Early Evening
Frey's Day
14th of Avril, Year 824 of the Silent Age
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Thorn's Day passed in a monotonous, aching blur. Too injured to swing a hammer, Projo spent the day with his body used as a tool for the mindless, repetitive work Bram assigned him. He sharpened chisels until his hands were raw, hauled scuttles of coal until his back screamed, and oiled tongs until the scent of grease coated his nostrils.
He worked through the gnawing ache of hunger, his only meal a thin, watery stew purchased with a day's wage Bram begrudgingly tossed him, saying it was but half-earned. He learned at the tavern that Mira and Thomas were gone, having left the city at sunrise, a fact that settled like a cold stone in his gut. The day ended as it had begun: in the heavy, disapproving silence of his mentor.
The only bright spot came at sunset, when Bram tossed a small, heavy pouch onto the workbench—five gold coins left by Mira before Projo had even awoken that morning. A fool's wage, Bram had called it. A reward for getting himself stabbed.
Projo knew his mentor was right, in a way. The gold was only a fifth of the debt he owed for the sword, and the light duties Bram could offer wouldn't dig him out of the hole anytime soon.
So Projo had pulled a single gold coin from the pouch, laid it on the anvil between himself and Bram, and told his mentor he would be gone in the morning—personal errands to find a way to repay him.
He spent the night in his small room, the remaining gold coins a cold, heavy weight in his hand. He thought of the grim clearing in the woods, of the crude armor the bandit leader wore, of the likelihood of coins in their pouches. The work of a smith was honorable and true, but it was slow. The work he had done two days ago was bloody and terrible, but it was fast.
The morning sun of Frey's Day did little to warm the cool, damp air of the forest. The path was easier to follow this time; the trail he and Mira had made on their return was still visible, a faint line of crushed leaves and bent ferns.
The horse, Clover, had gotten Projo to the clearing in just over an hour riding hard the other day. But on foot, it was over a four hour walk. To err on the side of caution, Projo had purchased two days of rations before he left town, slung in a simple sack over his good shoulder.
When Projo finally arrived at the clearing, the scene was much as he had left it. The unsettling quiet had been replaced by the grim sounds of nature reclaiming its own, however. A pair of large, black crows took flight from one of the bodies as he approached, their harsh caws echoing through the trees. The fire was a circle of cold, grey ash, and the air was thick with the cloying, metallic scent of old blood.
The three bandits lay where they had fallen, their bodies pale and beginning to show the first signs of decay. Their discarded weapons had already begun to rust slightly in the damp air. The bodies hadn't been disturbed by wolves, but the signs of scavenging birds were clear.
Steeling himself, Projo approached the first body—the one whose sword he had sheared in two. The work was grim and unpleasant—the man's pockets were shallow, yielding only a few sticky copper pieces and a half-eaten, molding apple. His leather armor was cheap and cracked, and the shattered sword was worthless.
He moved to the second bandit, the one he had knocked unconscious who had likely died from the fall. This one proved slightly more prosperous.
Finally, he approached the leader, the man who had stabbed him. The man's gear was of a slightly better make. Projo went through his pockets and pouches carefully.
With the bodies looted, he turned his attention to the camp itself. The bandits had piled the farm's goods near the fire. It wasn't treasure, but the simple wealth of a rural family.
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LOOT ACQUIRED:
+ From the Bodies:
- Money: 1 Gold, 12 Silver, 27 Copper pieces.
- Gear:
- Crude Leather Cuirass: (From the leader) It's smelly and has a few scuffs, but it's solid. It would offer decent protection for his chest.
- Iron Dagger: Serviceable, if a bit rusty. Comes with a simple sheath.
- Supplies:
+ A flint and steel for starting fires.
+ From the Camp (Stolen Farm Goods):
- A large sack of flour (too heavy to carry).
- Two preserved hams wrapped in cheesecloth.
- A wood-cutting axe, well-used but sharp.
- A small, locked wooden chest. It's not heavy-duty; a few solid hits from a hammer or the axe would likely break it open.
