Herald of death

Ethan tries to find a comfortable position on the back of a jolting cart. Comfort seems to have abandoned this wooden contraption long ago. The cart's solid wooden wheels relentlessly transmit every imperfection of the road beneath them. Each rut and rock they encounter sends a shuddering jolt through his bones.

Around him, the priests and Sylas seem unaffected by the rough ride. Russ decided to walk alongside the cart rather than suffer its torture. The priests chat amongst themselves. Their voices form a ceaseless chatter that nurtures a headache in Ethan's mind.

As the cart trundles along, Ethan shifts again, futilely trying to alleviate the soreness creeping up his back and legs. Every new position brings its own brand of discomfort. The hard wooden seat digs into his thighs, and the splintered side rail itches his arms. The sun dips lower, stretching the surrounding shadows.

The soldier driving the horses halts the cart at the feet of a solitary building. It's a tavern, though the walls are built of thick, hewn stone. The heavy wooden doors are reinforced with iron bands. And narrow, arrow-slit windows dot the second floor.

Ethan steps down from the cart. The front of the tavern features a large, wrought iron sign depicting a frothy mug. The air is rich with the aromas of roasted meat and freshly baked bread. A palisade surrounds a vast garden and a chicken coup.

"We'll rest here for the night," the soldier declares. "Do not exit the building or bother other patrons." He opens the doors, revealing a warm, inviting interior. The main hall is bustling with activity; adventurers of various races are gathered around tables. Their weapons rest against the backs of their chairs or lean against the walls.

Each table is lit by candles set in sturdy iron holders, casting a warm glow across the walls adorned with the trophies of defeated monsters.

A large fireplace dominates one end of the room, holding a roaring fire. A sword and a shield throne above the mantle, both emitting large quantities of Ether.

The priests enter the room, congregating at a corner table. Ethan scans the other patrons. He's surprised to find orcs eating and laughing along with human comrades. A humanoid lizard stares at Ethan as his gaze passes over him. A large mastiff-like dog fixates Russ from under a table.

Sylas approaches Ethan, two mugs of ale in hand. "Do you want to take another table? The priests tire me with their conversations," Sylas asks.

Ethan silently moves to another corner table, from which he can see the entrance and have a wall behind his back. As they settle into the new table, the fireplace's warmth chases away the chill that has begun to seep into their bones.

Sylas leans in slightly, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. "I've heard stories, you know? Towers that scrape the sky and markets that stretch as far as the eye can see. Goods from every corner of the world. And the forges …" Sylas's voice trails off momentarily. "They say the forges of the capital exclusively use fire Ether crystal and not coal. That the blades they produce are infused with so much Ether they cannot be broken."

Ethan sips his ale. It is thick, almost hearty, and tastes like grain with a hint of a burnt flavor. 'It's sweeter than I expected. But the aftertaste is awful,' Ethan thinks. "Have you never visited your capital?" he asks between sips.

"Well, I'm only going there to inform the regent about the orcs. And to ask for people to rebuild and soldiers to protect us," Sylas says, his voice carrying a hopeful undertone. Yet his fingers tighten around his mug.

"How come you didn't have any real soldiers to protect you?" Ethan questions.

Sylas's shoulders slump slightly, his enthusiasm vanishing. "The bright steel mine we have is running out. We've extracted lower and lower amounts for five years now, and since then they kind of stopped supporting us." His hands fidget with the mug, spinning it slowly on the table, avoiding Ethan’s gaze.

"Your village stopped being useful, and they left you to die at the first monster raid that came your way? That's heartless," Ethan says emotionlessly.

Sylas looks down, his eyes fixed on the wooden grain of the table. "Yeah. The chief won't admit it, but we are pretty much on borrowed time." His voice is softer now, tinged with resignation. "Honestly, I'm thinking of informing the regent of the situation and leaving it at that. Never come back." His words float out hesitantly, as if he's still wrestling with the decision himself.

"Is there nothing anchoring you there?" Ethan's question hangs in the air, prompting Sylas to finally lift his gaze.

His eyes met Ethan’s, carrying a blend of sadness and resolve. "Not really," he whispers, gazing into the void. "I'll have to retire soon anyway, so I might as well make the most of my remaining time as a Blacksmith, right?"

"Why would you need to retire? You look like you could continue for at least a few more decades," Ethan remarks.

Sylas gives Ethan a puzzled look, tilting his head slightly as if posing an unspoken question. "Because of my talent, I’ll soon reach level twenty-three. I'll have to stop crafting, or else I'll be summoned to the Realm of Ascension."

"Do you fear it?" Ethan asks, thinking to himself, 'Is it a dangerous place? Elowen seemed sure I would prevail if I were called there.'

Sylas looks taken aback by Ethan’s question. "Of course, most who enter the Realm either die or lose their sanity. Sometimes, they disappear altogether," he explains.

