Light. A dazzling high sun, a clean horizon blocked by nothing but fluffy clouds lingering high up in the sky. Whistling wind, blowing powerfully past the woman's body, nearly knocking her off her feet as she stood up straight, gazing at the lands before her.

She had made it. Finally, after many days of walking, of hiking through green, orangey forest, hunting whatever game she had come across, both for sustenance as well as necessary strength, the treeline had gradually given away to this wonderful sight before her.

Wide, open air. Vast plains below, with dotted settlements here and there before the misty air obscured them further. And, way off in the distance, she could see rooves, buildings, all taller than a regular house. Towers, even.

Behind her sat the forest, situated in a caldera of sorts. The trees had given way not right at the cusp of this bowl-like formation of rock and earth but somewhere before it. Standing right on the lip, at the highest point she could, the tops of the canopies were laid bare before her as she gazed upon the forest that had been her home for so long.

Only now that she had full awareness of how vast and expansive this area was did the realisation of just how lost she would’ve been without the stream strike her. If not for the sole landmark she navigated by, always keeping on one side as she trailed its ever gradual but inevitable incline, she’d undoubtedly have walked in circles, trapped in the dark forest forever.

From her vantage point, she could see strange protrusions standing high even amongst the gigantic trees. They were more numerous towards the edge of the forest, higher up, as both the trees grew shorter while the blackstone structures grew taller.

Tops of towers, much like the one she had seen before, except, they were somewhat unusual compared to what she had experienced firsthand.

They were made of a polished, smooth blackstone, yes, but unlike the monolithic construction she was used to, this was more an amalgamation of materials, more akin to modern construction that she was used to.

Metal laid interwoven with brick, reinforcing the structure and causing sunlight to glint off even the rusted surface. Strange, odd shapes covered the walls, with even some parts sticking out similar to spider legs. The towers, as few and little of them she could see, looked like someone modernising an old, ancient building--renovating it.

The towers that poked their heads out from the leafy blanket were spaced fairly far apart--she estimated if she walked hard like she had done for the recent past days, it’d take her just under a full day's journey to reach each one sequentially.

Additionally, they were in a somewhat circular formation, a natural consequence of being placed equidistant in a caldera. However, there were some further in, and some further out, until it came to a point that any tower so deep into the forest failed to penetrate through the canopy, as she had observed with her first tower.

Though she was on an elevated point, she wasn’t that much taller than the trees. She was able to see certain sections of the forest that seemed to just… Not be there. There was a gap in the trees, where the foliage was distinctly, drastically, less dense. Of course, the largest area was situated right in the centre of the caldera, at its deepest point. This, she surmised, could only have been that mysterious village she had encountered.

But the other treeless patches? She had no idea what caused them. Nor did she plan to find out.

Giving one last good look over the place that had housed her for so long, she turned her back on the wooded place to look upon new horizons.

Again, a sudden, strong gust blew through her, the wind cutting straight to her bones, as she wrapped her cloak even tighter around her, shivering through the ordeal.

Not wanting to stay up there any longer than she had to, she shifted her gaze from far away misty mountains and hazy, blurry towers outstanding from the landscape to the more immediate scenery.

There were fields abundant, surprisingly empty and sparse but recognisably farmland not that far from the base of this caldera--or a mountain, as it would look to people on the ground.

The nearest village to her wasn’t any ordinary village, however. The most obvious, unique point was the giant, gaping crater in the centre of it. She couldn’t see the bottom of the crater but houses surrounding a hole in the ground? It certainly reminded her of what she encountered in the forest.

Thankfully, she at least couldn’t see any of those white monsters milling about, so it at least seemed like a human village, just with some odd scenery around it.

Just thinking about the place sent rivulets of joy through her.

People! Civilisation! Actual amenities! Fucking finally!

Her body, filled with boundless energy even after all the walking she had done thus far, urged her to get moving.

She swept her gaze from the village along the path she’d take; there seemed to be a farmer's house a ways off from the village but directly in her path; she’d take that place as an opportunity to gather more information--potentially food or clothes while she was at it, as well.

First, all I have to do is to get down. Somehow.

Descending was easier said than done. The first hurdle was the sheer steepness of the mountain itself that the woman had found herself on top of; one wrong move, one misplaced footstep, and she was liable to go tumbling down the rough, grassy and rocky hillside.

The steepness also meant she was at risk of toppling over; she’d need to carefully maintain her balance and purposefully descend slowly, inch by inch.

There was also the issue of the many rocky outcroppings that littered the ground. Any that may have seemed like a smooth, relatively shallow descent may deceptively give way to a sudden drop onto jagged, sharp rocks.

She would need to keep her wits about her.

