A week has passed and joran was covering plenty of ground. He had hitched rides on wagons, traveled on foot through the forests, and even occasionally used traversal magic which allowed him to conjure magical creatures such as a shadow mount. He would ride the steed as far as possible which with his mixed blood enhancing his magical capabilities made it pretty far before he had to dissipate the horse and travel on foot. He would travel by road most of the time only to go into the woods if he needed to make camp or avoid patrols which he was able to track due to some of the maps he took from the palace. There was a moment he was nearly caught by a patrol, but he draped his cloak around his body while hiding in a bush which allowed him to blend into the shadows as they moved on. He did everything he could to avoid towns and villages as he figured the knights who were after him would search as many populated areas as they could in order to find him.
Another day had passed when he came upon the next town. The small border town of Vandren’s Rest stands as the final bastion of civilization before one reaches the vast wilderness separating Lothara from the lawless territories beyond. Nestled between rolling hills and dense woodlands, Vandren’s Rest is a rugged yet prosperous settlement, serving as a last stop for traders, travelers, and soldiers before venturing into the unknown. It is a town of hardened souls—merchants who deal in rare goods from mythic lands, beastmen hunters who provide exotic meats and furs, and mercenaries looking for work along the frontier.
The architecture of Vandren’s Rest blends practicality with the cultural influences of its mythic and human inhabitants. The buildings are sturdy, made of dark stone and reinforced wood, their roofs slanted to withstand harsh storms that often sweep through the region. Lanterns glow with a soft, enchanted light, illuminating the cobbled streets with an ethereal blue hue once night falls. Though the town lacks the grandeur of Lothara’s heart, it carries a rustic charm—hand-carved wooden signs hang from shopfronts, and intricate mythic glyphs are etched into some doorways, believed to ward off evil spirits.
At the center of town, a large open market square bustles with activity. Vendors hawk wares ranging from dwarven-forged weapons to rare herbs cultivated by nymphs. A permanent posting board stands near the town’s well, covered with notices—job requests, bounties, and messages from those seeking safe passage beyond the border. A local inn, The Wandering Drake, dominates one side of the square, its massive stone fireplace visible from the street, sending smoke curling into the evening sky.
On the outskirts of town, a small watchtower and barracks house the Lotharan border guard. These soldiers, a mix of humans and mythics, are charged with monitoring those who leave and enter the kingdom. While Lothara is not at war, security is strict, especially with the looming presence of slavers, raiders, and those who wish harm upon mythics attempting to flee persecution in human lands. The border checkpoint, a fortified wooden gate, lies just beyond the town, marking the final boundary of Lotharan safety.
Despite its importance, Vandren’s Rest carries an air of quiet tension. Travelers speak in hushed tones at the tavern, wary of spies or bounty hunters who might report their movements. The local blacksmith, a cyclopean craftsman, works late into the night forging weapons for those preparing for dangerous journeys. A few streets away, an elven herbalist quietly provides untraceable potions for those who wish to disappear beyond the border. Joran stared at the town in the distance as he thought about what he should do. It would’ve taken him a lot longer without the maps as he probably would’ve wandered in a single direction and had to climb through mountains and forge through large rivers but thankfully, he was well supplied. He was considering avoiding this town like the others but as he thought about it, he was tired of sleeping in a tent and wanted to rest in an actual bed with delicious food served to him, so he began venturing towards vandren’s rest.
Meanwhile, only a few miles from the town joran had begun marching towards, there were three knights standing in the road. A beastman of lycan descent was sniffing the ground beneath the sky-colored orange by the setting sun. Lorsan stands at an imposing 6''7", his broad, muscular frame exuding raw power and relentless endurance. Unlike full werewolves, his transformation is incomplete-retaining the wolf’s strength, heightened senses, and instincts while maintaining a humanoid form. His sharpened features, golden-yellow eyes, and predatory aura make him a fearsome presence among the Royal Knights of Lothara.
