Chapter 118 — Between Villages

Chapter 118: Chapter 118 — Between Villages

The terrain shifted again on the eighth day, Thistledown’s rolling pastureland gradually giving way to wilder, more open moorland, low scrub and heather stretching toward a horizon broken only by scattered outcroppings of pale stone.

Arlen found the walking considerably more solitary here, the well-traveled trail narrowing to something closer to a footpath, and he found himself, moving through the open, windswept landscape, settling into the particular, unhurried rhythm that had characterized every quiet stretch of this journey so far.

He noticed the moor-foxes before they noticed him — or so he assumed, until he set down his pack for a brief midday rest and discovered, moments later, that one of the small, russet-furred creatures had already made off with a strip of dried meat while his attention had been elsewhere.

"That’s mine," he said, mostly to himself, watching the fox dart a safe distance away before pausing to eat its prize with unhurried, thieving satisfaction.

Two more emerged from the surrounding scrub almost immediately, drawn by whatever signal had apparently alerted them to an opportunity, and Arlen found himself, studying the small trio with genuine amusement rather than any real concern, recalling the guild bestiary’s occasional mention of exactly this kind of clever, opportunistic wildlife.

"Moor-foxes," he said aloud, working through his memory of the sparse regional notes he’d reviewed before departure. "Supposed to be harmless. Just persistent."

He tested the theory by deliberately setting a small piece of bread a short distance away, and watched, fascinated, as the boldest of the three approached with quick, darting caution, snatched the offering, and retreated to join its companions in evident triumph.

"Persistent, and apparently willing to negotiate," he said, genuinely charmed despite the loss of his dried meat.

He spent a few minutes simply observing them, cataloguing their behavior with the same careful attention he gave every new species — quick, intelligent movements, a clear social hierarchy evident in how the smallest of the three deferred to the largest, an evident preference for anything shiny or strongly scented over plainer offerings.

Not worth hunting, he decided, watching them eventually lose interest and disperse back into the scrub. Bestiary notes don’t list them as monster-classified regardless — ordinary wildlife, clever enough to seem otherwise.

Eating them won’t give me any abilities.

But are fun to watch and interact with.

He continued on through the afternoon, the moorland’s open, windswept quiet settling into something almost meditative, and it was as the light began shifting toward evening that he first heard the sound — a low, resonant tone carried on the wind, strange and musical, unlike anything he’d encountered before.

He stopped walking entirely, listening.

The sound came again, closer this time, and Arlen felt the old, familiar instinct rise in his chest — not alarm, exactly, but careful, deliberate curiosity, the same instinct that had carried him through every genuine discovery since his very first quest.

He crested a low rise a few minutes later and found the source: a small herd of stags, considerably larger than any deer he’d hunted in the Ashen Frontier, their antlers branching into strange, hollow structures that caught the evening wind and produced the same eerie, resonant tone he’d been following.

He stood motionless at the rise’s edge, watching, genuinely transfixed by the sight — the herd moving unhurried across the open moorland, the wind singing softly through dozens of hollow antlers in a way that felt less like ordinary animal behavior and more like some kind of deliberate, natural music.

Hollow-horn stags, he thought, though he had no confirmed name for them beyond his own careful guess, filing every detail away with the same reverent attention he’d once given the greatstag at the middle forest boundary, years earlier. I’ve never seen anything like this.

He remained at a respectful distance, understanding without needing to think it through explicitly that this was not a moment that called for hunting or engagement — simply witness, the same quiet, patient wonder that had first drawn him toward this entire journey.

The herd eventually moved on, the strange, musical wind-song fading gradually into the ordinary quiet of evening, and Arlen found himself standing at the rise’s edge a long while after they’d disappeared from sight, genuinely moved by what he’d just witnessed.

He made camp not far from where he’d watched them, the moorland’s open sky stretching vast and clear overhead, and found himself, preparing a modest dinner from his dwindling trail provisions, still turning over the sound in his memory.

Wish I understood more about them, he thought, working through the last of his dried rations. Whether the sound serves some purpose — communication, territory, mating display — or whether it’s simply an accident of their particular anatomy. Something to ask about, next town with a proper guild outpost or knowledgeable local.

He wrote at length in his journal that evening, the entry carrying the same genuine, unguarded wonder that had characterized his very best reflections across this remarkable second life.

Moor-foxes today — clever, thieving, harmless. Made off with a strip of dried meat before I’d even properly noticed them. Charming, in their way.

And then, near evening, something considerably more remarkable — a herd of stags with hollow antlers that sing when the wind passes through them. I’ve never read or heard of anything like it, not in any guild text, not in any of Bram’s old stories. I simply stood and watched, and found myself more moved by the sight than I properly expected to be.

This is exactly why I wanted this journey to be slow. A hurried traveler would have missed both — the foxes, the singing stags, the particular quality of moorland wind carrying something genuinely wondrous across open, empty ground. I intend to keep watching this closely, the whole way to Aurenholt.

He closed the journal, the moorland’s vast, star-filled sky stretching overhead in a way that felt, after the day’s quiet wonders, entirely fitting, and settled in for the night with the particular, grateful satisfaction of a day spent exactly as this whole journey deserved to be spent.