could see herself doing professionally. Due to her lack of preparation, though, she gained her first few scars from the first Needlethorn she encountered in the Ancient Foothills. The first few of many. 

It was in that time of adventuring, though, that she had come upon an old cave nestled in the Greenbell Basin to the north. Home to a wild bear, she came upon the hide while it was off hunting - a stroke of luck that didn’t stop there. Hidden within were trinkets and baubles from across the Riverlands, too much to carry home though she took her time gathering up what looked to be the most valuable; too much time, in retrospect.

The last thing she picked up before she heard the beast return was a mysterious scroll. A narrow escape from an angry bear, a sprint through the trees and around the treacherous hilly ground of the Foothills took her far away from the cave of wonders. It was that night, crouched near her small fire after a meal of freshly caught fish that she had opened the scroll. The parchment was tightly bound by fraying twine, a seal of what looked like wax holding the twine taut. A simple tug and the seal came away easily, melting into the air like ash. The twine fell away and the scroll unfurled in her hands.

At first, she couldn’t make sense of the markings. A strange, alien language that shifted the longer she looked at it, adjusting to her and becoming suddenly legible. She read aloud, not understanding the words she was saying but excitedly recounting them nonetheless. When she reached the end of the passage her eyes fell on a glyph. A circle, the main broad line joined by a second, fainter line on its inside. In the centre was a symbol, a letter in that same strange language. This one, however, solidified into a word she associated with her own tongue. “Spark.” She whispered.

At the sound of her voice, the parchment turned to ash that was picked up by the breeze and in its place was that same glyph, floating in the air before her. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened a fraction. The mid-air symbol flashed and vanished, in its place a small flame flared for less than a second with a loud cracking sound. What could only be described as a spark. 

She wasn’t sure how it worked. After the scroll had crumbled, the spell had appeared in her head. She knew exactly how to use it and what would happen if she did. Sitting on the log, her ration long finished, she brought her hand up and pointed with her index finger. The glyph appeared at its tip, spinning into form in the air then flashed a bright blue. Flame licked from the circle, shooting from her fingertip and sending a shower of sparks and loud pops into the trees. Their surroundings were illuminated with each small burst and Ingalrada smiled to herself. She had improved a great deal with her Spark spell, it had a special place in her heart as her first taste of magic. Though it wasn’t her last. 

In her two years of adventuring Ingalrada had found three more scrolls. One she had found in a mountain pass cave in Mount Maryl near her village after killing a dangerous harpy that had created her nest there. Greater Heal was the spell, a rank V spell in stark contrast to her rank I Spark. That one, she was having more difficulty coming to grips with.

 The other two were gifted her by a mysterious travelling merchant after she helped save his caravan from an attacking ogre: Protect and Boost. The first was a rank I shield spell that could dull the potency of attack magic, the second an enhancement spell that could increase the physical attributes of any body part that passes through the casting glyph.

A collection of four spells. It still hadn’t been enough.

Reingard was looking at her practice with a warm smile, the sparks flashed in his eyes and illuminated the lines on his face. Magic was wonderful, Ingalrada had always thought so. All she needed was more. 

Sleep greeted her coldly, her nightmares cruel and bloody.

The forest came to its end. Like a wall of green, the treeline stopped dead and looked out onto a wide, open path. It crossed off in three directions, the first would lead them back to Maryl, the second ran parallel to the Great River Fostar: The Riverbank Paths. The third, the one they would take, led to Fortwatch Fell: the only road through the Ancient Foothills. A treacherous, hilly terrain that could take days or even weeks to traverse properly when weather permitted. However, travel it they had to, as the tower waited northward. 

Ingalrada strode from the trees, making for the packed dirt road with Reingard behind. She wasn’t even halfway there when a sound stopped her dead in her tracks. Her nose was permeated with the stench of rotten fish, a terrible gurgling filled the air.  Reingard ran out in front, his face twisting into a snarl as a figure approached from their left. Ingalrada thought at first it may be a man, though she knew no man with ears so long and pointed. His clothes were ragged and filthy, his hair matted. The blade he dragged along the ground was long and chipped along its single edge. His eyes were red, teeth sharp and mouth dripping with dark saliva. 

    “Goblin!” Reingard roared, rushing the creature. He took it clean off its feet and started raining down punches, all the while it laughed at his efforts. Ingalrada drew her knife, aiming to rush in and help but a second goblin leaped at her from a bush to her right. They were surrounded. She whipped the knife up but the creature dodged back, weaving around the blade and shooting her a stomach-churning smile. It flicked its own knife from its belt and twirled it. In her periphery, she caught sight of a third goblin closing in. 

Reingard had been thrown from the beast, rolling and leaping to his feet to just barely avoid a swing of that vicious blade. Ingalrada bared her teeth and bent her knees, turning to keep both monsters in view. She had heard stories of what goblins did to people on the road, and she had no intention of becoming one of the tales herself. She threw herself at the goblin directly ahead of her, aiming to cut its neck.

Blood splashed. Ingalrada was injured, she had taken a hit to her side but it was  the goblin’s blood that now soaked the grass. She had run her blade cleanly along its chest. The creature roared and Ingalrada staggered back, the intensity of the monster’s rage sending a primal shock through her spine. She tried to bring her knife up again but the other goblin grabbed her arm, its shoulder ramming into her back. She cried out and fell forward, rolling immediately back to her feet and spinning to keep them in view. This would have been different had she brought her sword and shield. Now she didn’t even have her knife. The goblin cackled and tossed her blade aside. Ingalrada growled in frustration, clenching her fists and throwing them to either side. Glyphs appeared in the air at her knuckles then moved inward, passing over her arms. Her hands, forearms and elbows glowed a bright gold and when she punched her knuckles together the crash they created was like rock breaking. She brought her fists up, eager for round two. 

The goblin to her right exploded. Stunned, her eyes widening as it almost seemed to happen in slow motion. A bolt of blue hit it from behind and the creature simply came apart in a shower of gore and bone. The second turned, though before it could even finish the motion a blur passed it, a figure wreathed in that same blue light. Magic, Ingalrada realised. The goblin split, falling to the grass in two halves as the newcomer flourished a sword, swiping it to the side. He moved quicker than anyone Ingalrada had ever seen, whipping a dagger from a sheath on his belt and throwing it in one smooth motion. It spun in the air before burying itself in the final goblin’s head, Reingard turning his bewildered frown from the beast to the young man before them. Red hair, tattered military uniform and a friendly smile. He gestured and a round stone in the daggers guard flashed. With a shower of blood, the blade came free of the goblin’s skull and flew back to the man’s waiting grasp. He twirled it gracefully and slipped it easily back into the sheath. His gaze flicked between Reingard and Ingalrada. 

    “Good day,” He said softly, “The name’s Drust.”