His face is a fusion of man and beast, with a strong jawline and slightly elongated nose that grants him an enhanced sense of smell, allowing him to track scents with unnerving accuracy. His ears are pointed and furred, flicking at the slightest sounds, an involuntary habit that betrays his heightened awareness. A light layer of short, bristled fur lines his cheeks and the back of his neck, a testament to his bestial bloodline. His thick, dark hair, streaked with silver strands, is kept relatively tidy—though wild enough to hint at his untamed nature.
Lorsan stood, a mountain of muscle and iron, clad in onyx-black mithril armor that gleamed beneath the flickering torchlight. Though meticulously forged to suit the form of a royal knight, his armor bore subtle modifications—ones that accommodated the feral physique of a beastman, allowing him the agility and precision of a hunter despite the heavy plating.
His breastplate, adorned with golden filigree, bore the sigil of Lothara: a mighty dragon coiled around a shield, its eyes set with small obsidian gems that flickered in the dim light like burning embers. His pauldrons, large and imposing, had been crafted in the shape of snarling wolves, their fangs bared as if they, too, were ready to strike at a moment’s notice. The slight curvature of the metal allowed for swift shoulder movement, ensuring that even under layers of protection, his predatory reflexes remained unhindered.
His gauntlets were a work of deadly artistry—a seamless fusion of blackened steel and enchanted leather, reinforced to endure the force of a greatsword yet light enough for the dexterity of his claws. The fingers were tipped with retractable, razor-sharp talons, enchanted with runic etchings that faintly pulsed with golden light. A single deep scratch marred the metal of his right hand, the only imperfection in his otherwise pristine armor—a relic of a duel fought long ago.
Draped across his shoulders was a tattered crimson cloak, the fabric worn at the edges but still regal in its presence. The inner lining was woven from the fur of a dire wolf, thick and warm, a stark contrast to the cold bite of the armor beneath it. It smelled faintly of leather, steel, and lingering embers from a forge, carrying the unmistakable scent of a warrior who had seen countless battles and walked away victorious.
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His greaves and sabatons were similarly designed for both defense and speed. While the plated shin guards bore elegant engravings of crescent moons and leaping wolves, the boots themselves were made to allow for silent movement, ensuring that even a beast of his size could prowl unnoticed when he wished. The heels were reinforced for powerful lunges, and the soles, lined with textured leather, ensured that Lorsan never lost his footing, whether in the palace halls or the bloodied fields of battle.
Hanging from his belt was a silver amulet, its intricate carvings forming the shape of a wolf’s eye, a mark of his station among the elite warriors of Lothara. It gleamed faintly in the dim torchlight, a symbol of his rank. “His scent is heavily clouded by powerful magic, but I can faintly make out his trail with Dain’s aid.” His voice is deep, guttural, and laced with an ever-present growl, making even casual conversation sound like a veiled threat. His breath carries the faint scent of steel and blood, an ominous reminder of the battles he has fought.
He turned his head to look at his two companions. Tall, lean, and carved from the cold elegance of his kin, Sir Vaelin stood as a living testament to elvish refinement twisted into cruelty. His features, sculpted with unnatural symmetry, bore the striking arrogance of highborn lineage—sharp cheekbones, a chiseled jawline, and piercing silver eyes that held neither warmth nor pity. His ashen-blond hair, sleek and straight, fell just past his shoulders, always immaculate, as though the grime of battle dared not touch him.
His armor, forged of enchanted silver, was as breathtaking as it was deadly. Runic etchings wove across the polished breastplate, softly glowing in the dim torchlight, ancient spells embedded within the metal to enhance his speed and precision. The pauldrons, shaped into the delicate curves of elven craftsmanship, bore no unnecessary weight, ensuring that Vaelin’s strikes remained fluid, unhindered by the burdens of lesser warriors. His gauntlets, masterfully fitted to his slender hands, waited eagerly to grip his crescent blade so he could spill noble blood.
At his hip rested a slim ceremonial dagger, its blackened blade infused with a paralysis enchantment, used not for honorable combat but to keep his victims helpless as he toyed with them. A dark smirk often played at his lips, the face of a predator that took pleasure in breaking something pure.
Despite the filth of his deeds, Vaelin’s boots were always pristine, his cloak—a deep, regal blue—flowing behind him with an air of untouchable nobility. Every movement, every calculated step, radiated effortless control, as if the very world bowed to his existence. But beneath that composed facade, behind the veneer of elven perfection, lurked a deep, twisted satisfaction in the suffering of those beneath him.