The bottom of Ethan's ale is filled with unfiltered residue that sticks to his tongue. "That was an awful ale," he murmurs.

Sylas looks confused. "That's more than decent," he says, almost outraged by Ethan's comment.

Ethan smirks. "Where I come from, it would be bitter, but with an even taste and without grime at the bottom," he says with a mocking tone.

Syla's brows knit together, a flush of indignation coloring his cheeks. He sets his own mug down with force, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "You might find it rough," he starts, his voice firm and defensive. "But there's a lot more to appreciate about this ale than you're giving it credit for."

He leans forward, a little heated. "Think about the farmer who woke up at dawn to tend the grains. The maltster who sweats over the kiln to get just the right flavor from the malt. The brewer, who mixes these ingredients with generations of skills."

Sylas's hands gesture animatedly as he speaks. "And the man who transported it here," he continues. "Risking roads filled with bandits and worse, just so we can sit here and enjoy it."

He pauses, catching his breath, his eyes locked on Ethan's in a challenging stare. Ethan looks at his empty mug, then back at Sylas. "He does taste better now," Ethan quips.

The doors open, letting in a man dressed in ragged armor. His face is drawn and pale, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead despite the cool evening. His armor hangs loosely on his gaunt frame, the metal pieces clinking against each other. His hair sticks to his damp skin in tangled masses. Dark circles mark his bloodshot eyes. His hand, visibly trembling, clutches a worn leather purse.

He approaches the innkeeper, his voice a raspy whisper. "A room, please," he manages to say. He lays his purse on the counter, the sound of the few coins inside making a soft thud.

The innkeeper gives the man a look of pity and concern. She nods, taking the purse and fishing out the necessary coins. "Right this way," she murmurs.

As they walk to the stairs, the sick man leans heavily on the counter. He falls from the counter's edge to the ground. The priests rush around him. In reflex Sylas moves to help the man, but is stopped by Ethan tugging at his shirt.

"You might want to stay away from him unless you're immune to diseases," Ethan warns. Contrary to everyone else, the soldier who brought them here is unsurprised by the man's condition. Ethan exits the building, nodding at the soldier, who doesn't protest Ethan disobeying his orders. Sylas follows him with Russ.

"Toilet," Ethan says to Russ, who eagerly rushes into the bushes. "If the priests can't heal him, it would be better for us to split from them."

"What do you mean? Priests can heal everything," Sylas mocks.

"They are going to the capital because of a new disease," Ethan says, insisting on the last two words. He triggers predator's sight, eavesdropping on the priests.

Inside the tavern, the priests move their hands in intricate patterns. The air fills with their chants, light Ether emanating from their palms. Yet, despite their efforts, the sick man's condition barely improves. His breathing remains labored, and his entire body is seemingly falling.

The soldier, standing a short distance away, watches the scene with anxiety. Once it's clear the spells are ineffective, he approaches the priests. "It's the sickness you're coming for," he whispers with a solemn tone. "By the time you know you've got it, there's not much that can be done. Most who catch it are poor or even homeless."

A murmur of concern spreads among the listeners. "There's been talk of hallucinations in the last hours. One day, maybe two, is all they have once the symptoms fully manifest."

"Is it contagious?" the lizardman asks from the edge of the room.

"No one tending to the sick seems to have been contaminated," the soldier whispers to the priests.

'That's good news, unless it has a long incubation time,' Ethan thinks.

"We also had cases with horses, dogs, cats, mice, and birds," the soldier adds.

Ethan smirks at the information as the facts fail to add up. "A disease that jumps between humans, dogs, cats, and birds? That's not just rare; it's practically unheard of. And then there's the fact that none of the caregivers caught it. Doesn't that seem strange to you?" Ethan's asks Sylas in a low, steady, and rhetorical voice.

"What? How do you know all of that?" Sylas's frown deepens, his expression filling with concern and curiosity.

"I heard the priests talking," Ethan begins. "I think this is poisoning. The question is, how was he poisoned?" he asks, nodding at the tavern. Ethan senses the priests carrying the man to a room.

'Getting sick with an unknown poison would be disastrous. Even if I go back and get to a doctor, they might not know how to treat me,' Ethan thinks. 'I wonder, is he grateful enough to do as I say?'

"I need to examine him myself," Ethan says, his voice emotionless. "But they are planning for one of them to stay with him to watch over. I need you to distract him for a few minutes."

Sylas nods hesitantly. "What kind of distraction do you need?"

"It's simple," Ethan says, dismissing Sylas's discomfort. "Wait until the other priests have settled down for the night, then go to him under the guise of needing spiritual comfort. Use your village’s demise as bait; it should work well."

Sylas frowns, Ethan's coldness unsettling him. "Alright, I can do that," he agrees reluctantly, his voice carrying a hint of resignation.