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Daron quirked a brow at the result from a single bolt, features slowly twisting into slight confusion. He pulled away from the weapon’s scope, cocked his head and gazed far ahead as a great plume of smoke billowed up high in the dark sky, spreading wide in mass.

So dense was the forming cloud that the hunter could not perceive to confirm if the entire group had either perished from the detonated eruption or not. Despite the shot that had struck home that ended the knight, the radius from the blast was not what he’d expected. Of course, he didn’t deny a little overkill to achieve a higher, successful hunt, but this brought questions. Questions that suddenly stabbed into his very thoughts of this unexpected conundrum.

Did he overdo it with the powder canister again? Had the explosive bolt he used been too effective? Or did the knight simply conceal some illegal substances or flammable material to create a cataclysmic reaction?

Daron swiftly banished them with a shake of his head, chastened by self-doubt. After all the time and effort spent on this little pursuit, he couldn't afford any weakness. Such thinking was unbecoming of a hunter and sure-way sentence of an early grave. Of course, old age could be the primary cause for his lapse of memory and impairment, but that was inconsequential for the hunter and was not that far decrepit to be considered a liability.

Unable to ignore this, the hunter pushed himself to his feet, quickly causing his joints to pop and protest after long prone to the floor. He needed to recover from this minor setback quickly and efficiently before it escalated into a problem.

Already the detonation, if not the loud explosive bang, would undoubtedly alert everyone within a hearing range and gather at the spot like moths into a flame. Even a Murinian rodent with very bad eyesight could spot the black smoke looming from the horizon without effort.

He grunted with a flicker of annoyance. He expected to get close and personal to confirm the target, but the prospect wasn’t advantageous. Given his age and constitution, if there were elements of resistance from his quarry or remnant survivors, he might not find the challenge pleasant. Then again, the life of a hunter wasn't supposed to be pleasant, and that hadn’t changed over the years.

All the same, Daron had to confirm his suspicion. It would not do for a hunter like himself to cower and hesitate by indecision. Shouldered his crossbow, he soon left the room and descended from the long winding stairway, which creaked as if the wooden step-tile was about to give way and break, and exited from the building.

Even though the hunter was miles apart from the site, it was not long before the sharp burning smell reached his position. While his filtered helmet offered much protection against such exposure, a sound came like an escaping hiss as Daron unclasped the seals. He removed his helm with one free hand, exposing himself to the environment and the ensuing smog.

The hunter was old, features aged and lined heavily by the paths of time. His grizzled, raven hair had been shot through grey, and dark circles formed beneath his hard, chestnut eyes as he stared at the scenery.

Idly Daron took a deep breath of the toxic smoke as if savouring the crisp, burning sensation. Nostalgia filled his senses, more so than the smoke. For him, it reminded the hunter of home. Of the wild, dangerous environment that was the Broken World, where every monstrous shape and form prowled from the darkest, terrible places to ravage and feast upon humanity.

Many from that world were numberless, each far each far deadlier and cannier than the next. Given the chance they might have sought to wipe his species to extinction if not for hunters such as himself. By comparing the old world and the current one he was living in, he believed with confidence that the latter would be a manageable environment, albeit with some challenges that he was eager to test his abilities.

Despite how nightmarish and inhospitable the Broken World was, it bred far finer monsters than those lurking in the dark. Warriors, hunters and specialists, all who earned a place in part as an invasion force so long ago.

Aware from the distraction, which he chided himself for wasting his time, Daron placed his helm and levelled his crossbow.

Then, without a word, mindset shifted into a singular focus, the hunter motioned forward.

--

Eoin Naylen suddenly woke with a sharp intake of breath, lungs desperate for air.

Gradually coming to his senses, the young wolf scanned from his surroundings to find everything shrouded in smoke. He whiffed and immediately coughed, causing his throat to be irritated. The smell had a different tang in the air, sharp yet unfamiliar to his senses. It wasn’t the smell of the usual burning firewood but something fouler, close akin to copper, highlighted by an edge of oily substance.

Even though he wasn’t sure what the smell was, Eoin knew the smoke was hazardous if exposed too long. He promptly took a rag from his uniform pocket and covered his lengthened snout, which reduced his coughing, though growing worse and more violent than the next. Irritation twisted his features. He forced himself to roll from one side and attempted to push upright.

Just as he was in the middle trying to make his knees work, a cold realisation jolted his senses into alertness as a newfound strength managed the young wolf up on his feet, though dazed and weak of limb. Besides the sharp stab of pain at the back of his head, he counted himself relatively unharmed, though seemingly irrelevant as his eyes frantically darted from left to right.

“Sergeant?” Eoin uttered weakly at first, then more firmly, loudly, to raise his voice. “Sergeant Lometh?!”

Memory flooded over him in an instant. He remembered a brief flash from the ruined windmill far-off into the distance. He remembered the deafening clank of metal being pierced just ahead of where the hooded figure and their escort were, followed by a blinding burst of light.

Though the young wolf was still new to this line of work, he understood an ambush when he saw one. Many questions filled his mind at this unprovoked attack and those responsible for it, but all he could think about right now was the sergeant.

A mixture of trepidation and concern wore on Eoin’s face as his cries for the sergeant’s name fell on deaf ears. He didn’t particularly like the sergeant, nor his endless ramblings of old tales and his spritely cheerful demeanour. But he was not about to leave the old wolf behind to an uncertain fate, not when he could have the chance to save him. After all, sergeant Lometh had given him an opportunity, a second chance to prove his worth, and he would not despoil his first mission by this cowardly attack.

He repeated calling out the sergeant a few times more, hoping for a sliver of hope. And, a minute later, just as he was about to give up, somebody answered.

