The gates creaked shut behind Arin, muffling the outside world until only the hushed life of the village seeped into his senses. Lanterns swung on crooked wooden posts, their flames sputtering in the autumn breeze. The light spilled unevenly across the packed dirt paths, throwing long shadows of cottages stitched together from stone, clay, and timber. Their thatched roofs bristled like shaggy hair against the night sky, and faint trails of smoke wound upward from chimneys, carrying with them the scent of woodfire and boiled herbs.
It was the hour before darkness fell — a time when hearths glowed warm and supper pots simmered. Here and there, doors stood open as villagers carried in bundles of kindling or baskets of turnips, onions, and grain. The smell of roasted meat drifted from one house, the tang of cabbage and thick broth from another. A woman swept her threshold briskly, as though to finish the day's chores before the sun disappeared entirely. Children ran past clutching small loaves of bread, chased by a boy wielding a wooden spoon like a sword, until their mother's sharp call sent them tumbling back inside.
Still, despite the ordinary rhythm of evening, the sight of a stranger marked with dirt and dried blood pulled quiet suspicion from every corner. Women at water barrels paused mid-pour, their pale eyes catching the lamplight before they turned away, whispering into each other's ears. Men with bundles of firewood shifted their loads uneasily, their shoulders tightening. Somewhere deeper inside the village, a lute strummed a meandering tune — its warmth at odds with the hushed unease that followed Arin's steps.
The watchman walked a few paces ahead, torch in hand, its glow casting uneven light on the cottages. His silence pressed heavy, though not unkind; it was the measured quiet of a man doing his duty, leading a stranger through the heart of a settlement that had not seen many outsiders in some time.
For Arin, the stillness of the village pressed against him as surely as the forest once had. Yet it was not the wildness of unknown beasts that unsettled him now, but the quiet judgment of human eyes, watching from darkened windows and shadowed alleys while supper fires burned behind them.
The torchlight flickered as the watchman finally slowed his steps, turning to face Arin beneath the crooked bough of a wooden post. His features, half-bathed in orange glow, revealed a man in his middle years — thick eyebrows shadowing a pair of sharp, assessing eyes, and a jaw set with the habit of suspicion. The rough leather of his jerkin bore scratches from long use, and the spear in his hand seemed less a weapon of ceremony than one worn from necessity.
"You came in from the forest," the watchman said at last, his voice carrying the gravel of long nights spent guarding gates. "At this hour. Alone. That is no small thing." His eyes narrowed. "No ordinary traveler survives the treeline once the sun dips. And you—" he tilted his chin at Arin's clothes, streaked with blood and soil, "—you look as though you've wrestled the wild itself."
Arin steadied himself beneath the man's scrutiny. "I… fought a goblin."
The word fell into the quiet like a stone into still water. For a moment, the watchman's expression didn't change, but the hand gripping his spear tightened visibly. He studied Arin's face as though weighing the truth of the statement against the youth's battered appearance.
"A goblin, you say," the man muttered. He spat to the side, as if to banish the taste of the word. "Not far from the gates, then? Curse it… we'll have to check the woods again at dawn." His gaze returned to Arin, hard and steady. "You're lucky to be standing, stranger. Goblins don't stalk alone unless they've lost their band. And if one strayed this close…" He trailed off, lips pressed thin. "You're either foolish, or stronger than you look."
Arin swallowed, unsure whether to take the words as warning or acknowledgment. "I only did what I had to. It was him or me."
The watchman's lips twitched, almost forming a smile but settling instead into a grim nod. He motioned with his torch toward the heart of the village. "Come. You'll need to speak to the headman before you find food or fire tonight. Outsiders aren't often welcomed without questions."
They walked again, this time deeper into the village lanes. Here, the buildings stood closer together, walls leaning inward as though huddling against the cold. Shutters were drawn tight, but slivers of lamplight leaked through cracks, glowing like hidden embers. A cat darted across the path, disappearing into a stack of crates. The sound of laughter drifted faintly from a tavern where smoke curled out from a crooked chimney, but even that laughter dimmed as the villagers caught sight of Arin.
The watchman's voice broke through again, gruff and direct. "You've got a name, boy?"
"Arin."
