David Michaels

The Forsaken Wastes were a cruel, relentless stretch of no-man’s-land, a place where life clung to the shadows and only the desperate—or the foolish—ventured beyond the safety of their borders. To the north, towering cliffs marked the edges of the known realms, standing firm against the relentless assaults of the Others. These enigmatic, shape-shifting creatures had plagued Aetharia for generations, and their attacks had grown disturbingly coordinated in recent months. Rumors whispered of a new leader—a half-Other—uniting the scattered horrors under one will. David Michaels had heard the stories from Daniel’s latest trades, and though he rarely put stock in gossip, there was truth in the tension that hummed through every conversation about it.

The Hollowed Grounds, a dusty haven for exiles, traders, and mercenaries, sat like an oasis in the Wastes. It wasn’t much to look at—ramshackle buildings clinging to weathered stone, the occasional magical torch flickering against the encroaching darkness—but it was enough. Here, even the forsaken could find purpose, coin, or at least a stiff drink at the Hollow Fang Tavern. The Hawke family ruled the town with a firm but steady hand, and David respected that. Order was a precious commodity in chaos.

David’s boots crunched against the dirt road as he and his brothers strode into the center of town. Garran Forgeclaw had been the one to meet them at the gates, grumbling about Axel Hawke being out on a hunting run. Others were too close to the town’s edges again, and someone had to clean them out. That left the Hollow Fang’s bustling tavern as the logical place to wait for Axel’s return.

The scent of roasted meat and faint traces of spiced ale greeted them as they stepped inside. The familiar dim lighting, sturdy wooden beams, and lively murmur of patrons offered a rare sense of comfort, though David’s sharp gaze immediately scanned the room. He didn’t relax—not in a place like this. His left hand brushed against the well-worn grip of his enchanted pistol holstered at his side, a reflex that brought him more assurance than the atmosphere.

As his steel-gray eyes swept across the room, they landed on a figure moving between tables with practiced ease. A server, carrying a tray of drinks and ducking between patrons with fluid grace. There was something… grounded about them. Efficient. Unbothered by the noise and chaos. That caught his attention.

“Hey,” David called, his deep, steady voice cutting through the tavern's din like a blade. He gestured them over with a small nod, his expression calm but unreadable. “Got a second?”

As he waited for their approach, his thoughts remained guarded but active. Axel better not take his time with this run. Last thing we need is more surprises on the way back. And this place… He glanced around the tavern again, noting the mixture of hardened mercenaries and quiet wanderers. Always on edge, always something brewing under the surface. At least Daniel’s here to keep things from getting dull.

When they finally stopped in front of him, he leaned back slightly, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The scar running across his right eye caught the light, a stark reminder of his years spent surviving dangers few could imagine. "You work here, right? Good. We’ll be waiting for Axel—get us something to drink. Whatever’s strong.” His voice held no malice, just the curt efficiency of someone who had long since stopped wasting words.

David’s eyes lingered for a moment longer before he turned his attention to the room again, scanning for any potential trouble. Let’s hope Axel shows up before this town starts to feel too familiar.