Dawn – Just Outside Duskwatch
The city gates opened slowly, creaking against the pull of morning wind.
Allen waited, still as a statue just beyond the edge of the road where forest met field. Hidden beneath a low rise, thicket wrapped around his frame like old companions.
He could feel the poison in his blood—his blood. The ritual's effects hadn't faded. His patience stretched thin, his nerves razor-wire tense.
Birds stirred in the trees.
And soon, so would his prey.
***
Below, at the city gate, the adventuring party stepped into view.
The guards gave a lazy wave as the group passed. One of them leaned to the other and muttered something—likely a joke at the party's expense. No one paid it much mind.
Rain led them, hood up, steps light despite the clanking gear strapped to his back. Behind him trudged the tank—mail rattling with every step—and the brawler, who stretched and cracked his knuckles with a grunt. The healer looked pale, rubbing her forehead, while the swordsman moved stiffly, muttering curses about swamp bugs before he'd even seen one.
The poison was working.
They didn't know it yet. But Allen could see it—the sluggish pace, the lack of sharpness in their steps. Their edges had dulled overnight. The little details told the truth: a slight stumble from the healer, the brawler's slower reaction when a loose stone nearly tripped him. Rain alone kept pace, but even he moved with just a breath less fluidity than before.
Allen didn't smile. He adjusted his stance, keeping low.
When the party disappeared down the road winding eastward, he followed at a measured distance.
Not too close. Not too far.
The forest awaited.
Allen moved.
The party was on the move- oblivious of the noose about to tighten- past the old quarry, down the broken wagon trail, and into the outer fringes of Gloompine Swamp. They would likely try to ambush their quarry; Allen would be there to mess their plans, capitalize on their 'misfortune'
He had time. He would watch. He would wait.
He would strike when the swamp was deep, and the poison had done its part.
When fear had begun to bloom behind their eyes.
And Rain—his target—would not leave the swamp alive.
***
Rain prepared the party for the ambush—whispers passed like breath between them. The brawler and swordsman would approach from the front, creeping low through the mud and ferns. The healer stayed back with her charms ready. Rain circled wide, crossbow in hand, lining up the shot from an elevated root knuckle veiled in mist.
Allen crouched in the underbrush, unmoving, breaths slow. Darts clutched between his fingers, he observed the rhythm of the hunters. Not a sound escaped him. He was not here. Not yet.
The Bronzehide boar stood still in a shallow mire, its armored back glistening with mud and algae, its massive tusks curled forward like scythes forged from stone. Every so often it snorted, pawed the ground, and twitched its ears.
Rain's finger tightened around the trigger.
Now.
Twack!
The bolt fired—but the boar flinched, its side shifting a fraction too early. The bolt skidded along its armored shoulder and snapped off into the muck.
It roared—a guttural, furious sound—and charged.
Straight toward the brawler.
"Shit!" the brawler barked, raising his war axe too late.
The Bronzehide barreled forward like a boulder down a hill. With a sickening crunch, one of its tusks gored into the brawler's side, lifting him off the ground like a ragdoll. Blood sprayed as the man screamed, his weapon flailing from his grip as the boar hurled him into a tree trunk with a bone-jarring thud.
Next came the swordsman—lunging in with precision, blades slashing for the boar's exposed side. He cut deep—but not deep enough.The hide was tougher than expected.
Rain emerged from cover, eyes wide with alarm, and sprinted forward to help.
Allen moved.
A flick of his wrist sent a dart whistling through the air.
Thwick.
It struck the healer's neck, a perfect hit. She froze for a moment, then stumbled, blinking hard. Her fingers slipped from her pouch of salves. Her lips parted in confusion.
"What…?"
No one saw.
The others were too busy with blood, with metal, with fury.
The poison worked fast—slower than death, faster than help. Her hands shook. Knees buckled. The healer dropped to all fours, breath shallow, mind fogged. Her vision dimmed to smears of trees and panic.
Rain hadn't noticed. He was beside the swordsman now, drawing his dagger, moving to flank the beast while its attention was still on the attacker who'd wounded it.
The Bronzehide snarled—low and wet, lips drawn back, dark eyes bloodshot.
The brawler lay crumpled and moaning, clutching his side as blood oozed between his fingers.
The healer crawled a step and collapsed.
Allen slid between roots and moss, a shadow drawn closer with every breath.
The boar was injured.
The party was broken.
And Allen's trap was just beginning to close.
In the background, Allen was skulking towards the moaning brawler, a quick stab through the neck silenced him- clean and quiet.
He then went and hid once more, bidding his time.
Eventually the boar was taken down, but not without paying a great cost, the swordsman was panting heavily his hand broken, his feet shaking, the poison had done its job, he would be easy to dispatch.
No, not yet.
Rain had to fall first.
Rain himself had gotten a few wounds, one of his daggers missing.
His eyes narrowed, he was questioning where his cohort disappeared to.
Calling out a name 'Kate'-possibly the female healer- he walked to where he last saw her- unknowingly walking to a waiting beast's maw.
The distance between him and Allen was getting smaller and smaller.
Allen muscles were tensed, ready to uncoil with explosive movement, he waited, closer...closer.
All hell broke loose.
Allen sprung into action, an outward slash with his shortsword, aiming to decapitate the scout in one fell motion.
The scout noticed him before the hit landed,his eyes wide in surprise,tried to dodge.
A miscalculation on both ends: Allen too trusting of the poison and Rain confident in dodging, unaware of the poison.
The hit landed on the scout's clavicle, just below the neck.
A follow up attack came from Allen, a stab right through the liver, Rain collapsed crying out for mercy.
"Nooo stop !" Allen pinned his leg to the ground, shortsword through Rain's left thigh...
The second through the right shoulder.
That held him down.
Unmoving, Rain stared into Allen's eyes, eyes of a predator!
"I can pay you ... I have money.. please!"
Allen stared down
"Ortolan says hi."
A sinister smirk marring his face... he drove his boot onto Rain's neck and pressed.
A muffled bout of chocking, and Rain was no more.
***
A while after Rain fell limp, Allen removed his boot from his neck. With a grunt, he dislodged the shortsword from the scout's shoulder and plunged it through the nape—blood and brain matter spraying the mossy ground.
He flicked the blade, casting off gore.
Silent now, methodical, Allen moved to the swordsman. The man lay sprawled, unaware of the death crawling toward him. Allen drove his weapon through the back of the neck. Quick. Clean.
They were all dead.
Time for spoils of war—ambush in this case.
He searched the bodies. The swordsman carried a few silver coins. Allen stripped his leather armor and took his blade.
From the brawler: more coin. A set of reinforced gauntlets. Allen dragged the corpse next to the others.
The healer had died choking on blood. He claimed her charms and pulled her lifeless body into the growing pile.
Back at Rain's corpse, he found what he truly wanted.
The cloak- he had eyed it quite a while back. Slightly torn, but repairable.
Then—the pouch at the waist.
It hummed.
Allen's breath caught.
Pouch of Withholding.
An enchanted container. Lightweight, magically expanded within. Worth several gold coins alone—if not more. He didn't know the full extent of its capacity-Ortolan would.
Jackpot.
He added the boots—he'd try them on later or sell them if they pinched.
And for what brought him there in the first place, the crossbow, he slung it over his shoulder
Then he turned to the Ironhide boar. Still intact. It would fetch a hefty bounty.
He plucked a dart from its hind leg—his own sabotage, the pebble that sent this whole avalanche tumbling.
Everything went into the pouch.
Then he dragged Rain's headless body and those of his cohort deeper into the swamp.
The swamp would feast tonight.