The metallic tang of distant mines still clung to the air in Dawmoor, a constant reminder of the village's primary, and currently failing, purpose. Rhyse, having set in motion the initial phases of the [Dawmoor Revitalization] Quest via the System, now faced the more mundane but equally pressing task of securing mounts for his small party. His grand plan of reaching the Krellian Deeps hinged on swift, discreet travel, and that meant leaving Dawmoor behind as quickly as possible, hopefully before any word of an unusual, well-funded interest in the village reached unwelcome ears.
He stood with Sergeant Kaelen Vance near the village's dilapidated communal well, the one he'd already earmarked for System-funded repair. Guardswoman Petra Flint and Guardsman Torvin Bellweather maintained a discreet perimeter, their Core Guard training making them blend into the weary backdrop of Dawmoor better than Rhyse, with his still too-fine (though deliberately chosen for travel) clothing, ever could.
"The villagers are wary, my lord," Vance rumbled, his gaze sweeping the huddled groups of people who occasionally cast furtive, curious glances their way. "They see outsiders with coin, and they see either opportunity or trouble. Horses are scarce here; most are draft animals for the mines, and those are failing too."
Rhyse nodded. Here, without an official intermediary, he'd have to tread carefully. "We need hardy moorland ponies, not warhorses. Something that won't draw attention."
"There's a man, Old Hemlock – not his real name, I'd wager – who sometimes trades in ponies brought down from the higher fells," Flint interjected, her voice low as she rejoined them. "He keeps to himself on the village outskirts. Not well-liked, but they say his beasts are tough, if his prices are sharper than a shard of obsidian."
"A lead is a lead," Rhyse decided. "Vance, you and Bellweather will accompany me. Flint, maintain observation here. Note anyone showing undue interest in our activities or in strangers in general."
Rhyse would usually refer to them with their titles, but it wasn't wise to do it here since they were undercover.
Flint nodded, her stern face unreadable, and melted back towards the edge of the village square, near a crumbling shrine to some forgotten earth deity.
The walk to Old Hemlock's hovel was short, leading them past more evidence of Dawmoor's decline – collapsed mine supports used as firewood, gardens struggling in the thin, mineral-leached soil. The air here was even more acrid.
Hemlock's dwelling was a low-slung stone building leaning against an outcrop, a few scrawny, shaggy ponies listlessly chewing on sparse grass in a makeshift corral. The man himself emerged as they approached, as weathered and gnarled as an ancient moorland tree. His eyes, however, were sharp and missed nothing.
"Outsiders," Hemlock grunted, his voice like gravel. "Looking for trouble or to make some?"
"Neither, goodman," Rhyse said, his Basic Leadership Aura a faint, almost subconscious projection of calm. "We seek to purchase three sturdy ponies for a long journey north. We were told you might have them."
Hemlock spat a stream of brown liquid onto the muddy ground. "Might. For the right price. What's a 'long journey north' to folk like you?" His eyes raked over Rhyse's attire, then Vance's imposing figure.
Rhyse hesitated a bit, still thoughtful about the moral dilemma of spending his gold sovereigns, but still used [Skill: Rapid Assessment (Personnel - Rank 1)].
[Activating Skill: Rapid Assessment... Target: Old Hemlock. Cost: 400 Gold Sovereigns.]
[Assessment Complete: Target - Rank 1 Commoner (Expert Animal Handler/Trader - Shrewd). Primary Attributes: Cunning (High), Greed (Moderate), Mistrust (High). No immediate hostile intent. Primary Motivation: Profit. Known Affiliations: None significant. Weakness: Flattery regarding his animals, appeal to a truly exceptional price.]
Shrewd and greedy, but not hostile. "We are researchers," Rhyse improvised, "studying the ancient ley-lines that converge further north. A scholarly pursuit, requiring hardy transport."
Hemlock snorted. "Ley-lines, eh? More like treasure hunters, or fools running from something. Ponies are thirty gold a head, non-negotiable. And they're worth every gold for surviving these moors."
The price was inflated, even for good ponies. Vance shifted beside Rhyse, a silent protest.
Bellweather, however, wasn't as discreet, "Thirty gold for a PONY? That's absurd! Thirty silver would b-"
Rhyse quietly raised his hand to stop him.
"Thirty gold is steep, master trader," Rhyse countered, trying to channel the bargaining instincts he imagined his Hawthorne relatives possessed. "But for beasts of true quality, tended by a man who clearly knows his stock as well as you do, perhaps a premium is warranted." He let the System's assessment about "flattery" guide him.
A flicker of something – surprise? grudging pleasure? – crossed Hemlock's face. "Aye, they're quality. Not like the nags the Synkar overseers try to pass off on the miners." He gestured towards the ponies. "That one," he pointed to a sturdy-looking grey, "she'll carry you to the Frozen Wastes and back, if you feed her right. The dun there, he's got a temper, but he's got stamina like a mountain troll. And the little black mare… she's smarter than most men I know."
