Rooted in the Earth: Sanctuary

Kneeling in the mud, the Herdsman opened his eyes, his heart hammering against his ribs. He strained to listen, unsure if his rattled brain was playing tricks on him. But there was no mistaking it—the voice wasn't just anyone's. It was a Singer of the Dead. A Harbinger.

How is this possible? His mind raced. How can there be another Harbinger in the Vale?

Despite the fear twisting in his gut, the Herdsman couldn't fight the song's pull. It swept over him like a tidal wave, drowning his resistance. He surrendered, powerless as the voice transported him to a place he had buried deep within his memories.

When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer on the rain-soaked road.

The familiar walls of Nightfall, the ancient mountain hold that loomed over the Vale, surrounded him. Memories surged forth, vivid and raw. His father had been Master of Horse to the Lord of Nightfall, and as his heir, the Herdsman had spent much of his youth among these stone walls and the family who ruled within them.

The Harbinger's song dragged him further back, to a time when the kingdom wept beneath the scourge of the Weeping Plague. He was back more than a decade ago. On a storm-ravaged night, much like this one. This was the night his friends had died.

The Herdsman recalled that he and his father had taken refuge in the hold's stables, safe from the lashing rain and howling winds. As the storm reached its pinnacle, through the chaos of the storm, the Val 'Rhayne arrived at Nightfall's gates with two cloaked companions.

Lightning illuminated the sky with blinding regularity, each flash throwing the soaked figures into stark relief. Thunder followed with bone-rattling force, shaking Nightfall's foundations. Rain poured in relentless sheets, the wind carrying with it something far worse than water—the unmistakable screams of agony.

At first, it had been a mystery as to who the two cloaked riders were. But when the songs began, the Herdsman had understood well what was happening.

Their voice rose above the storm, chilling and otherworldly. They were Harbingers. Singers of the Dead. Their song weaving a tapestry of grief and finality

Gradually, the screams dulled until only the Harbingers' haunting melodies remained.

He remembered how numb he had felt in that moment. For day he'd listened to his friends scream in pain as the Weeping Plague ravaged their bodies. It left him hollow. But the silence that followed—the moment the screams stopped—was something else entirely. It was so much worse.

It was a silence that seeped into his bones and festered there, a shadow that haunted him still.

Kneeling in the mud of the present, rain pounding around him, the Herdsman shivered. The song continued to echo in his ears, keeping him back in that night, to the harrowing memories he had tried to bury.

The Harbingers had departed as quietly as they had arrived. But before they vanished into the storm, the Herdsman had glimpsed one of their faces beneath her hood—the very same face he had watched burn earlier that evening.

The look she had given him had stayed with him.

As darkness reclaimed the memory, the Herdsman felt it slipping away, retreating to the unreachable recesses of his mind. Yet before it was gone entirely, he turned to his father, who stood as he remembered him—strong and proud—and finally spoke the farewell he'd never had the chance to say.

Inside the memory, it felt as if an entire night had passed. In truth, only minutes could have gone by.

The Herdsman returned to the present, kneeling once again in the rain-drenched road as the storm raged around him.

Rain poured over his upturned face, momentarily blinding him. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the water—and the lingering echoes of memory—from his vision, only to smear mud across his eyes. Frustration boiled over, but before he could scrub his face clean, a prickling sense of unease crept over him.

The hair on the back of his neck rose, and his gut clenched.

He was no longer alone.

The realization hit him like a thunderclap. Someone—or something—was there on the dark road with him.

Frantically, the Herdsman wiped at his face with the edge of his damp shirt. He struggled to see, to confirm what his instincts already screamed. Grit stung his eyes, but he forced himself upright, his massive frame trembling as he peered into the stormy darkness ahead.

What he saw staring back at him made him question whether he had truly returned from the memory.

Eyes.

Two glowing orbs, burning like red-hot embers, floated in the blackness.

The Herdsman's muscles locked, every fiber of his being screaming to flee. His heart pounded in his chest, a thunderous rhythm that seemed loud enough to drown out the storm. But his voice betrayed him, barely above a whisper as he forced the name from his lips:

"Eskilarr?"

The seconds stretched endlessly, the silence between them oppressive and suffocating. The very air felt charged, heavy with tension, each shallow breath a struggle. His hands, already slick with rain, trembled at his sides.

Then, a sound broke through the storm—a soft whicker.

"Eskilarr," the Herdsman breathed, the name spilling from him in a flood of relief.

The tension in his body unraveled so swiftly that he nearly collapsed. His knees weakened, and the fear drained from him like water through a sieve. Thank the gods.

