The Travels of a Hairy Hermit

Gravam, a broad-shouldered middle-aged man with a square, weathered face, close-cropped dark hair, and a russet wool tunic over brown trousers, drags the last chest over the threshold while Aritik, a slim young adult man with an angular face, straight black hair, and a faded blue wool tunic over gray breeches, spreads legal papers across your rough table. In the yard, Eiluj, a slight young woman with an oval face, auburn hair in a long braid, and a russet dress beneath a brown wool shawl, keeps one hand on the frightened horse’s bridle.

Alarm bells break across the forest, harsh and urgent. The horse tosses its head; Gravam freezes beneath the chest’s weight, and Aritik’s papers lift in the sudden draft.

A rider appears between the pines, a mud-spattered young woman in a green cloak, lean and narrow-faced, with gray eyes and worn brown riding boots. Her short brown hair clings to her brow, and one sleeve hangs torn at the shoulder.

Eiluj steadies the horse as it stamps at the bells. Gravam sets the chest down, already turning toward the cottage’s weapon hooks, while the rider waits breathlessly in the road.

Nilsar Yarb leaves Nilsar's cottage behind and arrives at Anuncagra.

Anuncagra’s timber fortress rises beyond the crowded palisade, its gatehouse crowded with armed townsfolk. Smoke drifts above the rooftops, and the alarm bells still mutter overhead.

Two fortress guards lower their spears as Nilsar and his family reach the gate. Behind them, the road rider reins in her mud-spattered horse, watching the battlements for movement.

Gravam guides Eiluj and Aritik toward the returning road, while the gate guard, a young adult man with a lean build, weathered brown skin, close-cropped dark hair, and a scar across one cheek, in a rust-red surcoat over chainmail steps aside. The road rider points toward the inner keep, where a red pennant snaps above the baron’s hall.

The rider gives him a brief, respectful nod. Nilsar takes his longsword from the gatehouse weapon rack, settles its weight at his hip, and enters the inner yard.

A watch captain stands beside the well, a broad older man with a graying beard, battered leather armor, and a red wool cloak clasped at his throat. Mud cakes his boots.

Mara remains by the gate with her horse while Nilsar leaves her to the captain’s report. Around the well, armed townsfolk fall quiet and turn their faces toward Odran.

Odran folds, his ruddy, weathered face framed by thinning gray hair and marked by a crooked nose, a damp watch map over his forearm and looks toward the red pennant above the baron’s hall, waiting for the summoned man to proceed.

Odran taps the damp map with one thick finger. His guarded expression eases, and the nearby townsfolk listen without interrupting.

Odran folds the map and extends it toward Nilsar, the marked palisade road visible between creased lines of ink. The red pennant snaps above them.

Nilsar takes the damp map from Odran and studies its creases, tracing the old palisade, the tree line, and the shallow ground between them. His smith’s eye marks where timber, braces, and iron fastenings would fail first.

He turns the map toward the red pennant, comparing its inked slopes with remembered roads beyond town. A narrow game trail bends behind the western rise, screened from the palisade and the most likely camp.

With a blunt fingernail, Nilsar follows the ditch to a stand of pines, then measures the distance to the palisade by the map’s marked fields. The route avoids open ground and gives a concealed view of the fires.

The map shows his answer clearly: reinforce the western rise, brace the sagging southern stretch, and send two quiet scouts along the drainage ditch to count the enemy before raising the town.

Nilsar presses the damp map flat against the well’s stone rim. Water blurs one boundary, but his smith’s eye follows the sound timber, loose braces, and iron fastenings that can still be made serviceable.

The suggestion tightens the air around the well. Odran’s thumb stops on the map’s damp western fold, and his eyes narrow at the rival house’s name, though the practical plan leaves him little room to dismiss it.

Odran turns the map toward the gathered defenders, including Lucas Harris, a lean young adult man with a narrow, weathered face, dark brown hair, a patched green wool coat, brown breeches, and a crooked nose and marks the western rise with a charcoal nub. He assigns carpenters and smiths to the southern brace, accepting Nilsar’s judgment as sound.

