John "Soap" MacTavish

Inside, the Rusted Flagon was exactly what he'd expected—dim, smoky, and thick with the smell of cheap ale and cheaper desperation. A hearth fire crackled weakly in the corner, more smoke than flame, and the few patrons scattered around the room looked up at his entrance with the hollow-eyed suspicion common to towns that had been forgotten by prosperity.

Soap pulled off his gloves, tucking them into his belt as he crossed to the bar. The innkeeper, a heavyset woman with arms like cured hams, wiped a rag across the counter and fixed him with a look that said she'd seen his type before and wasn't impressed.

"What'll it be?"

"Whisky. Neat." Soap dropped a few coppers onto the scarred wood. "An' information, if ye've got it tae spare."

The innkeeper snorted, pouring him a generous measure of amber liquid into a glass that had seen better decades. "Depends on what you're asking, elf."

"There's a bounty posted." He slid the parchment across the counter, letting her eyes track the offered sum. "Name on it matches someone rumored tae be in this area. Thought maybe the locals might've seen somethin'."

The woman's expression shuttered so fast it was almost comical. "We don't want trouble here."

"Aye, well, trouble's got a way o' findin' folk whether they want it or no'." Soap took a slow sip of his whisky, letting the burn settle in his chest. "Am no' lookin' tae cause a scene. Jist doin' mah job. Any help ye can offer makes it easier on everyone."

She studied him for a long moment, her jaw working like she was chewing over her next words. Finally, she leaned in, voice dropping low enough that the other patrons wouldn't overhear.

"Word's been spreading for weeks now. Someone out near the old well on the eastern edge of town's been seen at odd hours. Lights where there shouldn't be lights. Strange sounds." She crossed her arms over her chest. "Folks say it's dark magic. Say they've seen shadows moving wrong, heard voices speaking in tongues."

Soap's jaw tightened. "Anyone actually hurt? Property damaged? Animals spooked?"

The innkeeper hesitated. "Well... no. Nothing like that. But—"

"But nothin'." He knocked back the rest of his whisky and set the glass down with a soft thunk. "A light in the dark an' some weird noises isnae proof o' dark magic. Could be anythin'."

"Maybe." She didn't sound convinced. "But enough people have come forward that the magistrate sent word to Aurdor proper. That's why you're here, isn't it?"

That was, in fact, exactly why he was here. Soap hated it. Hated the way fear curdled into accusation, the way a handful of nervous whispers could snowball into a death sentence. Back home in Hyoria, someone using dark magic would be investigated properly—their intentions weighed, their methods examined, their character taken into account. Dark magic had its uses, same as any other tool. It was the wielder that mattered, not the weapon.

But Aurdorean law didn't see it that way. To King Price and his magistrates, dark magic was dark magic, end of discussion. Intent didn't factor in. Circumstances were irrelevant. Guilty until proven innocent, an' good luck provin' a negative.

Soap pulled a face, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck where the day's travel had left a layer of grit and sweat. "Aye. That's why am here."

He pushed away from the bar, leaving a few extra coppers for the innkeeper's trouble. The eastern edge of town, she'd said. Near the old well. It wasn't much to go on, but it was a start.

---

The moon had climbed higher by the time Soap reached the outskirts of Mapleleigh, the crowded shacks giving way to scrubland and the occasional withered tree. The old well was easy enough to find—a crumbling stone structure half-swallowed by brambles, the wooden roof that had once covered it long since rotted away. The air here felt different. Charged, somehow. Like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks.

Soap loosened the dagger at his hip but didn't draw it. No sense in spooking anyone before he had a chance to talk.

Talkin's always the best opener, he told himself. Figure oot what's actually happenin' before ye start swingin' steel.

He settled into the shadow of a gnarled oak, close enough to the well to observe but far enough to avoid detection. The night was quiet—too quiet, really. No crickets, no night birds. Just the soft whisper of wind through dead grass and the distant, mournful howl of something in the hills.

Then, movement.

A figure emerged from the treeline beyond the well, their silhouette backlit by the pale wash of moonlight. Soap couldn't make out details yet—just a shape, moving with the kind of careful deliberation that spoke of someone who knew they were being watched.

His hand drifted toward his dagger. Not gripping. Just... ready. Then, carefully, deliberately, he stepped out of the shadows. Close enough to be seen, far enough to give them room to bolt if they wanted.

"Bit late for a stroll, intit?" His voice carried easily across the clearing, light and conversational despite the tension thrumming beneath his skin. "Dinnae suppose ye've heard the rumors goin' roon aboot this place. Strange lights. Voices." He tilted his head, moonlight catching the edge of his jaw. "Dark magic, some folk're sayin'. Ye wouldnae know anythin' aboot that, would ye?"