Scene Five: Morning in the Singing Creek

The room at the Singing Creek Tavern was meant for two, and it had made its opinion known all night. Branwen had claimed the floor with stoic grace, one eye open beneath the blanket, while Renka and Lini shared the narrow bed in a tangle of tails and mossy cloaks.

Now, morning light filtered through the warped shutters, painting the room in soft gold and dust motes. Renka sat cross-legged, her shamisen case beside her like a sleeping child. She opened it with care, fingers brushing the lacquered wood. Still there. Still silent. Still hers.

Lini, already awake, knelt by the window, her spell components laid out in neat rows—sprigs of elderflower, a twist of bark, a pebble shaped like a sleeping fox. She whispered to the morning, not in hope, but in readiness.

Branwen cleaned her blades with quiet precision, the rhythm of cloth on steel steadying her thoughts. She hadn’t slept deeply, but she’d slept enough. Whatever move Elric the Merchant was going to make, he hadn’t made it. Yet.

And then—soft paws on wood. Lini’s snow leopard, absent since last night, padded into the room with the regal indifference only cats possess. It sat at the foot of the bed, tail curled, eyes half-lidded.

Renka raised an eyebrow. “How did you get in.”

“Droogami!”, Lini exclaimed. The cat yawned, revealing teeth like polished ivory, then blinked slowly. Lini smiled. “She knows when she’s needed.”

Branwen glanced at the door. “Let’s hope we all do.”

Willowshade in Rova

In Willowshade, fig tarts are baked with caution, and even Granna Vell watches the treeline more than usual. The Order of the Whispering Leaves meets less often—but their silence speaks volumes.

It is a time for quiet alliances, cautious magic, and stories told by firelight

The three companion’s and a large cat leave the dubious sanctuary of the singing Creek and step into the village square. The morning air carried the scent of drying leaves and distant grain fires. Willowshade’s market square stirred slowly, bathed in the soft gold of early Rova. It was the kind of day that promised warmth without certainty—pleasant enough to wander, but with just enough breeze to make cloaks feel welcome.

Scene Six: The morning market.

The market square of Willowshade is busier than you’d expect for a village surrounded by such ominous woods, but there’s a nervous energy beneath the bustle. Stalls display baskets of late-summer apples, bolts of homespun cloth, and jars of honey, but the crowds are thin and wary. The companions notice that most of the traders seem to be locals, their eyes darting to the edges of the square, and the few patrons keep their conversations hushed.

As Branwen, Renka, and Lini begin to move through the market, the air thick with tension and whispered rumors, a familiar voice calls out behind them and stops them.

Old Tav, the proprietor of the Singing Creek Tavern, shuffles over, wiping his hands on a beer-stained apron. His eyes are kind but wary, and he keeps his voice low as he addresses the trio.

“You three picked a strange time to visit Willowshade,” Tav murmurs, glancing around to make sure no one is listening. “Used to be, this square was packed with traders from all over. Now? Folk are scared. Rumours travel faster than wagons these days—talk of travellers gone missing, livestock vanishing, even a merchant’s wagon found overturned by the creek. Some say it’s wolves, but I’ve lived here long enough to know when something’s not right.”

Tav looks over to Elrics stall, “Him there, the only trader from afar, has his own men though.”

He leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“See that stall there?” Tav nods toward a lonely table stacked with breads and pastries, its owner—a weary woman with flour on her sleeves—standing behind it, eyes downcast. “That’s Mertha, the miller’s wife. Good woman, but folk keep their distance now. Her fig tarts—well, its one of hers poisoned my bard last week. He’s still laid up in his rooms, raving about shadows in the woods. Mertha swears it was an accident, but you know how gossip grows in a place like this.”

He straightens, giving the companions a meaningful look.

“Folk are looking for someone to blame, and they might start with strangers or her. Keep your heads down and wait for the trouble to pass. Either way, watch yourselves. Willowshade isn’t what it used to be.”

With that, Tav slips back toward his tavern.

The three companions—Branwen, Renka, and Lini—stick together as they wander the market. Locals eye them with suspicion, conversations hush as they pass, but snippets echoing Old Tavs words reach their ears.

When the party approaches Granna Vell’s stall, they are drawn in by her assortment of oddities. Granna, a seasoned observer of people, will watch the group intently, her eyes lingering on the Renka, sensing something otherworldly about the kitsune.

