The Road to Easthaven

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Aftermath on Eastway

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Aftermath on Eastway

The giant’s head rolls once before settling in the snow.

Steam rises from the severed neck in thick, red plumes. The arterial spray slows. Then stops.

The silence afterward is deeper than the fighting ever was.

The two prisoners stare.

The crossbowman Azalie holds swallows hard enough that it’s audible. His eyes flick from the headless body… to Dorf… and stay there.

“Gods…” he breathes.

The lead bandit says nothing. But whatever defiance he had left drains out of him completely.

Dorf stands for a moment in the drifting red mist. Then the wind takes it, scattering it across the road like a banner.

Behind them, the forest does not move.

No one comes back for the giant.

Fizz lingers a moment by the fallen giant, small hand resting on the wagon wheel, watching the steam fade. Sometimes death was necessary. He didn’t have to like it.

Mutt watches the head settle in the snow, then glances at the prisoners.

Then Dorf steps towards the two prisoners.

“Any words to save your miserable hides? Otherwise Precious here can do the same to you.” He squints at their necks, “probably only take one swing though.”

Azalie places a hand on Dorf’s shoulder. Squeezing just enough to hope he calms. She looks straight into the bandits eyes,

“I tried to warn you.”

Looking back at Dorf she speaks “Ok my friend, they are already terrified.”

"Huh, well that works." Mutt smiles at the two bandits and gestures towards Dorf, covered in the giant's arterial spray. "See, what'd I tell you? We have a halfling with a teddy bear."

He watches as Dorf cautiously as the barbarian approaches the two prisoners.

"Dorf, why don't you pack up that giant's head and bring with us? There might be a bounty we can collect in Easthaven for it. If nothing else, maybe it will help people see the roads are a bit safer."

"Your boss isn't going to like that, eh? So, who is your boss? Where might we find him for a bit of a chat and a chance to offer our condolences?"

Orin steps forward first, voice calm and precise.

“You said Easthaven. That’s not a name. Who gives the orders?”

The bandit winces as Mutt tightens the rope.

“It’s not one man shouting from a throne,” he says. “Orders come through the docks. Warehouse slips. Dock foremen who aren’t dock foremen.”

He shifts, glancing once toward Dorf before continuing.

“There’s a place near the eastern piers. Old net storage. Doesn’t look like much. But that’s where the pay comes from.”

He hesitates.

“They call him Marrow.” A pause. “Don’t know if that’s a name or just what the men call him. Never seen him in daylight. But when the road needs hurting, coin flows from that warehouse.”

Mutt asks about the lance.

The bandit looks at it and then away.

“That came through two tendays ago. Delivered in a sealed crate. Told not to ask.”

Azalie turns the lance slowly in her hand, reading the markings again.

“Who delivered it?”

“Dark cloaks. Didn’t speak. Didn’t stay. Paid in advance.”, replies the bandit

Orin presses again.

“Have you been ordered to look for anything specific?”

That one takes longer.

“…Travelers asking too many questions. People coming from Bryn Shander. Anyone carrying unusual artifacts.”

His eyes flick to Orin. Not his pack. Him.

“Especially spellcasters.”

That lands heavier than the others.

“We were told if anyone was asking about the raids… we report it back. Not handle it.”

The younger crossbowman looks like he might vomit.

Then he cracks, blurting out,

“We ain’t the top! We just keep the road soft! That’s all!”

The lead bandit nods grimly.

“Easthaven’s rotting from the inside. We just collect the runoff.”

The words hang in the cold air.

No one speaks for a moment.

The giant’s blood steams behind you.

Then—

Azalie moves.

She circles the prisoners once more, eyes sharp, fingers light as she checks for hidden blades or tucked steel beneath layers of winter cloth. She knows how easily a weapon can disappear against bare skin.

“Mutt, what are we doing?” she asks evenly. “I’m not going to kill these men. They’re unarmed and quite frankly…” She looks one of them up and down. “…weak.”

She steps back, brushing snow from her gloves.

“Orin, we should not linger. I say we leave the giant as a warning to the others.”

She whistles softly for her axebeak.

Mutt watches the prisoners for a long moment, then nods once.

“We’re not leaving them here,” he says calmly. “They walk to Easthaven. We turn them over to the authorities and let the town decide what to do with its headaches.”

He tightens the last knot on the rope securing their wrists and gives it a firm testing tug.

“If the road’s rotting from the inside, we might as well carry the rot back to its source.”

The lead bandit lowers his eyes, but there’s the faintest flicker of something behind them — not fear.

Relief.

Easthaven means walls. Easthaven means paperwork. Easthaven means time.

Orin steps closer, brushing frost from his sleeve. The shimmer of earlier magic has faded, leaving only the faint fatigue of spent wards.

“We will go,” he says quietly. “But not immediately.”

His gaze sweeps the treeline, then the road, then the frozen lake beyond.

“If others are watching these roads, I would rather arrive prepared than hurried.”

He meets Azalie’s eyes briefly.

“A short rest. One hour. Then we move.”

The wind sighs across the snow as if in agreement.

Azalie exhales through her nose and gives a single nod.

“Fine. I’ll not waste it.”

She adjusts her bow, glances once more at the bound men, then turns toward the treeline.

“I’ll hunt. Fresh meat travels better than rations.”

Without another word, she slips into the white and shadow, Mellon lifting silently from her shoulder to follow.

The Short Rest

You take your rest in the shadow of the fallen giant.

The corpse lies where it fell, heat slowly bleeding into the snow. Steam thins. The smell lingers.

Azalie does not sit.

She moves without haste, but without wasted motion. Kneeling to study disturbed snow. Tracing the narrow print of a snow hare. Noting the deeper press of a fox that passed through before dawn.

