In A Boring Place

Chapter 1 - Errand

It was dark—so dark that I could barely see past the silhouettes of twisted branches and dense bushes. The moonlight trickled weakly through the canopy, casting faint, ghostly patches on the forest floor. Without a torch, I felt like a blind man groping his way through endless shadows, each step heavy with dread. Fear gnawed at me, sharp and unrelenting, but I forced myself forward, refusing to cower.

Then, a low growl shattered the silence. It cut through the night like a blade, freezing me where I stood. The sound rumbled, deep and feral. My heart hammered in my chest, and every instinct screamed at me to run.

The forest blurred around me as I tore through the path, weaving between the twisted trees, each step uneven, desperate. My breath came in gasps, my legs burning with each frantic stride. Branches clawed at my skin, catching on my clothes, as if the forest itself were trying to pull me back. I could hear it following—the quick, heavy thud of its movements. But I couldn't see it, only feel its presence lurking somewhere in the darkness.

The growl grew louder, the vibrations thrumming through the ground beneath me. Panic clawed at my insides as I realized that it was moving closer. It was hunting. I sucked in a breath, summoning what little courage remained, and bolted, tearing down the faint path, lungs heaving as I sprinted through the maze of trees.

Every rustle, every shadow seemed to hold the beast, a silent threat ready to pounce. The thin beams of moonlight grew slightly brighter above as I ran, glimpses of silver filtering through the trees. Just a little further. I clung to that hope, to the idea that I was getting closer to the edge of the forest, closer to safety.

And then—finally—I saw it. In the distance, beyond the final stretch of trees, the dim glow of the town's lights flickered. Relief washed over me, almost enough to slow my pace.

But just as I dared to feel safe, a sharp prickle crawled down my spine. The growl sounded again, closer this time, as if it had tracked me all along. The hairs on my neck stood on end as I broke into a dead sprint, adrenaline surging through my veins once again. I veered off the path, darting between trees, zigzagging to throw it off my trail, hoping, praying I could reach the light before it reached me...
The storyteller paused, taking a long draught of ale from his flagon. He was middle-aged, his face weathered by time and hardship. His clothes look rugged as his story, making it more convincing.
Before him, a group of children sat with eager eyes, hanging on his every word. The tavern glowed warmly against the chill of the encroaching night, and the flames in the fireplace crackled, casting flickering shadows across the young, attentive faces gathered around the worn wooden table. Among them, two boys sat at the edge of the gathered crowd, leaning in with the same captivated expressions as the others.

Astria, a lanky boy barely into his teen with dark brown hair that fell messily over sharp eyes, leaned back casually, arms crossed as he smirked with mild amusement. He knew this story already—the one about the "beast in the woods" Phil spun whenever he'd had a pint or two too many. For Astria, it was the reactions that entertained him, not the tale itself.
Beside him sat Albert, a bit shorter and round-cheeked, his bright eyes wide with genuine interest. His face was open and expressive, flashing with excitement at every twist of Phil's story, revealing his eagerness to believe in the tale. With light hair and freckled, he wore a look of wonder that contrasted with Astria's knowing smirk

"And then what?" Albert asked, hanging on the man's every word, his eyes wide with excitement across his face to continue the story.

"Then," the man continued, leaning close with a grin, "I went into a fine tavern much like this one, straight to a good pint of stout ale."

"But the beast?" Albert pressed eagerly. "Did you see it? What did it look like?"

Before the man could answer, a nearby table erupted with laughter. A man dressed in a farmer's tunic, cheeks rosy from too many drinks, called out, "Don't believe a word ol' Phil says! That beast he's talking about is just his wife when he's late gettin' home from the tavern!" The crowd roared, and the storyteller—Phil—just shook his head, grinning as he tried to keep up his act.