A figure wrapped in mystery and malice; Dain carried the eerie presence of a man too deeply entrenched in the old ways. His long, earth-toned robes, embroidered with golden sigils of nature’s forgotten gods, clung to his form, giving the illusion of roots creeping along bark. A deep hood often shadowed his face, but when revealed, he bore the wizened yet cruel visage of a man who had long abandoned mercy in pursuit of power.
His hair, dark and matted with the scent of damp earth and crushed herbs, was adorned with small trinkets—bones of fallen animals, dried petals of poisonous flowers, and wooden charms carved with sinister intent. His pale green eyes, sunken yet brimming with ancient knowledge, held none of the kindness associated with druids. Instead, they gleamed with an insatiable curiosity—a scholar’s interest in pain, a fascination with suffering.
Beneath the folds of his robe, his arms were etched with tattoos of pulsating runes, each symbol shifting subtly as if alive, drinking in the energy around them. His gnarled wooden staff, taller than himself and wrapped in twisting vines, was a conduit of terrible power, capable of manipulating the elements with devastating effect. The roots at its base twitched and curled as if yearning for something—perhaps flesh, perhaps blood.
Dain did not revel in cruelty the way Vaelin did; he studied it. Each wound, each drop of stolen blood, was a puzzle, a piece of a greater truth he sought to unlock. To him, Joran was nothing more than an experiment, a rare hybrid whose pain could be dissected, whose essence could be harvested for a greater purpose. He did not hate the prince—he simply did not see him as anything more than a vessel for magic, a living ingredient in his ever-growing collection of arcane knowledge.
When he spoke, it was a slow, deliberate murmur, each syllable carrying the weight of rituals long since lost to time. His voice, a whisper upon the wind, could command the trees to ensnare, the air to suffocate, the earth to swallow whole. Yet, even without magic, his presence alone was enough to send shivers down the spine of those who had the misfortune of meeting his gaze.
“Of course… it is only natural that someone…. Who has studied his blood… would find it easier to track him…. Than other mages…" Dain smirked and gripped his staff a bit tighter causing magic to crackle from it. Dain wasn’t really a knight or even a servant of the crown. He used to be a prisoner in the dungeons beneath the palace for kidnapping mythics and performing experiments on them but then the knights who abused Joran found him. They gave him a secret room and then made a deal with him. They would provide the tears and blood of the prince for him to experiment on and in exchange he would create potions from the substances. The druid mage was excited by the idea of experimenting on the fluids of a creature as rare as the prince, so he was quick to agree. When he had heard Joran had left the palace, he immediately volunteered to help track the prince down if he could extract other samples from the prince besides blood and tears which they agreed.
“Yes yes, very impressive you two. Can we hurry up? I''m sick of all this walking and I''m really eager to teach that half-breed shit a lesson for running from us." Vaelin tapped the hilt of his blade with impatience dripping from his voice when Lorsan snarled. “Do not rush me elf! I am the best tracker in the royal guard and even i am having trouble maintaining the scent of the prince! We all want a piece of the prince so unless you have anything to contribute at this moment i suggest you shut the fuck up!” Vaelin''s smirk twitched slightly as he glared at the lycan. “Be careful how you speak to me, mutt. Or maybe the doggy needs a lesson in respect.” lorsan snarled louder as he bared his teeth and claws before moving towards the elf when suddenly vines began wrapping around the ankles of the two knights as dain moved between them. “Patience…. Patience… my compatriots. We mustn''t fight ourselves when we should…. Be looking for the prince. Let us….keep our cool… and find our money maker… before someone else does…” the two knights glared at Dain then each other before regaining their composure. The elf’s smirk did not leave his face, but his eyes shined with disdain. Dain tapped his staff against the ground and the vines retreated back into the ground and they went off towards Joran''s location as lorsan continued to occasionally sniff the air while dain would mutter incantations to enhance the abilities of lorsan’s senses. They would soon be upon joran and nothing will stop them from having their fun before taking him home.