----
Projo stood in the center of the clearing, the meager but significant rewards of his victory laid out before him. The coin felt heavy in his pouch, a strange and dirty weight. The leather cuirass was a tangible piece of protection, something he desperately needed.
And then there was the chest. It was simple, wooden, but clearly a personal item, stolen from the family's home.
The practical realities of his situation began to set in. He was a four-hour walk from the city, but Mira's farm wouldn't be far away.
He donned the crude leather cuirass—the fit was poor, and the smell was worse, but the solid feel of it against his chest was a small comfort. He tucked the wood-cutting axe into his belt, tied the hams together with a strip of frayed rope from the camp, and slung them over his shoulder. Finally, he hoisted the small, locked chest under his other arm.
Laden down like a pack mule, he left the bodies behind and began the trek out of the forest. The walk was short, but the silence was heavy. After about twenty minutes of pushing through the undergrowth, the trees thinned, and he emerged onto the edge of a dirt road. Across the road, set back in a field of apple trees, was the farm.
It was a devastating sight.
The front door of the small, stone-and-timber farmhouse was splintered, hanging crookedly on one hinge. A wagon was overturned in the yard, its contents—sacks of apples—spilled across the grass. An eerie silence hung over the entire property, heavier and more profound than the quiet of the deep woods.
Two shapes lay near the front porch, covered by simple white sheets.
Projo stepped onto the property, his boots crunching softly between scattered apples. As he neared the farmhouse, a new sound reached him, cutting through the quiet. A rhythmic thud... scrape... thud... scrape. It was the sound of a shovel biting into the earth, coming from around the back of the house.
He followed the sound, rounding the corner of the stone building.
Under the shade of a large, old oak tree, he found a scene of solemn labor. A broad-shouldered man—Thomas—was waist-deep in a freshly dug grave, his face dour and slick with sweat as he heaved another shovelful of dark soil onto a growing pile.
Mira was a few feet away, sitting on a low stone wall with her back to Projo. Her shoulders were slumped with exhaustion and grief, and she was methodically cleaning a small, wooden grave marker with a rag.
Projo took a hesitant step forward and gently cleared his throat to make his presence known.
Thomas froze mid-swing, his eyes immediately locking onto Projo. His expression hardened, a mixture of grief, exhaustion, and raw suspicion. He saw a stranger, clad in crude leather, carrying an axe and the very goods stolen from this home. His grip tightened on the handle of his shovel.
"What do you want?" Thomas asked, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
Mira turned, and her eyes widened in surprise as she recognized Projo, a complex wave of emotions washing over her face. She stood up slowly, her gaze dropping to the hams slung over his shoulder and the small wooden chest clutched under his arm.
Projo stood awkwardly under the weight of the stolen goods and the two survivors' intense stares. Thomas's suspicion a palpable force. Mira, however, quickly found her voice, stepping between the two men as a fragile peacemaker.
"Thomas, wait," she said, her voice soft but firm. She put a gentle hand on his arm, and he reluctantly lowered the shovel, though his posture remained rigid.
She turned her full attention towards him. "Projo... what are you doing here?"
"Hey," Projo said awkwardly, straining a little against the weight. "I went back and grabbed what I could of what they took." He grimaced a little from pain. "Not sure what's in the chest but it looked important."
Mira's expression softened, a wave of understanding washing over her face. She stepped forward and took the wooden chest from under Projo's arm.
Thomas's eyes narrowed, a flicker of recognition dawning. "You're the blacksmith's boy." He leaned the shovel against the pile of dirt and crossed his thick arms over his chest. "I didn't expect to see you again."
His gaze was hard and suspicious as he looked at the hams slung over Projo's shoulder and the axe at his belt. "Why bring this back? Could've sold it all in the market, no one would have known." The question wasn't a thank you; it was an accusation. He was testing Projo, trying to understand his angle.
Projo shifted the weight of the hams, the movement pulling at his sore muscles. "Just... trying to do the right thing," he said quietly.
Thomas grunted, unconvinced.
But Mira shot him a sharp look before turning back to Projo with a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Projo," she said sincerely. "That was... honorable."
