The man reached down and grabbed Willow's head, his grip surprisingly gentle. He leaned close, his face contorted in a grotesque mask, his eyes rolling back in his head until only the whites were visible. A low, guttural sound rumbled in his throat, a chilling incantation that sent shivers down Willow's spine.
Suddenly, her mouth flew open, a silent scream trapped within her throat. Her body began to convulse, her limbs jerking uncontrollably. The man, his eyes now completely black, stared intently at her, a malevolent glint in his gaze. After a few agonizing moments, the convulsions ceased. Willow lay still, her body limp, her breathing shallow.
The man released his grip, his expression returning to a chillingly serene mask. He stood up, his movements fluid and silent, and walked away from the alley, leaving Willow lying motionless on the cold cobblestones.
The alleyway remained undisturbed throughout the night, shrouded in darkness and silence. It wasn't until the first rays of dawn touched the village that Willow's body was discovered. A milkmaid, making her early rounds, stumbled upon the lifeless form lying in the middle of the road, her face pale and still.
News of Willow's death spread through the village like wildfire, igniting a flurry of shock and fear. Villagers gathered, their voices hushed, their faces etched with grief and apprehension. The discovery of a body in the middle of the road, so brutally dispatched, was a chilling reminder of the dangers that lurked in the shadows.
Brock, upon hearing the news, appeared genuinely devastated. He paced back and forth, his face contorted in a mask of grief and anger. Though he often clashed with Willow, finding her bluntness and skepticism irritating, she was one of his most trusted confidantes, one of the few he considered reliable. The loss of her was a significant blow, both personally and strategically. He knew that her sharp mind and unwavering loyalty would be sorely missed.
Elias gathered all the hunters for a meeting including Gordon. The total number of hunters gathered was 14 people. Gordon looked here and there looking for Sharon but couldn't find her. It turned out that Sharon went with the Keeper of the Flames to accompany Markus. Gordon felt disappointed but couldn't do anything.
After a tense half-hour of discussion, the hunters reached a decision. They would hand over the investigation of Willow's death to Brock. The reasoning was twofold: Willow was his friend, and Brock had cultivated a reputation as a strong hero among the villagers.
Elias, however, was under no illusions. He knew Brock's "heroic" reputation was a carefully constructed facade, and he was well aware of Brock's ambitions to seize leadership of the Hunter's Guild. Therefore, he decided to use the situation to his advantage.
By entrusting the investigation to Brock, Elias was essentially setting a trap. If Brock succeeded in finding the killer, Elias would reap the benefits, his name further solidified as a wise and capable leader. But if Brock failed, or if his ambition led him astray, Elias would have a convenient scapegoat, someone to shoulder the blame and discredit. He could paint Brock as incompetent, or even complicit, in Willow's death, effectively neutralizing his threat to Elias's leadership.
Brock stood tall, his chest puffed out, as Elias officially entrusted him with the investigation of Willow's death. He adopted a somber, yet determined expression, his voice resonating with a manufactured sense of grief and resolve. He even managed to deliver a few well-rehearsed, heroic pronouncements, assuring his fellow hunters that he would not rest until justice was served.
However, the moment the meeting adjourned and he found himself alone, the facade crumbled. Brock's face twisted into a mask of frustration and anger. He grumbled under his breath, cursing Elias with a string of colorful epithets. While he genuinely felt a pang of sadness for Willow's demise, he had absolutely no desire to be burdened with the responsibility of investigating her murder. He much preferred the simpler task of basking in the villagers' admiration and plotting his rise to power. This investigation was a troublesome complication, a dangerous distraction from his carefully laid plans.
Meanwhile in a dimly lit chamber, far removed from the bustling village of Oakhaven, a lone figure sat, his face partially obscured by shadow. A small, ethereal ball of light hovered above him, casting a faint, eerie glow across the room. In his hands, he held a letter, its paper thin and brittle.
He read the contents, his eyes scanning the lines with a cold, calculating gaze. As he finished, a subtle shift occurred. The letter, seemingly of its own accord, began to crumble, its delicate fibers turning to fine, gray dust that drifted to the floor.
The man closed his eyes, his breath slow and even. A faint, almost imperceptible hum filled the chamber as he mentally projected his report. "My Lord, you are right Sir." he began, his voice a mere whisper in the vast, unseen network of communication, "the young man, Markus, has been taken by the Keepers of the Flame. The local adventurers, who call themselves hunters, are entirely ignorant of our plans."
"Therefore," he continued, his tone measured and deliberate, "I recommend we suspend further operations in this region for the time being. We must ascertain the location of Markus and the Keepers of the Flame before proceeding. To act blindly would be… unwise."