“Well now, you three are a curious sight. A sturdy human, a clever-eyed gnome, and a… spirit-touched one. I do believe I have something special for each of you.”

She rummages beneath her cart and produces three items.

She hands Branwin a slightly dented brass locket,”This belonged to a great adventurer who, it is said, never lost his way. The compass inside was broken, but it still has a certain… truth to it.”

For Lini she offers a a polished river stone with a perfect, smooth hole drilled through the center. “The river spirits granted this stone’s power to the village, but we don’t have the knack to use it. It’s meant for tinkerers who know how to tap into its hum.”

Finally, to Renka, a small, intricate wooden fox figurine, its paint faded and chipped. “This little thing reminds me of a tale my grandmother told. She swore it held the spirit of a forgotten sprite, lost somewhere in the Whispering Woods. A fox-friend should know how to find a lost friend, yes?”

The companions inspect the items, sensing that each holds a story—and perhaps a hint of magic.

Granna Vell leans in, lowering her voice:

“I sell these as trinkets, you see. For a few coppers. But if you were to help an old woman out with a little job… you could have them for free. You seem the type who needs a bit of luck and a little guidance. Old Man Grindle over in the old mill hasn’t been paying his dues lately. Just go give him a nudge. See if you can remind him of his debt to the village. The elders are getting anxious about it.”

She gives them a knowing smile, as if she’s certain they’ll accept.

The companions, curiosity piqued despite their reluctance to meddle in local affairs, accept the trinkets from Granna Vell. Each item feels oddly significant in their hands, as if waiting for the right moment to reveal its secret.

They assure Granna they’ll “see what’s going on at the mill,” though their tone is noncommittal. Granna just smiles knowingly, as if she’s heard such promises before.

At Elrics stall

Branwen strolls over to Elric’s stall, blending in with the market’s ebb and flow. She browses the merchant’s wares—bolts of cloth, jars of imported spices, and a few “exotic” trinkets—while striking up a casual conversation. “I hear business is quieter than usual, Elric. Heard any truth to the rumors about trouble in the woods?”

Elric greets Branwen with a merchant’s practiced smile. “Ah, the moon-moth returns! Looking for something special today? Or just enjoying the market’s… unique atmosphere?”

Elric shrugs, his merchant’s smile never faltering.

“Truth to the Rumours? No. Just gossip, mostly. Wolves, bandits, spirits—depends who you ask. I keep my men sharp, but it’s nothing we haven’t handled before.”

Branwen gently steers the conversation toward his guards, watching for any sign of discomfort or a slip in his practiced demeanor.

Branwen: “Your men seem especially alert today. Had any close calls?”

Elric’s eyes narrow just a fraction, but he quickly recovers, gesturing to a display of silver rings.

“You can’t be too careful, not these days. But enough about that—perhaps something here will catch your eye?”

No matter how Branwen tries to probe, Elric deftly turns the conversation back to his merchandise, revealing nothing more than what’s already common knowledge.

At Mertha’s Stall

Renka and Lini approach Mertha’s lonely stall, the scent of fresh bread and pastries mingling with the nervous energy of the market. Mertha looks up, her eyes lingering on Renka with a mix of awe and suspicion—word of Renka’s performance at the Singing Creek Tavern has clearly spread.

Lini smiles gently, “Good morning, Mertha. Your stall looks wonderful—though it seems folk are keeping their distance. We were hoping to ask you a little about the mill and the troubles in the village.”

Mertha immediately goes on the defensive, “I swear to you, I didn’t poison the bard. If something in my fig tarts made him ill, it was an accident, nothing more. But you know how gossip works—folk need someone to blame, and it’s easier to point fingers at the miller’s wife than to face what’s really happening.”

She sighs, her hands trembling slightly as she arranges her pastries.

“My husband’s in a bad way. The mill’s barely turning, and someone’s out to destroy us. First the bard falls ill, then our grain gets wet and mouldy, and now the elders say we owe dues we can’t pay. It’s as if every misfortune in Willowshade is being laid at our door.”

She looks at Renka, her voice softening.

“I heard you played last night. Folk say your music can stir the soul. If you’re here to help, maybe you can find out who’s behind all this. Because I promise you, it’s not just bad luck—it’s someone’s doing.”

To be continued.

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