"Arin," the man repeated, as though weighing it. "You don't dress like a merchant. Not like a hunter either. And you carry no pack worth mentioning." His eyes flicked to Arin's empty hands, lingering on the faint smear of goblin blood at his wrist. "So tell me—why risk the forest alone?"
The question hit harder than expected. Arin hesitated, the truth of his arrival in this world pressing against his tongue. But no answer he could give would sound reasonable here. Instead, he forced his voice steady. "Circumstances brought me here. I don't have much choice but to keep moving forward."
The watchman studied him for a long moment, his eyes narrowing once more. Then he grunted. "Circumstances. Hmph. Every drifter's tale begins that way." He jabbed his spear toward the road ahead. "Save your riddles for the headman. He'll decide if you're trouble, or just another mouth for the pot."
They continued past a row of homes until the lane opened into a modest square. At its center stood a well, its stones slick with moss, and beside it a shrine carved from weathered wood — a simple figure of a robed woman whose features were worn smooth by countless prayers and offerings. Candles flickered at her feet, their wax dripping into little pools along the ground.
Arin slowed, eyes catching on the shrine. "Who is she?"
The watchman glanced at him, then at the figure, his face unreadable. "The Lady of the Veil. Guardian of travelers and keepers of gates." He gave a humorless snort. "Seems she had her eye on you, if you've lived to stumble through my post."
The words hung there, half-mocking, half-sincere, and Arin felt a faint chill despite the torchlight. The shrine's faceless countenance seemed to peer at him all the same.
Perfect. Section 3 will carry Arin into the meeting with the headman, while also naturally revealing the watchman's name along the way. This section will lean heavier on worldbuilding, as the headman and the watchman provide context about goblins, village concerns, and perhaps hint at broader threats. The immersive parts will be focused on Arin's reactions and the tension of being judged as an outsider.
Here's Section 3 draft:
The watchman pushed open the door to a timber-framed house that stood taller than most of the others in the square. Its roof sagged slightly beneath the weight of time, but smoke still trailed from its chimney, and the faint warmth of firelight spilled across the dirt threshold. He gestured for Arin to enter, his spear tapping once against the doorframe before he followed inside.
The scent of burning oak filled the room, mingled with herbs hung in bunches from the rafters. A long table stretched near the hearth, its surface cluttered with parchments, a clay inkpot, and a single lantern whose glow illuminated a man seated at the far end. His hair was streaked with gray, his skin weathered like bark, and though his back was bent slightly, his eyes were sharp as flint.
"So this is the wanderer who's stirred up our quiet evening," the old man said, his voice calm but heavy with authority. He leaned forward, resting both hands on a polished walking staff. "I am Darrin, headman of Emberstead. And you?"
"Arin," he answered, inclining his head with as much composure as he could muster.
"Arin," the headman repeated slowly, as though testing the shape of the name. His eyes flicked toward the watchman. "You found him beyond the palisade, Bren?"
The watchman grunted, resting the butt of his spear against the floor. "He came stumbling out of the forest at dusk. Claimed to have fought a goblin."
At the word, the headman's gaze sharpened. He studied Arin anew, eyes lingering on the scratches along his arm and the blood that had dried across his torn sleeve. "Is this true?"
"Yes," Arin said. His throat tightened as the memory of the fight flashed in his mind — the branch striking, the dagger clattering, the desperation in every breath. "I had no choice. It attacked me. I managed to survive, but…" He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I'm not sure how many more of them are in the forest."
Darrin's jaw tightened. He tapped his staff once against the floorboards, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "A lone goblin near our walls is troubling enough. They are cowards by nature, but hunters when emboldened. If one came this close, there may be others sniffing about. The woods haven't carried that stench in years."
Bren spat into the fire, his expression grim. "That's what I told him. Goblins don't wander alone unless there's trouble." He glanced at Arin with suspicion still simmering in his eyes. "But he made it out alive. That counts for something, doesn't it?"
The headman gave a slow nod, though his gaze remained heavy on Arin. "Indeed. Few can claim such a feat. Which begs the question, boy—what brought you through those cursed trees at nightfall? Where is your kin, your caravan, your purpose?"
Arin swallowed. The truth of his sudden arrival in this world could not be spoken. Not here, not now. He met the headman's eyes and forced out the only answer that felt safe. "Circumstances drove me here. I don't have kin nearby, nor coin to my name. Only the will to keep moving forward."