"I know High Priestess Edith's family won't let this go so easily," the man murmured, his voice laced with a hint of concern. "They are a persistent and vengeful lineage. However, the boy is now under the protection of the Keepers of the Flame. To wage war against them at this juncture would be… costly. The Keepers are not easily provoked, and their power is not to be underestimated."
"Yes, sir," the man continued, his voice unwavering. "Eliminating the entire population of Oakhaven village is a viable option, but I strongly advise against it. Such a drastic measure would undoubtedly attract unwanted attention from the capital. We must maintain a degree of subtlety, avoid unnecessary escalation."
He paused, listening to the silent response, his expression remaining impassive. After a moment, he spoke again, his voice now imbued with a sense of finality. "Yes, Sir… your orders will be executed."
The man snapped his fingers, and a swirling vortex of shadow coalesced in front of him. From the swirling darkness emerged a creature of unsettling appearance. Its upper body was humanoid, with skin as black as polished obsidian. It was bald, save for a long, sleek ponytail of jet-black hair that cascaded down its back. Its lower body, however, was nothing more than a swirling mass of black smoke, constantly shifting and undulating.
The creature stood silently before him, its posture one of absolute obedience. It exuded an aura of cold power, a silent testament to the man's control.
"Arumna," the man commanded, his voice a low, resonant murmur. The creature, now identified as Arumna, inclined its head in acknowledgment. "You will travel to Oakhaven. Your task is to poison their water supply with the cursed ichor. Ensure the contamination is thorough, but subtle. We must avoid attracting undue attention."
Arumna, its obsidian eyes gleaming with an unsettling intensity, bowed deeply. Then, with a silent swirl of its smoky lower half, it dissipated, vanishing into the shadows as if it had never been there. The man watched it go, a flicker of cold satisfaction in his eyes.
Days after that a steady stream of villagers began to arrive at Robin's doorstep, their faces pale and drawn, their hands clutching their aching stomachs. They complained of sharp pains, nausea, and a general feeling of unwellness. Robin, the village healer, listened patiently, examining each patient with a practiced eye.
She prepared herbal remedies, concoctions of soothing herbs and roots, and dispensed them with careful instructions. "Drink this twice a day," she advised, "and rest. You'll feel better soon." She sent them on their way, hoping the remedies would alleviate their suffering.
However, a somber cloud soon settled over the village. Whispers spread like wildfire, tales of villagers who, despite Robin's treatments, had succumbed to their ailments. They had died, one by one, their bodies wracked with pain. The initial complaints of stomach aches had turned into a terrifying wave of deaths.
A chilling detail emerged from the accounts of the deceased: black, discolored spots had appeared on their skin, spreading like a morbid rash in their final hours. Even more disturbing, witnesses reported that, in their agonizing moments before death, the victims had all uttered the same, unsettling curse. They had cursed the village of Oakhaven, damning its residents with venomous words, their voices filled with a strange, unnatural hatred. The curse hung heavy in the air, adding a layer of fear and dread to the already grim situation.
Robin, deeply troubled by the unsettling symptoms and the disturbing curses uttered by the dying villagers, examined the remaining remedies and the water source with increasing concern. She was convinced that the cause of the deaths was not a natural illness, but rather a deliberate act of poisoning.
With a grave expression, she approached Elias, relaying her suspicions and urging him to investigate. Elias, recognizing the urgency of the situation, agreed. He immediately dispatched two of his most reliable hunters to investigate the source of the suspected poisoning, instructing them to be thorough and discreet.
Three days passed, and the two hunters returned to the guild hall, their faces etched with frustration and a hint of unease. Their investigation had yielded nothing. They had meticulously inspected the victims' homes, searching for any trace of poison or suspicious substances. They had examined the food sources, scrutinizing every grain and morsel. They had even tested the village's drinking water, but all their efforts had been in vain.
"We found nothing, Elias," one of the hunters reported, his voice heavy with disappointment. "We checked everything, but there's no sign of poison, no unusual substances, nothing."
The other hunter nodded in agreement. "It's as if they just… died," he added, his brow furrowed in confusion. "But Robin's right, the symptoms, the black spots, the curses… it doesn't make sense."
The very next day, two more villagers arrived at Robin's doorstep, exhibiting the same alarming symptoms: pale faces, clutching stomachs, and a growing sense of dread. However, this time, Robin took a different approach. Instead of immediately dispensing herbal remedies, she looked at the two villagers with a serious expression.
"I need to observe you closely," she said, her voice firm. "I suspect something more than a simple illness is at play. Please, stay here. I'll make you comfortable, and I'll be able to examine you thoroughly."