Doren's mind raced, a whirlwind of fear and confusion. He was in a strange village and his only friend was missing. He looked at Macy, the frantic Fenhoof, a silent testament to the danger that was lurking in the shadows. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that he could not do this alone.
He made his way back into the inn, his heart pounding in his chest. The smell of fresh bread and the sound of low, friendly conversation were a stark contrast to the terror in his mind. He found Meko and Katarina still at the table, their empty mugs a silent testament to the fun they had just a few hours ago.
"Meko. Katarina," Doren said, his voice low. He didn't waste any time with pleasantries. He had a purpose and he was running out of time. "Varen... she's gone."
Meko's calm, earthy gaze shifted from the window to Doren's face, a slow frown of concern creasing his brow. "Gone?" he asked, his voice a low, steady rumble. "Where would she go?"
"I don't know," Doren said, his voice filled with a desperate urgency. "I woke up and she was gone. But something's wrong. Her Fenhoof is frantic, and..." He held up a small, jagged piece of stone he had found, a piece of Macy's paw. "This was in the stable. It's from Macy's paw, like she was trying to fight something off…. She's in trouble. I know it."
Katarina, a playful lightness in her eyes just moments before, now had a fierce, protective fire in them. "Who would hurt Varen?" she whispered, her voice a low snarl. "Who would dare?"
Doren looked at them, at the two people who were now his only hope. He took a deep breath, and with a voice that was both quiet and firm, he said, "I need your help."
Meko rose from his chair, his movements slow and purposeful. He walked toward the bar, a silent figure of resolve. He didn't ask Doren any more questions, his actions speaking for him. He would help. He would find answers.
He leaned in and spoke to the bartender, his deep voice a low rumble. "We're looking for answers," he said. "Do you remember seeing anything strange last night? Any unusual people? Any mysterious figures?"
Meanwhile, Katarina pulled Doren to his feet. Her playful, airy demeanor had been replaced by a fierce, protective fire. "Come on," she said, her voice a low, urgent murmur. "Let's get your stuff and Varen's. We can talk outside."
The two of them walked up the stairs, the laughter and warmth of the inn a distant memory. In the small room, the empty bed was cold. Doren began to pack his bag, his hands moving with a practiced speed. While Doren packed his belongings Katarina gathered Varen's, her movements quick and graceful, a silent promise to her friend.
They walked out of the inn and into the cool, damp air. They found Meko waiting for them, a grim look on his face.
"No one saw anything," he said, his voice a low, defeated whisper. "But they heard something. A scream. From the stable."
The three of them looked at each other, the unspoken understanding passing between them. They were no longer strangers. They were a team.
They hurried toward the stable, their faces grim in the morning light. Doren went in first, his heart a tight knot of dread in his chest. The air in the stable was heavy. Macy, the Fenhoof, was still pacing, her stone pads making a low, grinding sound on the cobblestones. She let out a mournful whimper as she saw Doren.
Katarina immediately went to Macy, a soft, soothing touch against the creature's bristly mane. "It's alright, girl," she whispered, her voice low and comforting. "We're going to find her."
Meko, his gaze sharp and methodical, knelt down, his fingers lightly touching the ground. Doren followed his gaze, seeing the clear, unmistakable drag marks in the damp dirt. The marks led from the back of Macy's stall, through the stable doors, and out into the muddy alley. They were deep and uneven, a silent testament to Varen's struggle.
Doren felt his blood run cold. He was right. She had been taken. He looked around wildly, his eyes scanning the hay and the wooden stalls for any other clue. He found it near the stable door, glinting in the pale light. It was Varen's bone-handled knife, caked with mud, as if it had been thrown across the stable in a moment of desperate struggle.
Meko rose to his feet, a solemn look on his face. He held his hand over the drag marks, his eyes closed in concentration. His hands seemed to feel the story the earth was telling. After a long moment, he opened his eyes, a grim, thoughtful expression on his face.
"Whoever took her... they had a smaller stature," Meko said, his voice a low, steady rumble. "The drag marks are shallow, but the footprints... they're small, quick. Not a man of great size or strength. Someone small and fast."
Katarina's face was a mask of confusion. "But how could a small person take Varen? She's... she's not a small woman."
They turned and followed the faint trail, a series of small, purposeful footprints that led them to the outskirts of Havenport. The path ended at a small, two-story house. It appeared abandoned, with peeling paint and boarded-up windows, but as they got closer, Doren noticed a faint wisp of smoke from the chimney, and a single, slightly ajar window. The house wasn't empty.
With a shared look, they entered the house. The air was cold, thick with the scent of dust and mildew. Doren held out his hand, and a soft, golden light bloomed from his palm, illuminating the dark, cluttered space. They searched the first floor, their senses on high alert, looking for any sign of a struggle or a clue. They found nothing.
They moved to the second floor, their footsteps silent on the creaking floorboards. In a small, cramped study, they found two journals, their leather covers worn with age.
Doren's heart pounded in his chest as he recognized the familiar, looping script of his father's handwriting on the first journal. He opened it, his eyes scanning the pages, a cold knot forming in his stomach.
The pages were filled with detailed notes about the Powerhart, its abilities, and its dangers. Even more knowledge. The second journal, written in a different handwriting, was filled with tactical diagrams and notes on the various abilities of the elements. There was a section specifically dedicated to the manipulation of water.
As Doren read the last line, a grim realization hit him. "He's a water elementalist," Doren said, his voice a low, rough whisper. Just then, a loud scuffle echoed from the basement, a clear, unmistakable sign of life.
Meko, his gaze fixed on the darkness, moved with a silent, grace. The creaking of the old wooden stairs was a muted whisper against his feet. Doren and Katarina followed behind him, their movements cautious and slow, their senses on high alert. Doren's hand still glowed with a soft, golden light, illuminating the narrow space, cutting through the heavy shadows that clung to the old stone walls.
The air grew colder with every step. The low scuffling sound they had heard earlier was gone, replaced by a tense, breathless silence. They reached the bottom of the stairs and found themselves in a large, open room, a cold, empty expanse of dirt floor and stone walls.
The light from Doren's hand stretched out, reaching into the far corners of the space. In the center of the room, a small, gaunt woman was curled up, her eyes wide with a feral fear. Her clothes were torn and her face was streaked with dirt and blood. She was a small person, with a delicate frame and thin, nimble fingers. But she was not Varen