The land speaks easily to her here. Even in the cold. Even under the Rime.

She follows the hare’s pattern through a stand of brittle brush, waits when the wind shifts, then looses a single clean shot. The arrow flies true. Efficient. Quiet.

She kneels beside the fallen animal, murmuring something low and respectful before field dressing it with practiced hands.

While she works, she studies more than tracks.

Boot prints. Old wagon ruts. A faint pattern of movement that doesn’t belong to hunters or traders.

This stretch of road has been watched for longer than the bandits admitted.

When she returns, fresh game slung over her shoulder, Mellon settles lightly at her side.

Dorf kneels beside Precious, wiping the blade clean in deliberate strokes. The rage has drained from him now, leaving behind the ache of bruises and a quiet heaviness that settles deeper than muscle.

A few paces away, the prisoners sit bound and silent, backs against a drifted mound of snow. They do not speak. They do not test their ropes.

They watch.

Fizz circles the giant once more, small boots crunching softly. He studies the old scars along its ribs, the calloused hands, the hollowness in its frame. This creature had been hungry long before it was dangerous.

He doesn’t say it out loud.

Orin sits apart from the others, eyes closed, fingers resting against the worn leather of his grimoire. The shimmer of earlier magic has faded, leaving a faint ache behind his eyes. The world feels thinner lately. The roads watched. Questions spreading. The Oculus resting heavier than its weight should allow.

Mutt moves between them all, practical as ever. He checks knots. Rebinds one tighter. Divides rations. Keeps one eye on the treeline and one on the prisoners.

The wind never stops moving.

Snow shifts around the giant’s body, slowly beginning to reclaim it.

An hour passes.

Breath steadies. Muscles loosen. Wounds close under quiet magic and rest.

When you rise, the giant’s head is wrapped in canvas and secured. Whether for bounty or warning, it will not be wasted.

The body remains where it fell.

A message carved into the Eastway.

The Road to Easthaven

The rest of the journey passes without ambush.

But the feeling does not fade.

Twilight settles over Lac Dinneshere in a pale wash of green and blue. The aurora hangs faint above the distant mountains, its light shimmering across the frozen expanse of the lake.

Easthaven rises from the snow in low, slanted roofs and dark timber walls, smoke drifting thin and straight from chimneys into the still air. Stone walls divide fields and roads in hard lines, guiding travelers toward the gate like veins toward a heart.

Lanterns burn along the outer path, their glow steady but subdued. Not festive. Functional.

The town does not feel loud.

It feels alert.

From this distance, you can see movement near the lakeshore—fishermen hauling nets through cut ice, bundled figures working without chatter. No music carries on the wind. No laughter spills into the road.

Closer now.

The gate stands open, but not welcoming. Two guards lean against the stonework, cloaks heavy with frost. They straighten as you approach, eyes traveling over the giant’s wrapped head, the bound prisoners, the weapons at your sides.

Beyond them, streets curve inward between tightly packed buildings. Windows glow faintly behind shutter slats. A few figures linger near corners longer than necessary.

Watching.

Near the eastern edge of town, closer to the docks, a squat warehouse sits half-shadowed beneath the aurora’s glow. No sign marks it. No lantern hangs outside.

But one upper window leaks the faintest thread of light.

The prisoners trudge behind your axebeaks, chains clinking softly in the cold.

One of them mutters under his breath.

“Marrow won’t like this.”

The wind shifts off the lake.

Snow crunches under boot and claw as you approach the gate.

The two guards straighten fully now.

They’re not ceremonial. Not polished. Their armor is practical, layered beneath heavy cloaks crusted with frost. One is older, beard shot through with gray, posture steady as the stone behind him. The other is younger, eyes sharp and restless, the kind that measure trouble and opportunity in the same glance.

Their gazes land first on the prisoners.

Then on the canvas-wrapped bundle.

Then on Dorf — still flecked with drying giant’s blood.

The younger guard swallows.

“…That looks like a problem,” he says carefully.

His eyes shift again.

This time they linger on Azalie.

Not leering. Not crude. Just… appreciative. Curious.

A faint half-smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth before he catches himself and straightens.

“Didn’t think we’d be getting heroes tonight,” he adds lightly. “Especially not ones bringing their own trophies.”

The older guard doesn’t look at Azalie at all.

He steps forward, halberd haft thudding once against stone.

“State your business.”

The younger guard tilts his head slightly toward Azalie, voice lowering just enough to be conversational.

“If you’re planning on staying in town,” he says, almost conversational, “there are warmer places than the docks. Just saying.”

The older guard shoots him a look.

The younger clears his throat and squares his shoulders again.

“Right. Business.”

the older guard's eyes drift to the bound men.

“And explain why you’re dragging Easthaven’s headaches back through our gate.”

One of the prisoners shifts uneasily.

“We didn’t—”

The older guard cuts him off without looking.

“I wasn’t asking you.”

His gaze settles on Mutt, then Orin. Measuring. Calculating.

Behind them, the town continues its quiet rhythm. A pair of bundled townsfolk linger down the road, pretending not to watch.

The younger guard leans slightly closer, lowering his voice.

“If this is about the roads… you won’t be the first to bring it up.”

A pause.

“But we don’t hang men without paperwork. And we don’t start fires we can’t put out.”

His eyes flick meaningfully toward the eastern docks.

“You planning to turn them in? Or make a statement?”

The older guard adds, tone flat:

“If you’re looking for coin, the Speaker’s hall is two streets in. If you’re looking for trouble…”

His gaze drifts toward the lake.

“…that finds you on its own.”

The gates stand open.

The town breathes cold around you.

What do you tell them?

Current Time: 5:59 PM

Date: Firstday 11, Ches, 1742

Temperature: 21°

Current Phase: Exploration

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