Rognvald, the ranger, emerged from the dense, mist-covered forest, his eyes scanning the horizon with the practiced ease of a man who knew every tree and stone within a hundred leagues. His beard, a wild tapestry of gray and brown, was adorned with leaves and twigs, a testament to his latest adventure. The sun peeked through the canopy, casting dappled light on the clearing where he stood, his broad-brimmed hat tipped back to reveal a furrowed brow etched with the lines of experience and a hint of mischief. His tunic, once the deep green of a forest shadow, was now a mottled mess of earth tones, stitched with the marks of battles and the emblem of the Rangers of Thornwood.
The air was thick with the scent of pine and the distant murmur of a stream, a soothing symphony that had been the backdrop of his life since he first picked up a bow. Rognvald had spent his youth exploring the vast expanses of the realm, driven by a hunger for adventure that had long ago consumed his innocence. He had seen the best and worst of men and had learned that the line between hero and villain was often blurred. The world was not as simple as the bedtime tales of his youth had led him to believe, and he had grown accustomed to walking a path that was not always righteous but always thrilling.
A rustle of leaves behind him snapped him out of his reverie. He turned swiftly, hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword. Instead of an ambush, he found a young girl, no more than ten summers old, with wide eyes and a quivering lower lip. She was dressed in the tattered rags of a peasant, her bare feet stained with mud and her arms clutching a small bundle to her chest. "Please," she whispered, her voice trembling, "my village is in trouble. They took my mother and said they would burn everything to the ground unless we give them the artifact."
Rognvald raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the mention of an artifact. Treasure often meant adventure, and he had a soft spot for those in need, especially if there was a chance of personal gain. "And what artifact might that be?" he inquired, his voice gruff but not unkind. The girl looked at him with a mix of fear and hope. "It's the Heart of the Forest," she replied, her eyes welling with tears. "They say it has the power to control the very essence of the woods. We were entrusted to keep it safe, but we never knew why."
The Heart of the Forest was a legend, a tale whispered around campfires by those who knew the ancient lore of the lands. It was said to be a gem of immeasurable power, capable of bending the will of nature itself to its bearer's desires. Rognvald had never put much stock in such stories, preferring the tangible rewards of gold and glory to the whims of myth and magic. Yet, something about the urgency in the girl's voice, the desperation in her eyes, made him believe that this was no mere campfire yarn.
"Where is this village?" he asked, his curiosity piqued. The girl pointed a shaking finger to the east. "Two days' journey, if you follow the old trade road," she said, her voice gaining a little strength. "But beware, the bandits are ruthless. They come from the Crimson Plains, led by the notorious Redhand." Rognvald had heard the name before, a man whose cruelty was as vibrant as the crimson he painted on his fingertips. His band was known to leave a trail of destruction in their wake, and the idea of facing them was both thrilling and unsettling.
He studied the girl's face, noticing the smudges of dirt and the bruise forming on her cheek. Her plight was genuine, and he knew that if the Heart of the Forest truly existed, it could be a weapon in the wrong hands. With a heavy sigh, Rognvald made his decision. "I will help you," he said, his voice firm. "But you must understand, I do not do this solely out of the goodness of my heart. I expect a share of the artifact's value in return." The girl nodded vigorously, relief washing over her features.
They set off together, the girl's small figure leading the way as Rognvald followed, his eyes and ears alert to any signs of danger. The old trade road was indeed as she had described: overgrown with weeds and barely visible under the encroaching forest. It was clear that it had not seen much use in recent years. The journey was a silent one, the girl lost in her thoughts of home and the ranger contemplating the potential riches and dangers that lay ahead.
Inhelm for real
Rognvald the treasure
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As they ventured further, the forest grew denser, the trees more ancient and twisted. The air grew thick with the scent of damp earth and moss, and the sunlight barely pierced the canopy above. The girl looked around nervously, her grip on the bundle tightening. Rognvald noticed the weight of her struggle and the way she stumbled over roots and rocks that seemed to reach out to trip her. He felt a pang of guilt for his earlier mercenary thoughts, and his resolve to protect her grew stronger.
The first sign of trouble came in the form of a distant howl, echoing through the trees. The girl's eyes widened, and she clutched Rognvald's arm. "What is it?" she whispered. "The beasts of the forest are restless," he replied, his eyes narrowing. "Perhaps they sense the presence of those who do not belong." The howl grew closer, and soon they could hear the crunch of twigs and the snap of branches as something large approached.
