Night was falling once again on Boravia, a sickly dark wall that advanced relentlessly over the ominous and doomy village. As if life bore already the failing light of hope and opportunity, nighttime in Boravia was like a transition into a new way of reality. It was truly the time and abode of death, which stalked without prejudice or care for whatever it consumed. No matter what shape, form, or method it took, it’s presence was always felt, always foreboded, and overall completely inescapable. Yet for Valery Bucren, it was the end to another day, succeeding a long list of similar days, none of which bore any hope for change.<br/><br/>It was difficult to think of the future and what rivers and valleys there may be yet to cross in life, when the bridge to simply get past the night was already fraught with many perils and hardships. He was a man who lived for nothing else but this never-ending cycle, of fruitless tasks and toils during the day only to jealousy guard whatever meagre reaping could be had during the night. Would today be the day it all came to an end? Bucren was starting to loathe the routine, switching from farmhand to guard, and then back again. And for what?<br/><br/>There were some days when it grew to be too overwhelming. Some days he just stood outside, watching the growing darkness, wondering if he should just allow himself to be consumed by whatever dread forces the night commanded. This wasn’t his home so why was he even here? The answer was shrouded in the murky past and he didn’t even bother to recall it anymore. He was here. Trapped. There was no change anymore and he had given up hope for it. Whether it be wolves who tore him limb from limb, or the bipedal creatures that were hinted off in the murky mists beyond the town’s perimeter, he did not care. Today he wondered if it might be the day at last where he just let loose any such regard for his life.<br/><br/>But instead he carried on. Routinely. Without change.<br/><br/>This particular barn where he had his guard station appointed was nearest to the gates of Boravia. Sometimes he like to stand outside the doors, in the final moments of dusk and through the first moments of night, tempting fate and death by watching to see if any of the rumours were true. The wolves certainly were. Ghouls and zombies, he had seen shapes but never anything concrete. Mists could refer to anything, whether it be simply fog, the murk of swamps, or indeed something like the breath of a plague demon. Thunder crackled in the sky above. Perhaps there would be light to see by for these rumours and guesses. He had a moment. Everything was secure. The doors were reinforced. Any window would be boarded up. They were ready for the nightly siege.<br/><br/>Pulling his dirty grey hood over his head to guard from the rain, Bucren began his little sightseeing by leaning against the wall, next to the open barn doors. The animals were all safety stowed inside. Most of them at least. Though he might guard them, their owners were not actually keen on Bucren<i>touching</i>them. Others from the village had that responsibility. He was only meant to die in their defence, nothing more. Apparently outsiders like him carried disease, even if its been over a decade without manifestation of such from him. Such facts didn’t matter. He watched one of his fellows take an animal out to be used as bait and offering, as if the dread forces could be sated and pleased by such a thing. How did one please and curry favor with the night itself? He snorted. Some thought it sated the deadly beasts outside. Bucren figured it would only lure them deeper and deeper inside, in search of something more. They didn’t have enough livestock to do this forever. No one cared about his opinion though.<br/><br/>By now he had learned the shape and schedule of his fellow citizens, who they were, what they might be doing and in that particular space. Any other sort of movement that was out of place would be quickly noted, as such action was often only reserved for the wild beasts and danger. Or the strange folk who lived at Tser Pool. Even Bucren was unsure whether they were friends, allies, or just some dark entity all on their own. Their matriarch was certainly something. He recalled his first, and only, meeting with her. Having dealt with merchants all over the land, Bucren knew being straight to business was often ideal. No one wanted to mingle with outsiders any longer than needed. But this woman, she just launched into a strange diatribe about…him. It was so unusual. He wasn’t going there again anytime soon. This place had enough craziness attached.