With a resigned huff, she began her climb down

The night had already dragged on, the dark sky peering down menacingly as the twinkling stars illuminated the otherwise pitch-black fabric of the sky.

Inside a relatively new, half wooden, half cobbled stone building rose an aged, wizened man. His saggy, wrinkly skin betrayed his age but his thick arms, strong grip, and stable form showed how, even late in his life, his body was one of health and strength.

Wearing only a long, thick dress helping to keep him warm even under his bed covers, he rose from his slumber, rudely awoken by the clattering of wood from a nearby room.

Though his house lacked illumination so late into the night, with nary a lit candle nor burning hearth to light his way, his eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. His bare feet sounded softly against the wooden floorboards as he made sure to keep his step light and quiet.

Carefully, he opened the door to his bedroom, taking in the main room of his home, looking for anything astray--any sign of disturbance.

Upon first glance, everything seemed to be normal; the table was in its usual place, with the chairs neatly tucked in, as he had left them. No tableware was left out, cutlery or bowls strewn about the place. What few crates he left in this room were also unopened, sitting nicely against the wall.

Just in case, however, he reached for the shovel leaning against the wall, as a precautionary weapon, as he went to check the crates.

It was as he thought; nothing amiss.

So far, so ordinary. But he knew his ears heard something. Maybe he could’ve attributed it to his old age catching up with him but the nights were usually silent; this was too unusual an occurrence for him to dismiss it so readily.

So, he went to check on the last room in his home. It was smaller than the others and so he relegated it for storage, for things that must be kept dry and at least somewhat warm.

The door creaked open, no locks needing to be undone. The door was sturdy for what it was and was in decent condition, showing no damage that wasn’t there before.

Raising his shovel in a half-determined stance, he gently pushed open the door before taking a step back, prepared for something to jump at him.

But nothing came. As tension began to seep out of his muscles, he took his first step into the room, face still taut with determination, smothering out the lingering anxiety over what produced the noise.

A quiet whistling sang through the air, as well as a gentle breeze quickly blowing through him, the air distinctly cooler in this room. He suspiciously eyed the back door.

Checking the shelves, everything was mostly there; the dry wood was packed in neatly but not all of the vegetables were. He hadn’t tabulated his stock but he was the only one living in the house; he knew how much food he should have, and there were some vegetables missing.

Walking further in, now firmly past the threshold to the room, he began to check the crates.

Immediately, something was up. For one, the iron crow used to open said crates was lying haphazardly on the floor near a wall, like it had fallen to the ground after being leant against the wall. Certainly not where he had last left it.

To add to that, the crates were conspicuously opened. That cemented it, in his mind; this was no wild animal that had wandered into his house. His food wasn’t eaten and this thing had opposable thumbs.

Thankfully, the crates were already empty, half of them not even nailed shut. But that was only the case with the smaller containers.

Further towards the back, where there was actually another door into this storeroom, leading in from outside, sat the larger crates--the ones he had recently nailed shut, half-filled with produce he was going to be selling soon.

Or, at least, they were the last time he had checked on them. Instead, now, the one closest to the door was busted open, the lid leaning against the crate itself.

As the old man inched closer, shovel raised high as he squinted into the darkness, the contents of the crate revealed itself to him.

The wool that he had stored in there earlier, ready for transport in the coming days. Except, the wool was strange; not only was it not longer packed and compacted to make the most efficient use of space, it was instead thrown up, like someone dug through it.

More importantly, the previously dull, grey wool was now a gleaming, beautiful white.

He had cleaned the wool, of course, but never so thoroughly scoured to reduce all dust, grime, and dirt to nothing. They retained their greyish hue for that was all that was required of him. Not to mention, the familiar, earthy smell was undetectable. Rather than being overpowered by a stronger aroma, like washing clothes with scents, the smell was just not there at all, the rustic smell of the house being the predominant aroma in the air.

Quickly, he fished his hands hands through the produce, finding nothing but wool and more wool.

As a shiver crept through his arms, the cold, outside air too chilly for how lightly attired he was, he shuffled over towards the back door, eyeing the shiny metal lock with subdued surprise before latching the door shut again.

The metal should’ve been fairly rusted; it was an old lock, the door frequently banging whenever a storm brewed overhead, causing a right ruckus to echo throughout the house.

He had been meaning to replace it, too easy to open the door with some strong impacts from outside, but wild animals weren’t an issue around these parts and no one else lived nearby--he saw no need to change it. Not to mention, metal was expensive enough as it was.

Once the door was locked shut, tension drained from his muscles as consideration for what the sound was reached him; either a strangely determined animal of some kind or a common crook.

Although, why they would only take his food and nothing else, even considering they rummaged through his wool, he didn’t know. Perhaps they weren’t a criminal and merely hungry?