The fire popped in the hearth. For a moment, the silence felt unbearable, each crackle echoing like judgment. Then Darrin leaned back in his chair, his staff resting across his knees. "A stranger with no tale worth telling, yet bearing the marks of battle. A curious thing. You ask us to believe in chance, but chance is rarely kind to Emberstead."
Arin's jaw tightened. "I didn't ask you to believe me. Only to let me rest my feet for the night."
At this, Bren shifted, his grip on the spear loosening slightly. For the first time, a faint spark of something other than suspicion crossed his features — perhaps respect, or perhaps the recognition of stubbornness.
The headman studied them both, then finally gave a weary sigh. "The Lady of the Veil has her ways, and perhaps she guided you here for a reason. You will be given shelter for tonight, but no more than that until we know your true measure. Emberstead is not so large that we can afford risk." He gestured toward Bren. "See to it that the boy has a place by the hall fire. Tomorrow, he will answer more questions."
Bren nodded, casting Arin one last searching look before motioning for him to follow again.
As they stepped back into the square, the cool air rushed to meet them. Villagers still lingered at their windows, watching with furtive eyes, whispering in tones Arin could not catch. He felt the weight of every gaze, the sense of being an intruder in a world that was not his own.
At his side, the watchman finally spoke again, his tone quieter, less guarded. "Name's Bren, by the way. Don't make me regret pulling you from the forest, Arin."
Arin nodded faintly. "I won't."
Bren grunted, satisfied enough for now. "Good. Then keep your head down. This village has long memories and little patience for mystery."
Together, they walked toward the long hall whose smoke curled steady into the night, its doors promising warmth — and more questions yet to come.
The long hall was warmer than Arin expected. Its heavy oak doors groaned as Bren pushed them open, letting out a wave of heat and the smell of stewed meat and smoke. Inside, the firepit blazed in the center, its flames licking upward and painting the rafters in restless shadows. Benches and tables circled the hearth, where a handful of villagers sat hunched over bowls, their faces weary from the day's labor.
Heads turned as Bren entered with Arin at his side. The low rumble of conversation faltered. A man with a scar running down his cheek leaned closer to his companion, muttering beneath his breath. A woman clutching a bundle of cloth to her chest whispered something sharp, her eyes darting to Arin's blood-stained sleeve.
Bren ignored them. "Headman says he stays by the fire," he barked, his tone carrying the weight of someone used to being obeyed. "He's fought a goblin and lived. That's reason enough to let him warm his bones."
Murmurs rippled, but no one challenged him. Instead, the villagers returned to their food and their quiet words, though their eyes lingered on Arin longer than comfort allowed.
Bren motioned to an empty bench near the firepit. "Sit. Eat if you can stomach it. Someone will bring you a bowl." His gaze lingered, sharp but not unkind. "I'll check the gates." With that, he left, the doors shutting heavily behind him.
Arin lowered himself onto the bench, the fire's warmth sinking into his chilled skin. For the first time since stumbling from the forest, the tightness in his chest eased slightly. Yet the hall was no refuge; he could feel the weight of the villagers' suspicion pressing against his back, unspoken but palpable.
A clay bowl was set down in front of him by a boy no older than twelve. Steam rose from its contents — a thin broth with a scattering of roots and a sliver of meat. "Headwoman says you're to have this," the boy muttered before darting away, not waiting for thanks.
Arin took the bowl in both hands, savoring its warmth before sipping carefully. The flavor was plain, almost bitter, but it filled the gnawing emptiness in his stomach.
As he ate, the conversations around him drifted, carried on the crackle of the fire. He forced himself to listen.
"…goblins near the river last spring," an older man was saying. "But the hunters drove them off before they came too close. Never heard of one skulking alone."
"They say goblins follow stronger things," a woman murmured. "If one came near the palisade, what else might be prowling in the dark?"
Her words sent a shiver along Arin's spine, though she spoke them as rumor rather than truth.
Further down the bench, two younger men argued in hushed voices. "I heard Emberstead was built on the bones of an older town," one said. "The stones in the well? Too old to be ours. My da said there were ruins in the woods long before the Lady's shrine was raised."