From the shadows, the figure emerged. Slowly, the darkness beneath those glowing red eyes gave way to a shape he knew well. The great warhorse took form, its massive chest alight with an internal fire that pulsed like a beating heart. The reddish glow illuminated the stallion's body, melting away the surrounding shadows.

Eskilarr, the Nightmare.

As the Herdsman stared, the glow grew brighter, revealing more details. Mounted on the stallion's broad back was a hooded rider, their form faintly backlit by the eerie, flickering light emanating from the horse.

The sight stole the air from his lungs. This wasn't just a memory. This was something far more tangible, and far more dangerous.

In just a few strides, the Nightmare closed the distance, standing before the Herdsman with an imposing presence. Eskilarr moved so close that the Herdsman could feel the warmth radiating from the stallion's glowing chest, a heat that seemed to defy the cold storm raging around them.

Remaining utterly still, the Herdsman allowed the massive creature to sniff at his hair and face, silently praying the Nightmare remembered him.

The tension broke slightly when the stallion's whiskers tickled his ear, drawing a soft chuckle from the Herdsman. Eskilarr's glow brightened in response, the heat growing fiercer as the beast recognized him. The crimson light illuminated the hooded figure seated on the stallion's back, and a wave of fear crashed over the Herdsman.

Reluctantly, his gaze lifted to the rider.

"My lord Val 'Rhayne," he said, his voice shaky and thick with nerves. He hoped he didn't slur the words too badly.

The fiery glow highlighted the lower half of the rider's face, casting it in an otherworldly crimson hue, but the hood kept his eyes veiled in shadow.

Sensing the Herdsman's unease, Eskilarr let out a soft nicker and nudged his broad shoulder with a gentle shove. Even that slight motion from the enormous creature was enough to make the sturdy Herdsman stagger to keep his balance.

"Enough," the rider's voice broke through the storm, firm yet fond, as if gently chastising a mischievous child.

Eskilarr snorted and tossed his head, unbothered and unapologetic.

The Herdsman thought he caught a faint, exasperated sigh from the Val 'Rhayne, but it vanished into the wind.

"Good evening," the rider said, his tone dry but laced with faint amusement. "A strange night for a stroll, wouldn't you say? Bit damp, I think."

Still drunk and awestruck, the Herdsman struggled to find words.

"I suppose you could ask the same of me," the Val 'Rhayne continued without waiting for a response. "Fair enough. We'll skip the pleasantries. Tell me—have you seen or heard anything unusual?"

The Herdsman almost laughed. Anything unusual? Where could he even begin? So much had happened, each event blending into a haze of chaos and confusion. But one thought clawed its way to the forefront of his mind: why was the Val 'Rhayne here at all?

The new Lord of Nightfall had barely lingered in the Valley before fleeing to the capital, showing no intention of returning. The Val 'Rhayne was rarely seen without him. What business could he possibly have here in the middle of a storm?

"No, m'lord," the Herdsman mumbled after a moment, shaking his head fiercely. Water sprayed from his soaked hair. "Nothing to mention. Not a thing."

Eskilarr pawed at the muddy road, tossing his head with a soft, impatient squeal. The stallion's massive hooves sent mud flying in all directions, his irritation clear. Clouds of steam rose from his soaked coat, mingling with the rain.

"Alright, fine. You're unbelievable," the Val 'Rhayne muttered under his breath, clearly addressing the restless Nightmare.

Turning back to the Herdsman, he handed him a small object—a token of some kind, though the Herdsman barely registered it through the haze of rain and exhaustion.

"Take this," the rider said, his voice softer now. "And pray that tomorrow, when you wake in your warm bed with your wife beside you, you remember nothing of this night."

"You've no idea, my lord," the Herdsman murmured. "No idea how much I hope that's true."

Without further ceremony, Eskilarr moved, his steps steady and deliberate. The great stallion passed the Herdsman, nudging his shoulder one last time with his soft muzzle—a gesture that spoke of familiarity, almost fondness—before he and his rider disappeared into the storm.

Later that night, when the Herdsman finally stumbled through his front door, Marta shot up from her seat by the hearth. Her expression shifted wildly—relief at his safe return warred with anger for the worry he had caused. The firelight played across her beloved face, illuminating every flicker of emotion she felt, unhidden as always.

Before she could make up her mind between scolding or embracing him, the Herdsman moved. In a single motion, he stripped off his soaked clothes and wrapped her tightly in his arms, silencing her protests.

Wordlessly, he swept Marta off her feet and carried her to their bed, seeking refuge in the warmth and safety they shared. For tonight, at least, the storm—and the memories it carried—were kept at bay.