A voice called out, weak and unsteady by pain, but Eoin’s ears perked to hear enough that it belonged to the sergeant. Head turning in the indicated direction of the source, he rushed to his feet, caution thrown out from the wind.

No less than an instant later, after wandering through the smoggy haze, Eoin's eyes caught a prone shadowy silhouette from ahead. It wasn't a few distances of approach that the young wolf was able to confirm the making appearance of the sergeant.

Lometh had fallen flat on the ground, bloodied and battered. His body was firmly pinned down by the weight of his deceased mount, who suffered a worse fate from the explosion. Blood had seeped from the wound of his head, staining his fur, and one of his eyes turned for worse as a shard of something metal lodged deep into it.

It was a miracle that the sergeant was alive and conscious, Eoin thought, for his remaining eye was upon him.

“T-took you long enough,” Lometh muttered, then coughed up blood as a trickle of a smile began to form.

“Save your strength,” Eoin said and went down to his knees. He frantically struggled to push the dead mount away but quickly stopped as he heard a grunt of pain from the sergeant.

“Ah. That hurts,” Lometh said, smiling still as if to jest the whole situation was nothing more than a simple routine.

It wasn’t.

Eoin turned on him, worry and concern evident on his features, but Lometh simply waved it aside. That persistent smile finally faded as his gaze was somewhere else, cupped ears perked.

The young wolf followed the sergeant’s indicated direction, wondering where he was staring at. He queried to ask, but stopped as his senses already picked up the sound of faint footsteps coming from up ahead. He stood, teeth bared into a snarl. His paw was already at the hilt of the black blade, which was still sheathed and remained fortunately at his hip. This was not the footsteps of the escorts nor the robed figure, but something else. A stranger.

He couldn’t even pick a scent due to the heavy smoke that shrouded him. Still, he saw well enough of a shadowy silhouette growing larger and closer. Able to visualize the figure within closing perception, his eyes widened.

The person in front of them was a giant. Not as tall as an ursine or an equine, but tall enough to eclipse the two. He wore a black leathery tunic with armoured plates attached over it and a bandolier of bags and pouches. In his grip he wielded a massive crossbow, a dark and bulky design, but one Eoin had never seen before. The weapon was not from Vinyot, or even Allemance to the best of his knowledge, but something else entirely foreign.

When Eoin tried to look at the stranger’s face, he found nothing to perceive his identity, masked behind a full-plated helm.

The person with the crossbow eyed the two silently and cocked his head as if curious about the sight. Then, after a few seconds more, Eoin drew out his blade when the stranger trained his weapon on Lometh.

“Stay where you are,” the stranger spoke with a warning. It sounded muffled, dull and cold as the black starless sky, underlined with a hint of lethal intent.

Eoin tightened the grip. Then, he growled as something clicked into place. “You are a brethren?” he declared, recognizing the shape and body language.

“How very perceptive,” the brethren said flatly, still aiming the crossbow. “Drop the weapon.”

Eoin's eyes narrowed. He'd seen much from his hometown: wandering travellers, merchants and even a few dungeon delvers. But this stranger was different, and he saw the black mark on his helm to understand the truth of it. This was a reperator. One of the invaders that he had heard so much about when he was a child. There were no reperators back from his town, so this would be his time meeting a violent and outright hostile one, even though he heard most sought a peaceful life.

When the brethren realized the young wolf wasn't backing down, he squeezed the trigger. The shot struck true, but not the target. Eoin startled, then instantly backed away to see the crossbow bolt planted right between his legs.

“Do not make me repeat myself,” the brethren warned him one final time, his tone suddenly deadly and quiet.

At that moment, this was his chance for the young wolf to spring forth and act, but he thought none of it. The way the brethren postured himself without the need to reload suggested that the weapon had some ammunition left, and he suspected the round circular box below it to be the source.

Unable to risk Lometh’s life any further, as well as ignoring his weak pleas, Eoin finally, begrudgingly, complied with the brethren’s demands. He laid the black blade gently down, as though it were a relic, then backed away, paws raised.

Even as the young wolf followed the brethren’s demand, his trigger finger remained steadfast. He tilted his head slowly at the blade, then back at him.

“Are you the one wearing a Pirhoua pendant?” the brethren said without preamble.

Eoin blinked in surprise, frowned that all this trouble was due to his possession of it, and then dipped his head in agreement. He waited for the brethren to respond, as if to wonder the truth of his words, until he threw something forward to him that made a rattling sound.

The brethren pointed at the metal handcuffs on the ground. “Put them on and fasten them behind you. No funny business.”

Eoin still wanted to protest, to defy him, but no words came forth as he knew it was pointless to argue, not when the brethren had Lometh in his sights. Without a word, he scooped the metal chains and placed them behind.

When the brethren remained insistent in his stance, gesturing his weapon with a thrust to continue, Eoin sighed and clicked the cuffs behind his wrists. Only then did the brethren begin to move, though cautious in his step.

“On your knees,” His words were still cold and steady, his weapon now aimed directly at Eoin.

The young wolf grunted and was brought down slowly to the ground. His mind raced for a solution, a way out of their predicament. He could shout and alert the rest of his fellows, though he was unsure if they were alive or not or if they could even help him. He could try to distract him somehow, but the brethren reperator was undeterred by his focus, single-minded in attempting to accomplish his task. Even if he could do all of those things together, there was still the sergeant that he needed to think about, and any attempt on his part would undoubtedly kill him.

Eoin saw his captor within an arm’s length to haul him wherever fate may entail, but the brethren’s pace lessened and then came to an abrupt halt. This was unusual, and he couldn’t be sure what the brethren was doing. But his posture, tense and alert, was quick to give away as vague, shadowy shapes loomed from behind him.

Sensing this uneasy presence, the brethren whirled sharply, weapons trained on the nearest target, and the shadows lunged.