The piece of torn fabric, snagged on the floating branch, drifted closer, its vibrant, unfamiliar colors a stark contrast to the clear blue of the river water. The villager who had spotted it waded in cautiously, retrieving the small, wet scrap. As he brought it to the bank, Kaelen took it, his scarred face grim. He held it in his hands, examining the fine weave, the rich dye. It was undeniably from Zarthus's tribe, a piece of the clothing they wore, the kind of fabric they sometimes traded.
A heavy silence fell over the villagers gathered at the riverbank. Their faces, moments before filled with the mundane focus of daily tasks, were now etched with renewed worry. The fabric was a sign, a tangible piece of evidence carried by the river from somewhere upstream. It meant that Zarthus's tribe, or perhaps even the expedition (if they had encountered the tribe upstream), had been in trouble. The torn nature of the fabric, snagged on debris, raised unsettling questions. Was it lost? Was it discarded? Or was it torn in a struggle?
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Speculation, fueled by fear, spread quickly. Had the expedition encountered Zarthus's tribe and something had gone wrong? Had the tribe been attacked by something in the forest, or by another group of people? The possibilities, each more unsettling than the last, churned in their minds.
Kaelen held up the fabric, his gaze sweeping over the faces of his people. His voice was low, but it carried authority. "This is from Zarthus's people," he stated, confirming what they already suspected. He looked upstream, his eyes scanning the dense forest that lined the riverbanks. "They were… somewhere up there."
Elias stood beside Kaelen, his heart pounding. He knew this fabric. He had seen it on Zarthus and his people during their visits. A torn piece of it, floating downstream, was not a good sign. His mind raced through the possibilities. An accident? A fight? Had the expedition, traveling downstream, encountered Zarthus's tribe traveling upstream, and something had happened? Or had something happened to Zarthus's tribe independently, and this was a remnant?
He looked at the river, its seemingly peaceful surface now feeling ominous. It was a path, but it could also carry danger and ill tidings.
Kaelen immediately began issuing orders. The discovery of the fabric demanded increased vigilance. Patrols along the palisade were doubled, particularly on the landward side and near the river. Hunters were sent out in pairs to scout the immediate area upstream along the riverbank, not to engage, but to observe, to look for any further signs, any tracks, any disturbances that might indicate what had happened.
The atmosphere in the village shifted from one of weary waiting to one of heightened alert. The rhythm of daily life continued – the fields were tended, the crafting continued – but every task was now performed with a sharper edge of awareness. Eyes constantly scanned the forest, ears listened for any unusual sounds. The dark metal panel by the entrance seemed to absorb the increased tension, standing silent and imposing.
Elias spent time with Kaelen, discussing the possibilities. Using his rudimentary symbols and drawings, he tried to represent different scenarios – Zarthus's tribe fighting something, the expedition meeting the tribe, an accident on the river. Kaelen, his brow furrowed, followed Elias's explanations, his practical mind grappling with the uncertainty. He understood the need to consider all possibilities, however unsettling.
Borin, the toolmaker, came to Kaelen, his face serious. He examined the torn fabric. "The cut… it is not clean," he said, pointing to the ragged edge. "Not like a knife cut. More like… torn by force." His observation added another layer of disquiet.
The scouting pairs sent upstream returned before nightfall. They had found no clear signs of a struggle, no bodies, no wreckage of boats along the immediate riverbank. They had seen tracks, both human and animal, but nothing conclusive. The forest, as always, held its secrets close.
The lack of definitive answers only deepened the anxiety. The torn fabric remained, a silent, unsettling message carried by the river. It was a tangible piece of evidence that something had happened upstream, but what, and to whom – the expedition, Zarthus's tribe, or both – remained unknown.