Bending down to place the lid back onto the open crate, endeavouring to nail it shut again later, something caught his eye.

He was a farmer, yes, but that didn’t mean he was messy. His wife would often berate him for trailing mud into the house whenever he had his lazy days. It was only natural that, in their later years together, he’d pick up some of her cleanliness habits, voluntarily sweeping the floorboards to keep them nice and clean. It was a modest living but a simple clean helped more than you could imagine.

So, that’s why the hair he found on the floor stood out so starkly to him. He himself was nearly bald, hair grey, but this clearly wasn’t his.

Bending down to inspect further, he realised that there were actually different types of hair; one had a golden lustre to it, very long in comparison to his own and quite wavy. The other was short and not a uniform colour; parts of a single fibre were either brown or red.

In fact, he recognised this sort of hair; it was the fur of boars that some people occasionally hunted nearby.

He knew for a fact a boar hadn’t broken in--it would’ve made a lot more sound, for one--so someone carrying boar fur had stolen vegetables from him. Why didn’t they just eat the boar? Or sell the hide in the village for some vegetables?

More and more questions continued to pile up in his mind as he wandered back over to his bed, dismissing them all as he drifted off back to sleep.

The rest of the night, thankfully, was peaceful. Not a sound echoed throughout the house and by the time the old man woke up, he was pleasantly rested.

Shifting on his working gear, he picked up his bow and quiver, and gathered up his arrows before leaving the house to begin tending to his cattle.

The day grew long, the sun rising and falling just like any other day. Not other strange occurrences happened, nor did he meet with whoever this mysterious stranger was. The sheep grazed and drank. Oddly enough, there were no attempts to take his sheep by any foxes.

They often holed themselves up somewhere he was unable to find, breeding and injuring his sheep the moment he took an eye off them. His archery wasn’t the best but a few arrows in their general direction was often enough to ward them off for the day.

There was even one particularly persistent one that had been hounding him for near a week now, not fearing arrows as much as it should.

But, today, there was none to be found. It was a pleasant change, sure, but the strangeness of this, combined with whoever was making his food disappear, had him a little on edge.

On his return home, he closed the window shutters and latched the door shut again, as he always did.

But relaxation didn’t immediately take him. In the back of his mind remained a suspicion. Swapping his bow and quiver for his trusty shovel, he headed back to the storeroom, unable to relax unless he checked the state of the place.

A similar story again. No wood was gone, but some vegetables were and a different crate was opened this time. Checking the wool inside, the same thing had happened; gleaming white with an unimaginably pure lustre. Quickly checking it was a different crate of wool, it was indeed.

Was the thief doing this intentionally? If they didn’t have anything to trade for food, could they be cleaning the wool in compensation for their theft? The old man had never heard of anything like that; thieves stole because they couldn’t offer anything else. This person could simply come up to him and he’d certainly make them a meal if they could do more stuff like this.

He wasn’t a weaver but even he could appreciate the value of pure white, clean wool over the relatively dirty stuff he was selling previously.

Just like before, after an inspection of the floor, more hair and fur remained, which he swiftly swept up.

Returning to his bed, he struggled to sleep, mind awhirl with thoughts about his mysterious visitor.

By the time he woke up, however, a plan had formulated in his mind. Quite frankly, he didn’t like being the recipient of theft, even if he was getting something in return. It wasn’t the monetary value of it but, rather, the principle.

So, prepared for this benevolent bandit, the man cooked up some nice soup. It wasn’t much, but it was certainly better than just raw vegetables--able to be eaten cold, as well.

Walking into the storeroom, he cracked open the last remaining crate of wool, placed it right in front of the door, and placed the soup in plain view. Hopefully, this was enough to lure the person out of hiding and indicate his meaning.

With that done, he equipped himself once more and headed out to work. However, this time, he made sure to keep an eye on his house. The sheep didn’t graze far or wide for this but only limiting them for one day was fine, he decided.

Once again, no fox attacked this time, but that wasn’t the biggest thing he noticed that day. No, he saw something; a fur-clad shape quickly running towards his house, darting out from a nearby cluster of trees he hadn’t chopped down.

It was small and nimble, the sun hindering his perception of the thing. He quickly herded the sheep back home, his built-up talent and skills over the years making it a swift process, before hurrying himself back.

Unfortunately, he was too slow. By the time he made it to the storeroom, the bowl was empty and the wool clean, with the person nowhere in sight. He grumbled under his breath, must’ve only been just a little bit slow, before doubling down his resolve to meet this person.

For the next day, he simply fed his sheep some stored hay instead of taking them out to graze. This way, he could remain in his house, watching the storeroom door.

To while away the time, he tended to his own clothing, sewing up holes and applying patches where necessary.

