The first hint of dawn was a pale, pearlescent smear across the jagged eastern peaks when Torsten slipped out of his home. The village of Oakhaven was still shrouded in the deep silence of pre-dawn, the only sounds the whisper of the wind through the high pines and the distant, mournful howl of a mountain wolf. He moved with the quiet efficiency of a man accustomed to early starts and long journeys, his breath pluming in the frigid air. He carried only a light pack with essential provisions, his heavy trading axe strapped to his side more for balance on the treacherous paths than for defense, and the sealed letter from Hemlock tucked securely within an inner pocket of his furs.
He bypassed the wider, gentler switchbacks of the main cart path, instead veering towards a barely discernible trail that snaked down the steeper southern face of the mountain. These were the goat paths, narrow ledges and scree-filled gullies known only to the most experienced mountain folk. Torsten's expression was set in lines of grim concentration, his usually jovial eyes narrowed as he scanned each footfall. His body, though stout, moved with a surprising agility, his weight shifting with practiced ease as he navigated loose rocks and patches of slick ice hidden beneath fresh snow. Each step was deliberate, his shoulders hunched slightly against the biting wind that whipped around the exposed rock faces, a testament to the focused effort required to maintain his footing and his pace.
Despite the urgency of his mission, Torsten forced himself to take brief, infrequent rests. He'd pause for a minute or two in the lee of a large boulder or beneath the sheltering boughs of a snow-heavy fir, not just to catch his breath from the strenuous descent, but to still his own movements and listen intently. His ears, honed by years of mountain travel, strained for any unnatural sound – the snap of a twig that wasn't the wind, the dislodging of a stone that wasn't his own doing, or the tell-tale rustle of something large moving through the undergrowth. He knew these high paths could harbor more than just treacherous footing; mountain cats and the occasional hungry wolf pack were always a possibility, and now, with armed strangers in their woods, the threat of human lurkers was an even greater concern.
Hours passed in this arduous manner. The sun, having climbed high into the morning sky, was now beginning its slow arc towards the western peaks, its light casting shorter, sharper shadows. Torsten had covered the grueling eight miles of treacherous descent. His legs ached and his lungs burned with the effort, but a surge of relief coursed through him as he finally heard the familiar gurgle of the Swiftwater stream through the thinning trees ahead. He pushed through a final curtain of snow-dusted rhododendrons and there it was – the fast-flowing stream, its waters remarkably clear despite the surrounding snow, and just beyond it, nestled in a small, sheltered clearing, the familiar, rustic outline of Old Man Tiber's stable.
The sight was a welcome one. Tiber's stable wasn't much to look at – a low-slung building of rough-hewn logs with a patched, mossy roof, a small, fenced-in paddock beside it currently empty save for a few lingering patches of stubborn snow. But to Torsten, after hours of navigating the unforgiving mountain paths, it represented a crucial waypoint. The smell of damp earth, old hay, and animals, though faint, was a comforting change from the sharp, sterile scent of high-altitude pine and snow. He could see a thin tendril of smoke rising from the chimney of the small, attached cottage, a sign that Tiber was likely awake and about.
Torsten cupped his hands around his mouth, his voice carrying clearly over the rush of the nearby stream. "Ho there, Tiber! It's Torsten of Oakhaven!"
The cottage door creaked open a moment later, and a stooped, elderly man with a weathered face and a fringe of white hair emerged, squinting against the daylight. Old Man Tiber, his movements slow but steady, recognized the trader and a warm, gap-toothed smile spread across his face. "Torsten, my lad! By the spirits, what brings you down the mountain so early, and on foot no less? Come in, come in! The wife's just brewed some hot cider, it'll chase the chill from your bones!"
Torsten managed a weary but grateful smile. "Thank you for the offer, Tiber, but I'm afraid I can't stay. I'm on an urgent errand for Elder Hemlock, bound for Stoneford, and I need a fast horse. The matter is... pressing."
Tiber's smile faded, replaced by a look of understanding concern. He knew the folk of Oakhaven, and knew that Hemlock wouldn't send his trader on such a hasty journey without grave cause. "Urgent, you say?" He nodded slowly. "Say no more, lad. The mountain doesn't send whispers for idle gossip." He turned and bellowed towards the stable, "Lars! Erik! Get out here! Saddle up Old Grey, the fastest one we've got! Torsten needs a swift ride to Stoneford, and he needs it now!"
Even as his sons scrambled to obey, Tiber clucked his tongue, his gaze appraising Torsten's tired frame. "Look, urgent or not, you're not leaving my place with an empty belly and frozen to the bone, Torsten! A few minutes for a hot drink and a bite of bread won't slow you down much, and a tired rider is a careless one, you know!" He gestured insistently towards his cottage. Before Torsten could protest further, Tiber added, "Besides, you look like you've seen a ghost, not just climbed a mountain." Torsten sighed, knowing Tiber's stubborn hospitality. "Alright, a quick drink then. But Tiber," he lowered his voice slightly, "there's a group of armed men, 'mercenaries' they call themselves, camped up near Oakhaven. Caused a bit of trouble. Just... be watchful. Keep your boys close to home for a bit."
The news visibly erased any lingering warmth from Tiber's expression. A deep furrow etched itself between his brows, and his shoulders seemed to sag under a sudden, unseen weight. but there is nothing that can be done about it, his sons are not professionals, and his isolated homestead, unlike the tight-knit Oakhaven, would face any such threat alone. He used to have a couple of the Baron's men keeping an eye on things this far up, but even that small measure of security had vanished when they were recalled weeks ago to deal with banditry further south.
Tiber nodded slowly, his face a mask of worry. "Armed men, you say? Mercenaries? That's… ill news, Torsten. Ill news indeed for these quiet parts." He shook his head, a grim acceptance settling in his eyes. "I'll keep my boys close, and my own eyes open. You get that drink and some bread in you. The road to Stoneford is long, and it seems you carry heavy tidings." With that, he ushered Torsten towards the warmth of his small cottage, the earlier cheerfulness replaced by a somber understanding of the troubles brewing higher up the mountain.