He folds the map beneath one arm and strides toward the inner keep, calling for the town’s carpenters. The red pennant snaps overhead as the first defenders move toward the western gate.

Nilsar returns to the weapon hooks, pulls his chainmail beneath his daily clothes, and feels Gravam’s careful rings settle across his shoulders. He takes up his longsword, its familiar balance steady in his hand.

He joins the militia at the western gate. The hidden mail guards his torso without slowing his stride, while the longsword’s forged edge rides ready at his hip as the column climbs.

Boots grind through wet ground and broken pine needles. Nilsar shoulders a fallen brace aside for the advancing militia, but the effort wrenches his left shoulder and leaves it throbbing.

The militia reaches the western rise before sunset. Nilsar plants himself beside the rough stone line, chainmail hidden under cloth, longsword drawn as defenders begin hauling timber into position.

Nilsar settles his back against the cold stone, letting its rough surface warm beneath him as darkness gathers over the western rise. He keeps his longsword ready and leaves the tinder untouched.

His concealed chainmail presses firmly beneath his clothes, protecting his torso without distracting him. Between the stones and the pines, every branch, shadow, and strip of pale ground remains visible.

Time passes in the damp cold. Nilsar catches no movement beyond the palisade, only wind combing the upper branches and the muted labor of carpenters behind him.

A fresh troop reaches the rise with shields slung and spears in hand. Nilsar yields the position as ordered, his watch complete and the tree line still quiet beneath the darkening sky.

Nilsar leaves the relieved militiamen to their watch and descends from the western rise. The darkening road carries him toward the inner yard, where lamplight gathers around the well.

Captain Odran stands beside the well with the folded map beneath one arm, speaking quietly to a carpenter before turning as Nilsar approaches.

Nilsar crosses the lamplit yard toward the baron's tower, a broad stone structure enclosed by a simple wooden palisade. Two fortress guards stand before its door, spears grounded.

The nearer guard, a lean young adult man with weathered olive skin, a square jaw, close-cropped black hair, and a rust-red surcoat over mail, studies Nilsar's sword and travel-worn clothes, suspicion sharpening when he recognizes the Yarb name. The ringed mail beneath them and the smith's steady bearing lend weight to his claim.

The guard lifts the bar across the tower door and pulls it inward. Warm lamplight spills over the threshold, revealing a narrow stair curling upward through the stone.

Nilsar passes through the opened gate and enters the tower with his longsword at his hip. Behind him, the guard lowers the bar again, while the stair carries lamplight toward the baron's chamber.

Nilsar climbs the narrow stair, checking each unguarded chamber as he passes. A clerk’s room holds sealed petitions; a storage room conceals nothing but lamp oil and spare rushes.

In a small records room, he finds a loose-backed chest beneath old tax rolls. Inside lies a court ledger listing timber claims, missing payments, and a second set of accounts hidden beneath it.

Footsteps sound below. Nilsar replaces the ledger and reaches the upper chamber, but the search has cost him valuable minutes, leaving no time to verify whether the names are current.

The baron’s chamber opens onto a narrow gallery. The baron, an elderly man with a lean frame, silver hair, and a severe face, wearing a dark wool robe belted over a plain linen tunic and bearing a thin scar across one cheek, stands beside a table crowded with maps and wax-sealed letters.

The door closes behind Nilsar. The ledger’s hidden names remain in his memory, while the baron watches him across the lamplit table, awaiting the report about Lucas Harris and the second scout.

The baron listens without interrupting. His severe expression tightens at the mention of the hidden accounts, while one hand settles flat beside the maps.

He draws the western rise and the forest edge together with a charcoal mark, then places a sealed letter over the ledger’s likely hiding place in the records room.

The baron turns toward the chamber door and calls for a fortress guard, his decision already moving from the map into the tower’s waiting command.