And then he heard it; the door opening quickly. He had left the door unlatched during today and yesterday, to convey his cooperative intentions.

Rushing to the doorway, he finally caught a glance at this person.

They were short, hood pulled up but long, blonde hair dangling down. The cloak was made of fur he correctly identified--that of boar. Her shoes as well.

Both articles of clothing looked makeshift, with large, messy stitching holding it all together. None of it even seemed treated or cured in any way, as if taken straight from the corpse. The old man could only briefly wonder why there wasn't the smell of decaying flesh in the air.

The craftsmanship of the person's clothes wasn’t the most startling thing he noticed, however. She was a woman. That wasn’t strange in-of-itself but, rather, she had no other clothes covering her body.

Her skin was pale, smooth, and unmarked and if not for the cloak, she’d have no protection from the elements.

He doubted if she was even a woman; her arms were slim, muscles small. Her skin so smooth and uncalloused he doubted she had ever worked a day in her life. Not to mention, her height was comparable to that of many children.

And then his eyes met hers, wide and a deep, forest green. Fear was evident on her face as she paused, body in shock that she had been caught.

Surprise initially flashed across the man's face--this was not what he expected the person to look like--but before he could calm his nerves and regain control of his expressions, the girl scarpered, dashing out of the door far faster than he could give chase, not that he wanted to.

And, just like that, the encounter was over, far faster than he would’ve thought. At the very least, he expected a few a few words to be exchanged.

Locking up, and putting everything away, he sat down on a chair, the wood groaning slightly, as he pondered on what to do.

Curiosity had begun it all, wondering who this atypical thief could be. That was quickly exchanged by valuing the services they provided.

But now? Now that he’s actually met the person? Should he continue to interact with them like he had done so far?

He didn’t know what to do. Most people would probably make sure the girl would never come back--he sure knew some people that would do that. It was the logical decision; she was a thief and didn’t deserve any help.

But he just couldn’t do that. Maybe, when he was younger, he would’ve been that cold, fearful of the threat that sheltering a criminal could bite him in the arse. But now? After he’s lived so long, and the threat has become more ephemeral by the year?

His conscience wouldn’t let him--not after seeing her, anyway. She had nothing--not even clothes; she was probably stealing because she was starving, not because she flaunted a credible way of life. The old man couldn’t help but feel some pity for her.

But is pity a powerful motivator? Empathy? It may as well have been, he decided. He had lived enough as it was, and done many things he was regretful of since; he’d rather live his life knowing he tried to be a good person at the end.

Determination set, he let the sheep out to graze for the remainder of the day before heading back home.

He didn’t go to sleep after eating dinner like he would normally; instead, he pulled out some of his wife’s old clothes that he hadn’t the heart to get rid of yet, along with his sewing kit.

It was only a glance he got of her, but it was clear that the clothes would need some adjustment.

He worked for a few hours, toiling away into the dead of night, trying to cut them down to size until he was happy with them and finally fell asleep, fatigue filling his muscles.

He woke up at his usual time, a routine too ingrained for one night's worth of sleep deprivation to offset it, as he cooked some soup again.

He finished his meal quickly, body hungry after all the work yesterday, and fed the sheep hay once more as he picked up the clothes he had patched together during the night. He elected to not take his bow, believing it’d send too negative a message.

Marching over towards the patch of trees he had seen the girl leave the other day, he tried to keep his approach slow and gentle, to not spook the young woman.

As he got closer, a surprisingly delectable aroma reached his nostrils and once he finally saw the make-shift camp the woman had set up, he realised what it was; stew.

Unfortunately, as healthy and strong as he was, this did not translate into dexterity. He made his approach known unintentionally, leaves rustling awkwardly and sticks and twigs breaking underfoot. Without even being able to get close, the woman was on her feet, a strange, shiny black knife in hand, of impossibly expensive and ornate craftsmanship, and looking at him warily.

He held up both his hands, one of them holding the clothes, as he took a step forwards. Her eyes widened slightly but, other than that, she didn’t respond.

The man took another slow step forward. This time, the woman quickly shifted her head towards a plant to his right, and he watched as, within an instant, it went from bright green and healthy to dead and wilted.

His nerves were on end, hair standing up as a slow realisation of what he was dealing with entered his mind.

Magic. Of course it was magic; the signs were there from a beginning.

This completely changed the nature of things; helping out a mage that clearly didn’t belong to the Dominion was a much, much worse offense than simply soliciting aid of a criminal.

The old man paused as doubts crept into his mind. But, almost as quickly as they entered, he shook them away. True, this information changed the situation, but that didn’t mean he’d respond differently from what he was planning to do.

He confidently reached out his hand, offering the clothes, as he spoke:

“Let’s talk.”