The Boar’s Bane

You take a sparse, somber dinner at Master Thorne’s; the food is plain but filling. Between mouthfuls you ask if any further news came from the brigands in the stockade. Thorne sighs and sets down his knife. The rogues cling to their Joric tale—he found the locket near the Hall, paid them to recover it, then offered coin to exhume a fresh grave. One of them muttered that “someone important” wanted the locket back, but they will not name who. They claim they thought it only a simple grave robbery and are now frightened of more than the law.

You press Theron about the face in the locket and Reynard’s ties. Theron, thoughtful, repeats the brigand’s phrase—“someone important”—and the implication chills him. He explains that Master Elara recognized the locket at once: the older woman in the locket is Reynard’s mother; the younger is Elara in her youth. Reynard and Elara were once betrothed. The locket was a cherished keepsake, which is why Elara’s reaction was so deep. This shifts the brigands from petty thieves to a thread of something deliberate and inside the Hall.

You sleep and rise at dawn to lay everything over in quiet thought. The scullery maid supplies a modest breakfast; you and Theron set out for Whisperwind Gully, intent to examine the last reported site. Your mind keeps one eye on the wider picture: you must, soon, report everything to your brother Heyshem. If you are to serve as his scout, protector of Three Pines, and ambassador for Oakhaven, you must reveal more of who the Huntsmen are—not mere traders or rangers, but a sworn quadrant of the old realm. Questions flicker in your mind about the other clans and whether this quest will call them back; you let them sit for now.

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The gully proves sparse. You move carefully through eroded soil and tenacious shrubs, testing wind and scent, listening for birdsong or its absence. A few tentative chirps answer you, but the usual bustle is muted. The metallic tang you sought does not hold; the breeze shifts and offers only damp earth and dry grass. Your spirit reaches out for that particular coldness of blight and finds only a vague unease, not a distinct presence. Theron shivers though the day is warm. The place yields foreboding rather than proof.

“I can gain naught more here,” you tell Theron. “We return to the magistrate. The courier may yet bring word, and tonight I must speak with my brother.” You make for Three Pines, keeping your senses alert as dusk thickens.

At the village edge you see the courier’s horse being led away, still sweating from a hard run. You move straight to Thorne’s house; inside the magistrate sits with the courier over a rolled parchment. Firelight flickers; the room stills as you and Theron enter. You ask, blunt and ready: “What news?”