Chronicles

The Hunter Part three

***Hello lovely readers, just a heads up this chapter will change points of view with each line break. Let me know in the comments if you think this helps or hurts the story below. Thanks for reading.***

The Bravokain Warrior

The smell of fresh morning dew tingled his nostrils. His prominent nose the only feature unshadowed by his green cowl.

"Valen, why you always sniffin' the breeze like a hound." A short, plumper man asked from beside him. A twig waggled between his yellowed teeth as he spoke. Valen stared down his nose at the smaller man until he flinched. The smaller man busied himself by heaving his bulbous rucksack atop his shoulders. Valen turned his beak of a nose back to the horizon, smelling the tang of magical energy. The source was a far distance ahead.

"Come Hubert." Valen said. Hubert gazed sourly at his companion's unencumbered backside and gave a sarcastic salute. He scuffled behind the taller man, his pack jangling slightly, the loose pots making a ruckus in comparison to his companion.

The two figures picked their way down the winding cliff face and into the lush valley below. The dark redwoods that litter the sides of the open valley stretching for leagues into the distance.
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"Newcomers came in last night. They're staying up at the Cackling inn, see." An old man with crooked teeth said to his unenthused audience. Crog was the town's main gossip. His many years of eavesdropping making him the main man for any bit of news that crossed this small town.

"A tall bloke with a beak of a nose and a smaller plumper fellow with a reedy face. Looked up to no good they did." Crog said biting a dirty fingernail, his eyes searching the area as if expecting them to appear at any moment.

"Hogwash, ya old gaff." The washer women, Trina, spoke up from the group.

"Only gaff I see is flapping her mouth." Crog spat. The woman's lip pulled back in a snarl, but her mouth stayed shut.

"What else did you learn, Crog?" The blacksmith's son asked. His enthusiasm was understandable. The village of Loke saw but one new face a year, if they were lucky, let alone two in the same night. Crog held up a crooked finger.

"Ahhhh Lad. I was gettin' to that." Crog shot a look at Trina, who responded with a huff, before continuing, "I was mindin' my own business by the inn door as these blokes walked up. The taller one had his hood pulled low so all I saw was that beak of his as he passed. His voice though... I'd know that accent till the day I die." Crog we'll verse in the whims of storytelling paused for effect.

"He was a Bravok." He said in a hushed tone.

"A Bravok?" The blacksmith's son asked in the ensuing silence. Trina cuffed him about the ear.

"Are you daft, don't speak that word." Trina growled.
"A Bravok," Crog repeated, sending a challenging stare towards Trina, "...is a warrior race pledged to the king of Alandara. Sadly, the people were lost a decade ago in the last Great War. I've been told a Brovakian warrior could slay a hundred men before succumbing to death. They says their eyes glow blue when the rage takes ahold of them."

The ensuing silence covered the group like a shroud, as each person digested this news. The boy was the first to speak.

"Why's he all the way out here?" He asked. Crog took a moment to collect his thoughts. His glazed eyes slowly coming back into focus before responding.

"Only the Old Ones know." He said. Simultaneously, each person crossed their chest in an X formation then tapped each shoulder from right to left in Prayer.
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