The wheels of the cart groaned as they laboured over the rutted road, carrying four souls who until that morning had been strangers, bound now by little more than coin and circumstance. Their errand was spoken of lightly—a cave to be cleared, a nuisance put to rest—but the wild seldom honours such simplicity. Ellette of the Fair Folk sat near the rear, pale as frostlight, her arms folded close as one who listened more than she spoke. Her gaze wandered between the whispering boughs and her unlikely companions: a green-skinned Tiefling druid called Karrut, whose horns curved like old roots from his brow; Morgar, a dragonborn of burnished gold, learned in the deep arts; and lastly a man of few words—indeed, of none at all—whose silence weighed heavier than any oath. Introductions were made, awkwardly and without warmth, and assurances followed that convinced no one entirely. Yet need is a stern counsellor, and so they agreed to walk the same road—for a time. That frail accord did not endure the hour. The cart slowed, then halted. Ahead lay a horse, fallen and torn, its hide pierced by black-fletched arrows. No birds sang. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Ellette stepped down first, faint arcane light stirring about her fingers like trapped starlight. “That is no good omen,” she said softly. They drew nearer, eyes turned to the trees—and then the stillness shattered. A twig snapped. An arrow hissed. “**Ambush!**” cried Morgar, even as steel and spell were brought to bear. From the undergrowth came goblins, snarling and shrill, blades flashing, arrows flying wild. The clash was brief and bitter. Blood darkened the leaves, and those who yet lived fled howling into the green gloom. When silence returned, Ellette turned—only to behold Karrut slumped against a stone, fast asleep, blissfully unaware that battle had passed him by. Her eyes narrowed. “You cannot be serious.” Later, as they weighed whether to follow the goblins’ trail, Karrut woke only long enough to draw from a smouldering bush, exhale contentedly, and promptly fall senseless once more. Ellette pinched the bridge of her nose. “That settles it,” she said, turning to the silent warrior. “We rest.” He inclined his head. She pointed to Karrut. Then to her own temples, miming horns. The man considered this gravely—and shrugged. Moments later, with a sharp crack that echoed like breaking branches, both horns were snapped free. “Perhaps,” Ellette said coolly, brushing her hands clean, “this will teach him wakefulness.” The warrior nodded. “Oh,” she added with a crooked smile, “forgive me. I forget you don’t answer.” Morgar peered over his tome, amusement flickering in his eyes. “And what name do we give a man who speaks not at all?” When Karrut awoke and discovered his loss, his cry rang through the clearing. “My _horns_! Why would you—?” The warrior held them out solemnly. “You might have _asked!_” Karrut groaned. “Well then. I’ll just reattach them. Anyone have glue?” The warrior shook his head. Karrut squinted. “You really haven’t spoken, have you? What, cat got your—” The man opened his mouth. What remained of a tongue. Karrut staggered back. “By the gods—_ugh!_” “Mind your manners,” Ellette snapped, cuffing him. Morgar nodded thoughtfully. “That would explain much.” “So,” Ellette said, turning. “What shall we call you?” The man attempted signs and gestures, all mystery and confusion. Karrut clapped his hands. “A game! Are you a sheep? A goat? Grass? A fish? I’m starving.” At last, with a grin, he declared, “You look like a _Rock_ to me.” The man blinked, weighed the name—and gave a slow thumbs-up. “Rock it is,” said Ellette. Morgar bowed. “An honour.” “Good,” Ellette said, standing. “An hour’s rest. Then we move.” ### **Of Water, Darkness, and Grim Resolve** The goblins’ trail led to a cave where a river vanished into shadow. “The water will bear us swiftly,” Morgar said. “Or drown us,” Ellette replied—but still they entered. The current proved merciless. One by one they were dragged beneath, cast out upon cold stone, gasping. Morgar lay pale and shaking. “I despise water,” he muttered. Their struggle had not gone unheard. Goblins and wolves surged from the dark, and the battle was savage. Arrows flew. Magic flared. Then—nothing. Ellette woke to firelight and the scent of crushed herbs. Rock knelt beside her, binding her wounds with careful hands. One by one, the others stirred. “Alive,” Karrut murmured. “A promising start.” They pressed on, silent now, and found a chamber where two bugbears slept beside a fire. Ellette moved like a whisper. One fell without a sound. The second stirred—too soon—and she struck again and again until stillness returned. “It is done,” she said, breath trembling. They emerged battered, bloodied, their cart lost, their horses dead—but bound now by something stronger than chance. Thus began the tale of Sordia Vignti. **[[Chapter 2. Into the Village]]**