"Bah," the other scoffed. "Old tales to scare children. Emberstead's stood long enough, hasn't it?"
Their voices blended back into the general murmur, leaving only fragments behind. Yet each fragment hinted at more — unseen dangers, older histories, fears that gnawed at the edges of this fragile settlement.
On the opposite side of the firepit, two women spoke in lowered voices as they mended fishing nets. Arin caught snippets between their clattering needles.
"…trade caravan from Hallowspire delayed again. Bandits along the western road, some say. Others whisper of glass serpents near the cliffs."
"Glass serpents?" the second woman scoffed, though unease crept into her tone. "Stories."
"Stories don't leave men with wounds that glitter under the skin," the first retorted. "My cousin saw one — said it was near invisible until the starlight caught it. By then, his friend was half cut to ribbons."
Arin frowned, his hand tightening on the rim of his bowl. Invisible predators?
A grizzled man with a voice like gravel chimed in from another bench, uninvited. "If you want monsters, think of the shale-tusks. They've been ramming through fences again. Last week, one took down an ox like it was nothing. Near broke a plow in half. That's no story."
Several heads nodded grimly. The thought of stone-plated beasts charging into fields struck too close to home.
Across from him, a younger villager countered, "Better tusks than the bog-stalkers down south. Mirelurks, they call them. My uncle swore they lured his hound into the water with splashing sounds — dragged it under before he could blink."
A hush followed that tale. Children huddled nearer their mothers.
"And what of the barrows?" the old woman at the farthest bench croaked. Her hands shook as she held her cup. "They say wights walk there again. Pale things with hunger in their eyes. Don't tell me you haven't felt the cold come sudden at night. That's no wind — that's them."
The fire crackled, filling the silence that followed. For a moment, the villagers stared into the flames as though afraid to look anywhere else.
Arin listened, his jaw tight. Shale-tusks, glass serpents, mirelurks, wights — each name was a weight, a reminder that the goblin he'd fought was only the smallest piece of this world's dangers. To these people, monsters were not myths but boundaries, shaping where they farmed, hunted, and dared to travel.
He stared into the fire as the villagers' voices ebbed and flowed around him. In another life, perhaps he might have thought these nothing more than ghost stories told by candlelight. But here, every whispered monster felt like a warning.
For now, he had warmth, food, and a roof. Tomorrow would bring questions. And beyond that—answers, or more dangers.
The villagers' voices faded into a low hum, like the steady crackle of the firepit. Arin sat still, cradling the empty clay bowl in his hands. For a brief moment, he let himself feel the warmth in his belly, the heaviness of his limbs, the drowsy pull of exhaustion after too many hours on edge.
But even in the quiet, his mind would not rest. Their whispers lingered. Shale-tusks battering stone gates. Wights drifting like shadows across rivers. Mirelurks stalking marsh reeds with spear-like limbs. Carrion drakes wheeling in skies that promised only death. Each tale had been told with a mix of fear and weary acceptance — as if monsters were as natural a part of the land as rain or winter.
He remembered the goblin's snarling face, the sudden sting of claws across his arm. That had been a single creature, and already survival had been a desperate gamble. What would he do if faced with something far worse?
Arin's gaze dropped to his hands. The faint tremor had not left them. He curled his fingers into fists and exhaled slowly. Fear could not be allowed to take root. Not now.
The firelight caught in the iron pot that hung above the flames, casting reflections like molten gold across the rafters. It reminded him of the words Bren had spoken earlier, clipped though they were: "He fought a goblin and lived." That mattered. That meant something. In this world, survival itself was proof.
He leaned back against the bench, exhaustion settling deeper into his bones. For the first time since awakening in this strange place, he allowed his eyes to drift closed. The fire's warmth lulled him, and though suspicion still lingered in the villagers' eyes, none came to drive him away.
For tonight, he had earned a place by the fire.
And tomorrow, he would decide what to do with it.
---
Status Window — Updated
Name: Arin
Level: 2
HP: 9/13
MP: 6/6
Strength: 10 (Max: 76)
Endurance: 9 (Max: 83)
Agility: 10 (Max: 71)
Dexterity: 7 (Max: 68)
Intelligence: 9 (Max: 34)
Willpower: 8 (Max: 32)
Unallocated Points: 0