Legend of Ransera

The caravan jolted to a stop, pulling Bazyl out of his reverie. He remained still, his breathing steady, but his senses sharpened. He listened intently to the hushed voices that floated through the air. There was no sign of an imminent attack, just the uneasy murmurs of men on edge. He projected his consciousness through the void, drifting like a phantom from shadow to shadow, eavesdropping on the guards.

Their fear was palpable, almost infectious. The tales of ambushes along the route had grown in the retelling, turning men into shadows of their former selves, hesitant and jumpy. The forest up ahead was a notorious spot where caravans vanished without a trace, swallowed by the darkness and the bandits that thrived in it. The mercenary they had hired was supposed to be their safeguard, but there was no sign of him or the danger he was meant to fend off.

Bazyl let the guards’ conversation drift away, his consciousness snapping back into his body with a suddenness that left him breathless for a moment. He hopped off the wagon, landing softly on the dirt road. The scent of damp earth and pine filled his lungs as he stood, scanning the horizon. The forest loomed ahead, a dark mass with the spire of the Old Church just visible above the treetops, silhouetted against the light.

Bazyl adjusted his knapsack, the weight of it reassuring on his back, and checked the axes holstered at his side. He wasn’t one to shy away from confrontation, but he had learned long ago that it was often better to deter trouble before it began. As he entered the forest, he allowed his aura to unfurl, a warning to anything or anyone that might be lurking in the underbrush.

The path through the forest was narrow, almost overgrown in places, with the trees crowding in on either side as if trying to keep intruders out. The air was cooler here. Bazyl’s footsteps were light, barely disturbing the fallen leaves beneath him. He moved with purpose, his eyes scanning the surroundings, every sense alert to the possibility of danger.

He paused at the edge of the clearing. The silence was almost deafening, broken by the sound of something being tossed in the distance. Bazyl observed the figure in the distance, a familiar tingling on his spine. He placed the knapsack on the ground and gripped the axe handle, still holstered on his side.

Clearing his throat to announce his presence to the figure he deducted would be the mercenary. Bazyl opted to stay near the tree line as the forest provided a lot of strategic positions for him to navigate using the shadows.

The forest around them was eerily quiet, the only sound being the faint rustle of leaves swayed by a gentle breeze. Bazyl Wegner stood still, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the man before him. It was only moments ago that this figure had been almost a mile away, just a silhouette on the horizon. Yet now, without a sound, without the telltale shimmer of a portal opening, he was standing almost too close for comfort. The suddenness of the man's arrival had set Bazyl on edge, but it also piqued his curiosity.

Bazyl was no stranger to traversion magic. His nephew, a mage who practiced the art, had sparred with him often, and Bazyl had become familiar with the subtle signs. The slight distortion in the air, the brief flicker of energy when a portal was opened. But there had been none of that here. No, this was different. The man's arrival had been seamless, almost too perfect. It suggested either a level of proficiency in traversion magic far beyond his nephew's, or perhaps, more unsettling, it was an entirely different kind of magic.

Bazyl’s mind raced through the list of mages he had encountered over the years, trying to place this unfamiliar technique. Nothing came to mind. Could this man be a fellow warlock? There was a possibility. His left hand instinctively tightened around the handle of his axe, a weapon he had wielded countless times in battle. The reassuring weight of it grounded him as he consciously allowed his aura to expand, a silent warning to the stranger.

He waited until the man was fully visible, stepping out from the shadows into the pale light filtering through the trees. The man’s features became clearer, and Bazyl studied him with a practiced eye. There was something about his appearance. He had the slight angularity of the Siltori, with their characteristic sharpness of features, but it was too refined, too flawless. There was an elegance to him that was unsettling, a sense of something not quite human. It was a familiar feeling, one that Bazyl had not experienced in many years, but he couldn’t quite place it.

“And you must be the mercenary?” Bazyl spoke, his voice steady, but with an underlying edge. He replied in his native tongue. As he spoke, his gaze flicked over the man’s attire. This was no common mercenary, that much was clear. The air of elegance extended even to his clothing, which was far too fine for someone hired to deal with bandits. “It’s a long way from home, isn’t it?” Bazyl continued, his tone almost conversational. He was referring to Auris, the distant city from which the Siltori often hailed, though he suspected this man had not seen its walls in a long time or isn’t a siltori. “They’re waiting in the clearing back there. I think they need some kind of reassurance that the bandits were taken care of.” He pointed to the direction he had come from. “And all the bandits were accounted for?” he asked, this time switching to the common tongue.

Bazyl’s mind worked quickly. The man’s calm demeanor, his flawless appearance, the way he moved, everything about him was too perfect, too controlled. A memory stirred in the back of his mind. Menders. If the man before him was indeed a Mender, then Bazyl knew he was in for a difficult fight, one that he might not survive. He had to be sure, had to confirm his suspicion before delivering the killing blow, less he repeated the mistake he did.

"Common"
"Silandris"

Bazyl let out a silent "oh" of recognition. It wasn't unheard of for a half-Siltori to be fluent in the tongue, but for someone without any Siltori heritage? That was less common, almost suspicious. Perhaps it was his own age showing, after surviving two different epochs, he often forgot how things had changed. Back then, Menders would try their best to integrate themselves, learning the culture, language, and history of the civilizations they sought to infiltrate or understand.

"Forget that I even asked," Bazyl said, a wry smile crossing his lips. “Well met, Dreyfus. I’m Baz, a Kalzaseran.” He offered a slight nod of acknowledgment. “Funny, isn’t it? Just a while back, our nations were at each other’s throats. Now look at us, a Zaicharean and a Kalzaseran working together.” He chuckled lightly, the irony not lost on him. In another life, they might have been enemies.

Dreyfus' remark drew Bazyl's gaze back to the tree line from where the stranger had first appeared. He watched for movement, his eyes narrowing in anticipation. “You mean there’s more where they came from?” he groaned, feeling a wave of frustration wash over him. “That’s not how I envisioned this trip going.” He sighed, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

He had intended for this journey to be a simple pilgrimage to the Old Church. A quick in-and-out, no hassle, no confrontations. But fate seemed to have other plans. His hand tightened around the axe at his side, as if gripping the handle would somehow anchor him to his original purpose.

Dreyfus began to move past him, and on instinct, Bazyl reached out and grabbed his arm. “Wait,” he said, his voice low but urgent. “You’re not thinking of bringing the fight to those poor sods back there, right?” His head tilted toward the direction of the caravan, a hint of concern threading through his words. The people back there were likely merchants, travelers, and simple folk, no match for a bandit’s blade, much less whatever else might be lurking out there.

“Why don’t we just wait for them to come to us?” he suggested, his mind racing through possible strategies. He paused, considering their options. “Or do you plan to pick them off one by one before they realize their advance ambush team was slaughtered?” His tone was more curious than accusatory. He wasn’t opposed to the idea. In fact, it might be the smarter play.

“I’m fine either way,” Bazyl continued with a shrug. “Fair warning, though, I’m not that good in close combat.” He gestured to his holstered throwing axes, a slight grin playing on his lips. “I prefer to keep a bit of distance when I can.”

"Common"
"Silandris"