<br/><br/>But there was uncertain movement in the village. It was usually uncommon to see danger before the final rays of the sun had set but in this mist, sometimes one couldn’t even witness that event. Perhaps the storm had brought enough promise of night to bring unwelcomed company into their village sooner than usual. At last, another tempt with fate. But when Bucren narrowed his eyes, one hand on his bow and feathered arrows tickled the palm of his other, he saw these were neither beasts of the four legged variety…or even of the two legged. These were…visitors. Warm blooded visitors. And they had come at a very poor and miserable time in Boravia.<br/><br/>Thunder crackled again, igniting sight of the entire town, though it was something he had seen before. And simply put, he didn’t like seeing the rest of Boravia. It made him remember that even after being here so many years, there was still so much more to it.<br/><br/>Moreover, the path that led deeper into the town went right by his barn and its open gates. The others would be securing all the other thresholds and windows before going in, him last of all. He could already hear their complaints.<i>Bucren having another piss outside the doors. Hope the wolves bite his cock off and leave us alone</i>they snickered to one another. Humour. Rarely heard or even evident in this place, yet badly needed. He ignored them. Soon enough they would come and see the newcomers as well.<br/><br/>Typical of Boravia, they would take bets on which one they would hear screaming first at night, when they were caught outside without shelter or help. Bucren only pursued his lips. They would never find shelter. Not unless they hurried right to<i>the Vine</i>. And even then, they had to find it in this muck. They wouldn’t stand a chance.<br/><br/>He looked up at the sky again, dark clouds moving in, with thunder crackling. It was going to rain probably.<i>Which reminded him how thirsty he was…</i><br/><br/>“Who’s that?” One of the other guards pointed out to his fellow as they came around to the front, having done a quick walk-around inspection of the barn. They could now see the three individuals on approach.<br/><br/>“Three woman? Must be witches. Always witches about.” Another muttered darkly.<br/><br/>“It’s two girls and a man.” Bucren said. The others didn’t argue it, only glancing at him with something between distrust and disdain. If he was wrong, that was typical of outsiders. If he was right, he used some outsider trick or ploy to learn such knowledge. It didn’t matter.<br/><br/>“Visitors. Stupid.” The first shook his head. “What are they goin’ to do, arriving this late? Cause chaos and madness running all over town. And here I wanted a good night’s rest.”<br/><br/>“We never get any rest. Not when they’ll be scratching and clawing at the doors.” A third said.<br/><br/>“Who? Them?” His companion asked. It was always an uneasy thing to endure hearing helpless travelers caught outside at night, begging for entry and safety. No one helped. Usually helping meant dying just alongside them.<br/><br/>“Them, and the wolves.” The first answered darkly. He shook his head and went inside. Bucren still watched the travelers coming on, corner of his lips twitching downwards a little. He knew these people were unsympathetic. They were all used to death, so it didn’t bother them especially when it involved someone they didn’t know or cared about.<br/><br/>“Bucren, since you like to piss with the moon, go tell them to get lost.” The elderly guard said, signaling Bucren out given his one distinction; not being one of them. He didn’t complain. Someone should be courteous enough to at least give directions.<i>They could at least die somewhere away from them and save them the trouble.</i><br/><br/>He didn’t go to them though, the three travelers. He stood by the side of the road, where they would inevitably have to pass by him in order to get anywhere. He must be quite the sight. A soaked grey cloak and hood draped over him, covering a roughspun tunic with a sleeveless leather vest. Dark breeches tucked into boots, perhaps the only item of quality he owned, along with being armed with bow, sword, and knife. His bow was slung now and his hand rested on the hilt of his sword, a rusty iron grip that clearly needed working. His eyes gazed coolly over the three.<i>Two girls…and this last one is an actual fighter. He definitely would have news of things.</i><br/><br/>The two girls though…strange indeed.<br/><br/>“You lot must have gotten lost.” Bucren greeted in a casual, slowly spoken tone, typical of a small town peasant who had all the time in the world clearly. But time was running short here. “It so happens when you let your feet aimlessly follow the road in front of you. Smart people don’t come to Boravia, unless this is a happy miracle.” His tone was dry, not full of any hope at such a prospect, even if it were true. “The people want to know your business here. Pleasure, I take it?” He said, offering up almost,<i>almost</i>, half a smile at his own dry wit here. Thunder crackled, a sad rain fell, and the lands looked bleak and dismal. It was not a place that heard laughter for years.<i>So much pleasure.</i>