The Relistar

The Relistar | Ch. 3

"And so the hunters become the hunted yet again..." he mumbled as he strolled out of the clearing, four new satchels adorning his shoulders.

  Within just a few minutes, he wandered through the ends of the cluttered forest to face the crumbling stone walls of Dreslon, separated from him by a wide gap where the grass had died away, and where the trees had been stripped to stumps.

  The familiarly quiet buzz of the town was gone, replaced by the loud milling of expansion, constant shouting from weary workers, and the wafting scent of freshly cut wood. Ash and smoke hovered through the air, the harsh residue of burnt-out leylines.

  And Mother, how crowded it's become.

  "Hunter's blood... What a mess..." he heard a woman mutter as he passed a crowd of panicked, pale-skinned migrants at the gate, with their faces tucked behind the dark blue hoods of their heavy whitefox coats. Many still even carried their boltshafts, long steel rods with enchanted blue crystals stuck into their ends, perfect for blasting any frosted threats that may have assailed them, though plenty relied on the white-bearded elders to protect them with strange and powerful sorcery.

  He scowled toward the migrants. Unfortunately for them, those petty sticks aren't even capable of taking down a man, let alone any of the creatures that linger around the midland forests.

  A startlingly wide, moss-green behemoth leaned over from beside the open gate, huffing cold steam through his toothy maw. His red-black eyes glared down at them. "Forget the Hunters 'round here. They won't protect you anymore..."

  Cedric pulled his hood up and quietly passed through.

  They must receive the most scorn out of all of Kylinstrom's twisted cults...

  A shady man in red-and-black leather garb caught his eye, shouting something into the passing crowd about deities and frost dragons.

  Even those Sylvet, who'd rather execute and enslave the common man than packs of ravenous ogres, are subject to more praise than disdain nowadays. It's not like either group is very far off from the other...

  But at least they're not Lunars.

  The crowd thinned as he broke off into a narrow alley that led toward an aged shopping district, where wooden huts still lined the loosely cobbled road. He squinted as he neared the end of the path, quickly landing his eyes upon a most familiar shop. The rusted nails were still jutting out of the moldy wooden walls, as they had been ever since he had first arrived, and the sign still bore the dulled title of Greslock's General Goods upon it.

  He choked as he forced open the heavy, squeaking door, as stagnant dust and mold immediately barraged his nostrils. Though it was always caked in a layer of dust, Greslock's store always managed to impress with its organization, something lacking in the rest of the village.

  Everything in the shop was neatly sorted and categorized into wooden bins lining the walls and forming the 'aisles' that stores in Cromer were more accustomed to, leading toward the small counter sequestered at the back where Greslock conducted all of his business. Cleanly carved wooden signs were hung above every box, indicating what food or goods lay within.

  Cedric held his nose as the musty stench continued to permeate.

  And even the horribly, hugely muscled and green Greslock himself, who Cedric's eyes finally came to rest upon, was always neatly tucked up in imitation nobles' garb, laced at the top and sides unlike the drab potato sacks that every other imbecile in Dreslon wore, and neatly completed with a precise topknot upon his head. His hands came up in frustration, tugging at his tough, mossy face.