She placed the chest on the low stone wall and looked at the half-dug grave, then back at the two shrouded forms near the house. The heavy reality of the situation returned, pushing the momentary relief aside. "We still have... a lot to do," she said, her voice catching slightly.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" Projo asked without hesitation.
Mira looked at Projo, her eyes red-rimmed with unshed tears. His simple offer seemed to break through her wall of grief for a moment. She opened her mouth to accept—
But Thomas cut her off.
"We've got it covered, Smith." He stepped forward, planting his body between Projo and Mira in a clear, territorial move. "This is family business."
The words hung in the air, heavy and possessive. Mira's expression hardened instantly.
"Thomas," she said, her voice sharp as a shard of glass. "Another shovel will make this go faster. It will be dark soon."
She didn't wait for his response, looking past him, directly at Projo. "There's another shovel by the woodpile. We need to dig a second grave... here." She pointed to a spot beside the one Thomas was working on.
Her command was absolute, leaving no room for argument. Thomas's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Turning back to his work with a renewed, angry vigor, he plunged the shovel deep into the earth.
The spare shovel was leaning against a stack of firewood near the back of the house. It was old and worn, its handle smooth from years of use. The solemn, grueling work began, forming an uneasy triangle of grief under the old oak tree. The only sounds were the scrape and thud of the two shovels and the soft, rhythmic sound of Mira gently scrubbing the weathered wood of the grave markers.
For some reason, Projo found he was able to keep a steady, relentless pace despite the ache in his chest. A strange strength pushed through him that definitely felt related to the energy he had experienced with Mira.
Next to him, Thomas worked with a frantic, angry energy. He dug faster, harder, heaving massive shovelfuls of dirt as if he were fighting the earth itself. It was a clear, unspoken challenge—a display of strength and stamina meant to mark his territory and prove his worth. But Projo, simply focusing on the task, matched his pace without strain, a fact that only seemed to make Thomas's jaw clench tighter.
Mira said nothing. She finished cleaning the two simple wooden markers, then sat on the low stone wall, a silent, grieving overseer to the dark work.
The sun began to dip lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. After what felt like an eternity, two perfectly rectangular holes scarred the earth under the old oak tree. The graves were ready.
The three of them stood in heavy silence for a moment before Thomas finally broke it, his voice rough with exhaustion.
"Alright," he nodded toward the house. "Let's... let's bring them."
The task of carrying the shrouded bodies from the porch to their final resting place was a slow, agonizing procession. Projo and Thomas took Mira's father, the weight heavy. As Thomas moved Mira's mother, Mira walked beside, one hand
Next, Mira walked beside Thomas, one hand resting on her mother's form as he carried her in his arms.
They laid them gently in the earth.
The finality of the moment hung heavy and absolute. They stood there, three figures outlined against the setting sun, the open graves at their feet.
Thomas leaned heavily on his shovel, his chest heaving. He looked from the graves to the farmhouse, then to the vast, quiet orchard stretching out behind it.
"I should..." Projo began, his voice quiet and a little rough. "I'll give you two some space." He turned to leave, to give them the privacy this moment deserved.
"Please," Mira's voice cut through the twilight, stopping him in his tracks. "Stay."
Projo turned back. She was still looking at the graves, not at him, but her request was clear.
Thomas took a deep, shuddering breath and looked down at the two shrouded forms. "Don't you worry, Mr. and Mrs. Gable," he said, voice thick with a raw, earnest emotion. "I'll watch over everything. I'll take care of her. I promise."
Projo saw Mira flinch, a slight stiffening of her shoulders. She said nothing, her face a mask of grief. But a cold stillness settled over her.
The three of them worked in silence then, the unpleasant task of filling the graves a slow, rhythmic process. The scrape and thud of the shovels was a funereal drumbeat in the deepening twilight. When it was done, two fresh mounds of dark earth lay beneath the old oak tree.
They stood for a long moment, exhausted and covered in dirt. Mira finally turned away from the graves and looked toward the farmhouse.
"I have to light the lamps," she said in a hollow voice. Then she turned to Projo. "You've done more than enough... but if you would... stay for a meal. It's the least I can offer."
Before Thomas could object, Mira walked toward the house, leaving the two men alone in the growing dark.