Rognvald unsheathed his sword, the steel glinting in the murky light. The girl took a step back, her eyes flicking between the path ahead and the towering trees that surrounded them. "Stay behind me," he instructed, his voice calm despite the tension in the air. The sound grew louder, and out of the shadows emerged a pack of wolves, their eyes gleaming with hunger. The largest, a creature with a pelt the color of a moonless night, snarled at them, baring teeth as sharp as the points of a crown.
Without a moment's hesitation, Rognvald swept the girl into his arms and sprinted towards the nearest tree, his boots digging into the soft earth. He deftly scaled the trunk, his muscles straining with the effort of carrying her weight and his own. Once high enough, he settled her into the crook of a sturdy branch, whispering reassurances. Her eyes were wide with terror, but she clung to the bark and her bundle, trusting the stranger who had promised to keep her safe.
The wolves circled the base of the tree, their growls a crescendo of malice. Rognvald nocked an arrow, his eyes never leaving the beasts below. He let loose the projectile, and it found its mark in the chest of whom Rognvald believed to be the alpha. With a yelp, it fell, its lifeblood seeping into the soil. The pack paused, momentarily confused by the loss of their leader, and Rognvald took advantage of the opening to draw his sword, the steel ringing out in the stillness of the forest.
Leaping from the tree, he landed in a crouch, his boots thudding against the earth. The wolves, their fur bristling and eyes ablaze, had regained their composure. They stared up at him, a ring of snarling menace that seemed to tighten with each passing second. Rognvald's heart thundered in his chest, but his hand remained steady on the sword's hilt. He had faced worse creatures in his time, but these were no ordinary wolves; they bore the cunning and ruthlessness of their newfound human adversaries.
The first wolf to charge was a massive creature, its teeth bared in a snarl that would have frozen the blood of a lesser man. Rognvald met it with a swift arc of his sword, the blade slicing through the beast's neck with a spray of crimson. The others lunged in a frenzied wave, their claws tearing at the air as they sought to bring him down. He danced around them, his movements liquid and precise, his blade a blur in the dim light. Each strike was calculated, each parry a dance with death.
One by one, the wolves fell to his sword, their lifeless forms joining the alpha beneath the tree. Yet, for every one he killed, two more took its place. Their eyes burned with a feral intelligence that suggested they were not merely animals driven by hunger but pawns in a larger, more sinister game. Rognvald's breath came in ragged gasps, his muscles screaming from the exertion. The girl above watched in horror as the battle raged, her tiny body trembling with each clash of steel and fur.
The air grew thick with the coppery scent of blood and the heavy panting of the surviving wolves. Rognvald knew he could not keep this up much longer. His arm felt as though it was made of lead, his legs threatening to buckle beneath him. But the girl's trusting gaze spurred him on, her wide eyes a silent plea for his protection. He could not, would not, fail her.
Suddenly, the remaining wolves retreated into the shadows, their tails tucked between their legs. Rognvald took a cautious step forward, his sword still at the ready. The silence that followed was eerie, a stark contrast to the cacophony of moments before. He waited, his ears straining for any hint of their return. When none came, he sheathed his sword, his hand shaking with the aftermath of the adrenaline rush.
Without wasting any more time, he turned to the girl, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and awe. "We must go," he said, his voice still carrying the edge of the battle. He offered her a hand, and she took it, her own trembling. They climbed down from the tree, her legs wobbly with relief. "Thank you," she murmured, her grip on the bundle never loosening.
The rest of their journey was fraught with tension, the distant echoes of the wolf pack's howls a constant reminder of the danger they faced. They traveled swiftly but cautiously, avoiding the main path where possible and sticking to the safety of the underbrush. The girl spoke little, her thoughts likely consumed by the fate of her village and the task at hand. Rognvald, too, remained mostly silent, his mind racing with strategies for facing the Redhand and his men.
Yet, amidst the pressing concerns of their mission, the ranger found his curiosity about the bundle the girl carried growing. It was not large, but it was obviously precious to her. She held it as if it contained the very essence of her hope, and the way she cradled it close to her chest suggested it was more than just a simple burden. The fabric was worn and stained, hinting at a journey much longer than the two days she had mentioned.
Rognvald knew that asking directly would only burden her further, so he waited for an opportune moment. As they paused to drink from a clear stream, the girl's guard momentarily lowered. Her eyes searched his, and in that brief silence, he saw not only fear but a spark of something else - a fiery resolve that belied her tender years. He decided it was time to learn more about his young companion.
Inhelm for real
