The heart of Oakhaven's sparse communal life, beyond the occasional shared meal or festive gathering, lay in the modest meeting hall. It was built adjacent to Old Man Hemlock's dwelling on the western edge of the flattened mountain shoulder the village occupied. Constructed from the same sturdy, dark timbers as the other houses, it was broader and longer, designed to accommodate all seven households if need be.
Its back wall was nestled almost directly against a sheer, elevated cliff face, a natural grey stone barrier that protected it from the worst of the northern winds and lent the structure an air of sheltered permanence.
Inside, the hall was rustic yet imbued with a quiet reverence. Woven tapestries depicting stylized forest creatures and ancient trees adorned the walls between high, narrow windows. Polished stones bearing carved spirals and leaf motifs were set into the packed earth floor. A large, smoothed stone slab served as a central table, surrounded by sturdy wooden benches. The air within always carried the faint, pleasant scent of dried herbs, pine resin, and the lingering smoke from the central hearth, a testament to its frequent use and Oakhaven's druidic heritage.
On this particular morning, the hall was quiet save for the soft scrape of a stone pestle against a wooden mortar. Old Man Hemlock sat at the head of the stone slab, his usual seat, meticulously grinding a mixture of dried leaves and berries. A pungent, earthy aroma rose from his work.
His long, silver-white hair was tied back loosely with a leather thong, and his face, a roadmap of wrinkles etched by time and mountain weather, was focused intently on his task.
Across from him, Borin, Finn's father, sat with a hunter's stillness. His broad shoulders and weathered, sun-darkened features offered a stark contrast to Hemlock's more ethereal appearance. Dressed in practical furs and leathers, a sheathed hunting knife at his belt, Borin's sharp eyes watched the elder druid, a silent patience about him.
With a final, decisive crush of the pestle, Hemlock carefully brushed the resulting powder into a small, clay pot – a salve he'd begun preparing for young Finn's injury. He set his tools aside, the sudden silence amplifying the soft crackle of the hearth. He then looked up, his gaze, though ancient, still sharp and perceptive, meeting Borin's. "Now, Borin," Hemlock prompted, his voice a low rumble. "You mentioned you encountered those poachers again yesterday, and that Finn took a tumble during it. Tell me the full of it."
Borin inclined his head slightly, a gesture of respect towards the elder. "Teacher Hemlock," he began, his voice deep and steady. "It was as I briefly mentioned. Finn and I were in the lower south woods, on the trail of a snow hare. I was showing him how to read the wind, how to move without sound."
He paused, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "We were close. Finn was just about to loose his practice arrow when it happened. An arrow, fletched with crow feathers by the look of it, whistled past his head. Missed him by a hand's breadth. Struck a birch tree not five paces from where he stood."
"I bellowed, as you can imagine," Borin continued, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his knife. "Saw movement, two, maybe three figures darting through the undergrowth. I loosed a warning shot myself, put an arrow in the trunk right above where one of them had been. They didn't wait around after that, just crashed off deeper into the woods."
"My first thought was to give chase, teach them a proper lesson about hunting near Oakhaven's lands, especially when our young ones are about. But then Finn cried out. In the commotion, trying to get clear of that first arrow, he'd stumbled badly, twisted his ankle. Couldn't put any weight on it. Had to get him back here. So, they got away."
Hemlock listened intently, his fingers steepled before him, his expression thoughtful. He gave a slow, deliberate nod as Borin finished, the lines on his ancient face deepening in concentration. After a moment of silence, he made a small, almost imperceptible gesture with his hand, inviting Borin to elaborate further if he had more to share.
Borin leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a more serious cadence. "Teacher Hemlock, with your permission, I'd like to scout their camp. I've seen signs they're not too far into the south woods. I need to know their numbers, their strength. If they're just a few desperate men, perhaps a stronger warning, a show of our resolve, will be enough to make them leave our territory for good." He paused. "But if they're a larger, more organized group... well, at least we'll know what we're facing. Perhaps we could negotiate, make it clear where Oakhaven's boundaries lie and what we won't tolerate."
The truth was, Oakhaven was not a fortress. For all its resilience, it possessed only a handful of true 'Professionals.' Elara, as a Tier 0 Druid Apprentice, was dedicated and observant, invaluable for keeping watch and understanding the mountain's subtle shifts, but she lacked significant combative power. Borin, a Tier 2 Ranger, was their primary defender, a man of considerable skill and strength in the wilderness. Old Man Hemlock himself was a peak Tier 2 Circle Druid, his wisdom and connection to the mountain profound, but he was one man, and the spiritual and practical well-being of all six other households rested heavily on his aged shoulders. Dealing with any significant, hostile force would stretch their capabilities thin.
"And if they are indeed a bigger problem than we can handle on our own," Borin added, his gaze steady, "if my scouting reveals a force too strong for us to deter or negotiate with reasonably, then we have another option. We can dispatch Torsten on his next trip down. He knows the way to Stoneford well enough. He could carry word to Baron Ashworth, seek his aid. The Baron has men, and a vested interest in keeping the mountain passes clear and the settlements under his purview safe."