The negotiation continued, Rhyse carefully deploying his gold drawn directly from the Network by the System and manifested as physical currency in a discrete pouch Valerius had provided and a measure of respectful haggling. He settled at twenty gold per pony, a price still high but one Hemlock seemed to accept with a grim satisfaction.
As they led the ponies – indeed hardy, if unkempt – back towards the village proper, Bellweather commented, "He drove a hard bargain, my lord."
"But we have our mounts," Rhyse said. "And without drawing undue attention." He made a mental note: direct negotiation with hardened commoners was a skill he needed to cultivate. The System might offer frameworks, but experience was the true teacher.
Back in the village, as they prepared for departure, a small commotion drew their attention. A young woman, no older than sixteen, her face smudged with dirt but her eyes bright with defiance, was arguing vehemently with a pair of thuggish-looking men in mismatched, scavenged leather armor. These weren't Synkar guards; they had the look of local bullies or enforcers for some unseen power.
"You can't take all of it!" the young woman cried, clutching a small sack. "It's all my family has for the week!" "Orders are orders, Guinia," one of the men sneered, grabbing for the sack. "The 'Provisioning Tax' is due. Everyone pays."
Rhyse felt a surge of anger. A provision tax? it was clearly extortion. This was beyond neglect; this was predation within his own lands. He saw children nearby watching with wide, fearful eyes. This village wasn't just poor; it was oppressed.
Before Vance could step forward, Rhyse held up a hand. He looked at the scene, his earlier resolve regarding Dawmoor solidifying into a cold fury. The [Dawmoor Revitalization] Quest was active. This was a direct impediment to its objectives.
The System, almost as if sensing his shift in focus from personal travel to ducal intervention, chimed.
[Quest Update: The Dawmoor Revitalization - New Optional Sub-objective: Resolve Local Oppression (Enforcers).]
[Objective: Identify and neutralize the source of illicit 'taxes' and intimidation within Dawmoor.]
[Reward: Significant Local Loyalty Increase, +5 System Advancement, Potential Information Source.]
Rhyse's gaze hardened. His journey to the Krellian Deeps was urgent, but this… this felt personal. He couldn't just ride away.
"Vance," Rhyse said, his voice low and dangerous. "Flint, Bellweather. It seems our departure from Dawmoor will be slightly delayed. We have some local 'administrative issues' to address first."
Vance's scarred face split into a grim smile. "A straightforward objective, my lo- young master. More satisfying than haggling for ponies."
This unexpected detour would cost them time, perhaps reveal their presence more broadly if violence erupted. But Rhyse knew he couldn't ignore it. The lessons of ducal responsibility were coming faster and harder than any tutor could have imparted.
After the thugs left, the villagers who had overheard the altercation with the young woman, Guinia, now looked towards Rhyse and his well-armed, professional-looking party with a mixture of fear and desperate hope. One older man, his face a roadmap of hardship, stepped forward tentatively when he noticed Rhyse's party wanted to do something about it. "Strangers… you would interfere? These are… Burton's men. Mad Eyed Burton, they call him."
"Mad Eyed Burton? What a silly name," Rhyse said, and then used Rapid Assessment on the old man.
[Assessment Complete: Villager Elder (Timon). Rank 0. Loyalty (Local Community): High. Fear (Burton's Enforcers): Extreme. Hope (Outsider Intervention): Fleeting.]
"Tell me about this Burton," Rhyse commanded gently.
The story that tumbled out was one of a former mine overseer who, after the mines began to fail and Synkar authority became more distant, had used a band of hired thugs to establish himself as the de facto power in Dawmoor, extorting food, resources, and labor under the guise of "protection" and "taxes." He operated from a fortified section of the old, abandoned mine entrance.
"He took over the old Mine Overseer's lodge, my lord, up by the north adit," Timon explained, his voice raspy. "Fortified it with scavenged timber and rusted plating from the abandoned workings. He has maybe… a dozen men or more? Rough types, armed with cast-off mining tools and a few old blades. They patrol the village paths, especially around market days, and collect his 'dues'."
This was an immediate threat to any revitalization effort. The System's "Suggested Actions" for the Revitalization Quest even included [Address specific local grievances or security concerns].
"A dozen armed thugs in a makeshift fort," Vance mused, stroking his scarred jaw. "Manageable, if we're smart about it. A direct assault would be noisy and could endanger the villagers if they have hostages or try to make an example."
Rhyse nodded. "Discretion is still key, but time is important for us. Flint, what are your thoughts on reconnaissance?" Without Lyra, Flint's experience as a Core Guard, likely trained in basic scouting, was their best bet.
