The tavern, aptly named 'The Rusty Mug,' was less a place of cheer and more a haven of dim light and cheap comfort. The air inside was a thick stew of fermented grain, unwashed bodies, and the low murmur of desperate conversations. Theron shuffled in, his eyes, accustomed to the gloom of his mountain hall, barely registering the faces that turned to watch his entrance. He was a familiar, if perplexing, sight.
He made his way to a corner table, his usual spot, where the shadows were deepest and the draft least biting. Before he could even settle, a stout, red-faced woman with arms like cured hams slammed a chipped mug down before him, its contents already sloshing. This was Elara, the tavern keeper, a woman whose booming laugh and sharp tongue were legendary in Oakhaven. She was a former Warrior herself, though never rising beyond the Ironborn stage, her strength now mostly confined to lifting barrels and breaking up bar brawls.
"Took you long enough, Theron!" Elara grumbled, though a faint, almost imperceptible smile played on her lips. "Thought the mountain finally swallowed you whole. This one's on the house… for now. You owe me enough to rebuild half the town, you know."
Theron grunted, taking a long, grateful swig. The bitter ale was a familiar balm, dulling the insistent hum in his skull, if only for a moment. "Generosity becomes you, Elara," he rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Though I doubt half the town wants to be rebuilt with my debt."
A few patrons chuckled. They knew the routine. Elara, for all her bluster, had a soft spot for the old drunkard. He was harmless, a good listener, and occasionally, his dry wit was the only thing that broke the oppressive monotony of their lives.
At a nearby table, an older man with a long, wispy beard and spectacles perched on his nose looked up from a tattered scroll. This was Master Borin, Oakhaven's resident scholar and occasional healer. He was no cultivator of strength, but a practitioner of the more esoteric arts, a sort of rudimentary Veilblade in his youth, focusing on knowledge and subtle Qi manipulation for healing, though his skills were now primarily academic.
"Theron, you're awake," Borin observed, his voice reedy. "Perhaps the Qi fluctuations are finally stirring even your… profound slumber."
Theron merely raised an eyebrow, taking another drink. He knew what Borin was referring to. The hum, the strange resonance that had woken him, wasn't just in his head. It was in the air, a subtle distortion that only the more sensitive cultivators, or those with a keen understanding of spiritual energies, could detect.
"Fluctuations?" Theron drawled. "Sounds like a bad stomach, Borin. Have you tried less dusty scrolls?"
Borin sighed, adjusting his spectacles. "It's far more serious than that, Theron. The Qi in the surrounding forests, particularly to the east, has grown… corrupted. Twisted. It's affecting the wildlife."
As if on cue, a young man burst through the tavern door, his face pale and streaked with dirt. He was Kael, a promising young Fletchling, known for his keen eyes and swift bow. He was usually out hunting, providing much-needed game for the town.
"Master Borin! Elara!" Kael gasped, leaning against the doorframe, his chest heaving. "It's the deer! They're… they're wrong! Their eyes are glowing, and their fur is matted with… with black ooze! And they're aggressive! Old Man Hemlock's dog was torn apart!"
A hush fell over the tavern. This wasn't just a strange animal; this was a contaminated beast. The whispers of sickness that had been circulating for weeks suddenly gained a terrifying clarity. Farmers had complained of blight on their crops, strange rashes, and a pervasive lethargy. Now, it was clear the corruption was manifesting in a far more dangerous form.
"Contaminated beasts," Borin murmured, his face grim. "The twisted Qi… it's mutating them. Turning them feral, aggressive. We've seen minor cases before, but this… this is different. The sheer malevolence of their Qi signature is unlike anything I've encountered." He adjusted his spectacles, a flicker of fear in his eyes. "If these creatures reach Oakhaven, we'll be overrun. Our few Ironborn and Squires won't stand a chance against something so… unnatural."
Elara slammed her fist on the counter, her usual boisterousness replaced by a steely resolve. "Then we fight! We always have!"
"Fight what, Elara?" Kael cried, his voice trembling. "I put three arrows into one, and it just kept coming! Its hide was like iron, and its eyes… they burned with a dark fire. It was like a Bloodforged beast, but without the life behind it, only malice!"
Theron, who had been quietly observing, took another slow sip of his ale. He felt the hum in his head intensify, resonate with the fear and desperation in the room. Contaminated beasts. Twisted Qi. It sounded disturbingly familiar, like a forgotten echo from a past he had tried so hard to bury. The chasm he'd glimpsed, the profound absence… was it connected to this pervasive corruption?
He looked at Kael, the young Fletchling, whose hands still trembled from the encounter. He looked at Elara, the Ironborn tavern keeper, ready to defend her home with brute force. He looked at Borin, the scholar, whose knowledge was proving inadequate against this new threat. They were all trying, in their own ways, to hold back the tide.
"A simple solution," Theron rasped, his voice cutting through the tense silence. Everyone turned to him, surprised. The drunkard rarely offered solutions. "Don't get eaten."
A few people stared, bewildered. But then, a nervous chuckle rippled through the room. It was classic Theron – absurd, yet somehow, in its very absurdity, it offered a brief, much-needed release from the terror. He wasn't offering a plan, but he wasn't panicking either. His calm, almost bored demeanor was a strange anchor in the rising storm.
"That's your wisdom, old man?" Elara scoffed, though her shoulders relaxed slightly. "Just 'don't get eaten'?"
"Effective, isn't it?" Theron replied, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching his lips. He drained the last of his mug. The hum was still there, a low, insistent thrum, urging him, perhaps, to do something other than simply exist. The world, it seemed, was determined to pull him back into its chaos, one contaminated beast at a time. And for the first time in decades, Theron felt a faint, unwelcome stirring of something akin to… curiosity.