Hemlock sighed, a sound like the rustle of dry leaves. He ran a hand over his long beard, his gaze distant for a moment before returning to Borin. "Very well, Borin. Your caution is warranted, and your plan is sound. Go, scout their camp. But tread with the wind's silence and the snow's discretion. These are… uneasy times. It is best not to provoke needless conflict, especially not now, with the Awakening so close upon us. Our youngsters need peace to prepare, not the shadow of strife." He pushed the small clay pot of salve across the stone slab. "For Finn. See that he rests it well." Then, his voice firmed slightly. "I will speak with Elara. Her night patrols will need to be particularly vigilant in the coming days, especially towards the southern paths."
Borin nodded once more, his expression grim but resolute. "Thank you, Teacher Hemlock. For the salve, and for your counsel." He carefully took the clay pot, tucked it securely into a pouch at his belt, and with another slight inclination of his head, rose and departed the meeting hall, his steps purposeful.
Left alone, Hemlock's gaze drifted upwards to a set of magnificent white stag antlers mounted on the wall above the hearth – the only physical memento he kept of his once-mighty beast companion, Caelus. The stag had been a creature of immense power, far surpassing Elara's young Snow Wolf, Iska. His loss, several years back, had been a profound blow to Hemlock. He let out another, deeper sigh. If Caelus were still by his side, their approach to these poachers might not need to be quite so passive, so reliant on caution and negotiation.
* * *
Further south from Oakhaven, where the mountain slopes became less severe but the forest grew denser, the terrain was a labyrinth of snow-laden pines and thick, thorny undergrowth. Ancient, gnarled oaks, their branches bare against the grey sky, stood like skeletal sentinels amongst the evergreens. The air here was colder, the silence deeper, broken only by the occasional snap of a twig under unseen weight or the mournful cry of a distant wolf. It was in a small, sheltered hollow, hidden from the main game trails by a curtain of dense firs and a jumble of fallen rocks, that the poachers had made their camp—a site that, upon closer inspection, would reveal itself to be more established than one might expect from mere transients.
At the center of this camp stood a tent noticeably larger than the half-dozen smaller, cruder shelters scattered around it. Patches of the previous night's heavy snow still clung to its weathered canvas. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke, unwashed bodies, and something metallic, like old blood. An imposing figure, draped in thick, dark furs that did little to hide his muscular build, sat on a makeshift throne of stacked crates and pelts. Before him, two men, their own clothing ragged and ill-fitting compared to his, stood with heads bowed, shoulders slumped in an attitude of shame, clearly awaiting some form of judgment. Standing silently behind the seated man, a little to his right, was an older gentleman. His attire was neat, almost formal despite the rustic setting, and he held himself with the quiet composure of a seasoned butler, yet the sharp, assessing glint in his eyes was every bit as imposing, if not more so, than the man on the seat of honor.
The silence in the tent stretched, heavy and taut, broken only by the crackle of a small, smoky fire in a brazier. The seated man's gaze, cold and unwavering, remained fixed on the two standing before him. Finally, the shorter of the two, a wiry man with shifty eyes, couldn't bear the pressure any longer. He licked his chapped lips, his head still bowed. "Captain," he mumbled, his voice barely a whisper, "I… I swear I didn't mean to disobey. I was just… hungry, is all. Saw the hare, thought it'd be a quick snatch for the pot. To contribute, like." The other man, taller and broader but equally disheveled, nodded vigorously in agreement, his head bobbing up and down like a pecking hen.
The captain let out a low grunt, a sound like rocks grinding together. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a gravelly rasp that filled the small tent. "Hungry?" he scoffed, his eyes narrowing. "You were told to observe, to scout, not to play hunter and risk drawing attention. If word of our presence reaches that pig Baron Ashworth because you two fools couldn't control your bellies and started a skirmish with some local yokels, the losses our group would suffer are not something you could ever repay. Do you understand the delicacy of our current… endeavor?"
He scowled, his gaze flicking for a split second to the impassive older gentleman standing behind him before returning to the two culprits. "For this… lapse in judgment, you'll both receive a smaller cut of the profits from this venture. Consider it a lesson. If this kind of carelessness continues," his voice dropped, taking on a menacing edge, "it won't just be your pay that gets cut. It'll be something far more… permanent."
The two men, visibly paling at the captain's final words, mumbled their thanks for his "mercy" and practically scrambled out of the tent flap, their earlier shame now tinged with a palpable fear. Once their footsteps receded into the crunch of snow outside, the captain's harsh demeanor dissolved. He turned in his seat, a surprisingly fawning smile replacing the scowl as he addressed the older gentleman still standing impassively behind him. "Master Valerius," the captain said, his voice now smooth and deferential, "do you think this… minor incident will affect our plans in any significant way?"