Petra Flint's stern face was thoughtful. "The mine adit offers limited approaches, my lord. Likely one main entrance, perhaps a ventilation shaft they haven't fully secured. If they use the lodge as a base, their patrols into the village will create predictable patterns and potentially leave their holdout less defended at times."
"Could split their focus, draw some out," Vance agreed. "Flint can observe their routines and numbers more closely before we act."
"We can't waste too much time on them," Rhyse said. "Even if it's more dangerous, I will support you in the attack. We'll take them swiftly. But first, we need to understand Burton's hold on these people. Elder Timon, is there anyone in the village he particularly trusts, or anyone who might know his habits, his weaknesses?"
Timon hesitated. "There's… young Guinia, the girl they were harassing earlier. Her father was a mine foreman before… before Burton took over. He sometimes uses her to run messages, thinking she's too cowed to defy him. She sees more than most."
Rhyse found Guinia near the communal well, still clutching her depleted sack, her eyes red but defiant. He approached cautiously, Vance a silent shadow a few paces behind.
"Mistress Guinia," Rhyse said gently, his Basic Leadership Aura subtly trying to project reassurance. "I am sorry for the actions of those men. We intend to address the situation with this Burton."
Guinia looked up, startled, then suspicious. "You? Who are you to challenge Burton? He'll crush you like he does everyone else. And you're just a kid!"
Rhyse silently used Rapid Assessment on the girl.
[System Assessment Complete: Guinia - Rank 0 Commoner. Intent: Fearful, Resentful (of Burton), Protective (of family). Surface Loyalty (Community): High. Surface Loyalty (Rhyse Synkar): Wary (Untested). Potential Complications: Prone to rash action if family is threatened.]
"We are merely travelers who dislike seeing injustice, Guinia," Rhyse said. "Any information you have about Burton – his routines, how many men are truly loyal to him, any weaknesses in his lodge – would be invaluable. For the good of Dawmoor."
Guinia searched his face, then glanced at Vance's imposing figure. After a long moment, she spoke, her voice low. "He's a drunkard, mostly. Spends his evenings in the main room of the lodge with his closest three or four cronies, drinking whatever rotgut they can find. The others… they're mostly opportunists, bullies who follow the strongest fist. They fear him, but they don't love him. His main strength is that no one dares stand against him. The back ventilation shaft of the lodge… it's narrow, but the grate is rusted. A small person might slip through."
Lyra could have, Rhyse thought with a pang. But they had to work with what they had.
"I have a proposal for you," Rhyse said, keeping his voice low and steady despite the rapid calculations running through his mind. He adjusted his posture slightly – not enough to seem intimidating, but enough to project the quiet authority of his station. "Lead us to Burton's lodge through the safest path you know, show us where his men typically stand guard... and in return, you'll find twenty gold sovereigns waiting for you at home."
He watched her face carefully as he spoke, his newly enhanced senses catching the subtle hitch in her breathing at the mention of gold. "Twenty sovereigns could-" she began, then bit her lip, her fingers worrying at the frayed edge of her shawl. "You swear on your name? My little brother... he nearly lost a hand last autumn when the mine collapsed. That coin could..."
Rhyse inclined his head, the motion measured and deliberate. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed a gold coin to the girl, "This is a sample." The weight of his words seemed to settle between them, heavier than any purse of coins. He could see the exact moment her fear of Burton gave way to something sharper – the desperate hope of those who've been trodden upon too long.
The plan formed quickly after that. Rhyse confirmed a frontal and swift assault would be best. Vance, Bellweather and Flint would fight head on, and Rhyse would support them with wards if needed.
They pretended to leave and fool prying eyes, but took the path with Guinia as a guide and waited for the right time.
'System,' Rhyse thought, 'activate Sensory Enhancement Suite (Rank 1).'
[Activating System Effect: Sensory Enhancement Suite (Rank 1). Duration: 2 Hours. Activation Cost: 1,200 Gold Sovereigns.]
Rhyse took precautions by enhancing his senses. The world sharpened. The distant howl of a moor-wolf, the rustle of heather in the wind, the faint clinking from Burton's lodge – all became unnervingly clear. He could even detect the faint, stale arcane traces around the lodge, likely from some old mining equipment, nothing actively defensive.
The dying light of dusk painted the moors of Dawmoor in eerie violet shadows, the long fingers of twilight stretching ominously across the landscape. Rhyse crouched low behind a jagged outcropping, his enhanced senses tracking every whisper of wind through the heather, every distant hoot of an owl. To his left, Sergeant Vance moved with lethal precision, his war-glaive flashing in the dim light as he silenced the outer sentry with a single, brutal stroke - the man's choked gurgle barely audible over the wind. Flint and Bellweather flanked their position, weapons drawn, their breathing steady despite the adrenaline. The time for stealth had passed; now came the storm. Ruckus and blood would be their heralds as they descended upon the bandit den like the wrath of the old gods themselves.