Adventure of Hamann 1

Rain needles through the pines. Hamann holds the narrow path, black cloak dark with water, mace ready, while the patrol closes somewhere beyond the trees.

A shape peels away from behind a massive pine, a man in a faded grey cloak, calm as stone in the storm. He stops where the lantern glow from the clearing can barely reach him.

He lifts two fingers, then turns his hand inward, a small sign meant for priests, oathbreakers, or both. His gaze fixes on Hamann's disguise without blinking.

Hamann plants his boots in the mud and holds the line. Rain beads on his mace, and his distorted face stays turned toward the trees as the path ahead goes quiet.

The words settle like a gate bar. Hamann does not move back, and the choice reaches the blacksmith and the stranger at once.

A twig snaps somewhere in the pines. The blacksmith flinches at the sound, then squares his shoulders near the lantern glow, the old rope burns on his wrists catching red in the light.

Hamann's stance holds, but the effort costs him. Blood wells from the cut on his hand and darkens the rain at his wrist, while the stranger watches for his answer and the patrol's voices drift closer.

Hamann presses fresh cloth against the cut and winds it tight. The strip slips in the rain, but the bleeding slows to a dark stain instead of a trail.

The blacksmith watches from the lantern glow, jaw set, while the stranger lets the silence breathe. His gaze drops to Hamann's wrapped hand, then to the mud where the blood had been.

Rain ticks on the twisted hem of Hamann's cloak. The stranger bends and picks up a shred of the failed bandage, rubbing thumb to linen as if testing its weave.

The blacksmith swallows hard, then loosens one hand from his side and points toward the clearing edge where the lantern lies broken in wet grass. Something pale gleams beside the spill of light, half-hidden under a fern.

Hamann's hand is wrapped now, awkward but sound enough for work. The stranger waits, open-handed, while the blacksmith keeps his eyes on the pale glimmer by the fern.

Hamann crouches into the fern’s shadow and parts the wet fronds with two fingers. The pale thing is not a stone, but a folded scrap of waxed parchment, pressed flat with moss.

He lifts it free. Mud clings to one edge, and a stamped seal shows through the damp, red and sharp as fresh blood.

The blacksmith leans in from the lantern spill, breath caught. The stranger’s eyes narrow at once, fixed on the stamp in Hamann’s hand.

Rain beads on the parchment as Hamann turns it. The wax cracks under his thumb, and a corner tears away, but the stamp remains readable.

The stranger shifts one step closer, palm open, demanding the page without quite saying it. The broken lantern gutters in the grass, throwing a weak red shimmer over the seal.

Hamann lets the parchment go. It leaves his fingers in the stranger’s hand, damp and red-stamped, while his other hand settles on the mace at his side.

The stranger folds the parchment once and tucks it away as if it were already proof. Behind him, the blacksmith lowers himself deeper into the grass, jaw set hard against the lantern glow.

Rain ticks on the broken lantern. Its weak red light wavers over the mud, then catches on the stranger’s outstretched arm as he indicates the dark between the pines.

Hamann moves into the trees with measured care, while the blacksmith slips after him, grim and ready, both of them turning toward the patrol's approaching voices.