#arfam

It had been a quiet day in Oakwood, the bitter cold keeping most of the townsfolk huddled inside the warm inns and taverns. The last thing Arfam had expected was for Markus to stagger into the guild, a delirious and barely conscious mercenary slung over his shoulder. It was not unusual for sick or injured sellswords and adventurers to turn up at the guild, nor was it out of character for Markus to bring them in. The merchant had an irritating habit of hiring escorts too green for the multi-day journeys between towns.

But it had quickly become apparent that this was not your average injury.

Arfam shook his head, quickly shifting his focus back to the task at hand, applying cool cloths to the mercenary’s fevered skin as the elf muttered and twisted seemingly entirely unaware of his surroundings. “We need to keep 'im calm,” he said, his voice steady despite the growing concern in his gut.

“Calm?” Markus echoed incredulously, his eyes wide. “He’s delirious, Arfam!”

The dwarf sighed; Markus wasn’t wrong, but there was little they could do. Neither of them were healers, and neither had much expertise in elven physiology. Arfam’s mind drifted back, memories rising like mist from a distant past. He remembered the free elves from his youth— their laughter ringing like music, their eyes bright and full of life. Now, it felt like a lifetime ago. In truth, he hadn’t seen an elf in at least thirty years—probably before this poor lad had even been born.

Since arriving in the human cities, places where no free eld would dare tread, the only elves Arfam had encountered were conscripts—broken shadows of the beings he once admired. They wore the same pointed ears and delicate features of the free elves his hometown had traded with, but their air of desperation and fear made his heart ache. The sight of them had haunted him. He’d learned quickly to avoid them. It was easier that way, but it never sat right with him.

The elf’s breaths were shallow, his skin glistening with sweat as he mumbled incoherently. “Master… I… I can do better,” he murmured, a web of frost beginning to spread from his hands over the stone floor beneath him.

Arfam exchanged a worried glance with Markus, "what you say his name was?"

“Eldrin,” Markus replied, his voice tense, "picked him up in Westport for days ago… I… I thought he was human."

Arfam nodded. “Eldrin,” he called softly, hoping to pull the mercenary back from the edge of his fevered mind. “Can you hear me?”

Eldrin’s eyes flickered open, but the once-vibrant blue-grey was now clouded by a dull silver, he gasped, each breath shaky. “Master… please…” The words slurred, tumbling from his lips. “Need to…”

Markus knelt beside them, his hands wringing nervously. “What's happening to him?"

“Affinity burnout… It’s like a sickness,” Arfam explained as he rewet the cloth, pressing it to the elf’s brow. “Causes fever, delirium… Elf affinities aren’t just magic—they’re like… a part of them. Reacts to emotions." He shot Markus a dry half-smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Bet they don’t teach you human-folk this stuff, do they?”

“So… he’s suffering because he pushed too hard?" the merchanat asked slowly, trying to make sense of the situation, "That’s…”

“Common for conscripts.” Arfam’s words cut in sharply, his voice low but steady. “Conditioned to push past their limits. But you—” he gave Markus a look that was almost pitying, “you went and picked up a fugitive without knowing it, didn’t you?”

"I… I thought he was just a sellsword…" Markus stammered, "A bit jumpy ye, but untill he practically summoned a blizzard he seemed… Normal."

Arfam's brow furrowed as he focused on the elf, wiping the sweat from Eldrin's brow while carefully avoiding the ice that threatened to creep up his arms. "'Normal'" The dwarf echoed glancing back at the merchant, his voice low but firm. "You need to understand what you’re dealing with 'ere. This elf… he’s not just a mercenary. He’s been trained as a weapon. Whoever his 'owner' is, they'll be looking for 'im. The nobels don't take kindly to their 'property' escaping."

Markus swallowed hard, the implications of Arfam’s words sinking in like a stone in his gut. “What do we do?”

Arfam’s eyes narrowed as he considered their options. “First, we get 'im stable. Once he’s coherent, we can figure out the rest,” he replied, his tone authoritative.

“Eldrin,” Arfam called again, leaning closer. “Can you hear me?”

"Eldrin’s eyes fluttered, his focus drifting from Arfam to the empty air, as if he were straining to see someone only he could sense. 'Master… I… I won’t fail,' he muttered, the words torn from him in a hoarse, broken whisper.

Arfam pressed a cool cloth against Eldrin’s feverish brow, meeting the dull, haunted glint in the elf’s eyes. “Focus on me, lad. Not 'im. You’re safe here.”

A beat passed, the tension thickening as Eldrin's body tensed momentarily. Finally, Eldrin’s gaze caught on Arfam’s face for a fleeting moment. "Too warm…" he murmured, his voice softer, as the frost crept up his arm once more.

Calean sighed, he hated this town.

The guildmaster had warned him about the Oakswods’s size. He had cautioned that the guild here was small, and that noone would be particularly eager to accompany a mage on a journey to some “old ruins.” But Caelan hadn’t expected the utter stillness that greeted him. 'What sort of name is Oakswood, anyway?' he thought bitterly, as he passed through the dusty streets, eyes scanning the horizon for the faintest sign of anything worthwhile. There wasn’t even a single oak tree. Just this dull town and the promise of an escort that didn’t seem to be coming anytime soon.

Pushing open the creaky wooden door to the guild building for what felt like the hundredth time, Caelan stepped inside, immediately greeted by the familiar scent of aged wood and worn leather.

The hall was quiet, as always.  Just a few guild members milled about, each one absorbed in their own private business, as though they couldn’t care less that Cealan was still waiting for someone - anyone - to take his quest so he could leave this void forsaken place.

To his left, two young adventurers huddled over a map, their quiet conversations punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter, too soft to carry any real cheer. Nearby, an older, grizzled warrior sat sharpening his sword. The rhythmic sound of his whetstone sliding against the blade echoed through the otherwise silent hall. He sighed again as he glanced around, casually scanning the ages yellowing maps on the walls and the small noticeboard displaying quests – including his own unfulfilled request.

"Ah, Stormweaver. I have a question for you," Arfam, the dwarven guildmaster, suddenly called out as he approached, - his expression uncharacteristically hard.

Caelan raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharpening as he took a step toward the counter. "A question?"

"Aye," Arfam crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes narrowed slightly, giving Caelan the feeling that the dwarf was sizing him up more than he had in the past. "Your family... they’re nobels, right?"

Caelan gave a stiff nod, his mind immediately on guard. "Yes…  that’s correct. Why do you ask?"

Arfam scratched his beard thoughtfully, his gaze flicking to the others in the hall before returning to Caelan. "Got any conscripts?"

The question hit Caelan like a punch to the gut. He stiffened, feeling an immediate tightening in his chest. "My family’s always been against that," he stated, his voice colder than he intended. He paused for a moment before adding, "Why?"

The dwarf continued to stare at him, his expression contemplative. Assessing. Analysing. "Got ye an escort.”

Caelan’s heart skipped a beat. Finally. "Really?" he asked, his voice lifting with hope. "Who?"

Arfam’s eyes shifted across the hall. Caelan’s gaze followed. His eyes landing on the far corner, where a cloaked figure sat unnervingly still, as though the space around them had frozen in place. The rest of the guild members seemed to avoid acknowledging their presence, and for a moment, Caelan wondered if the figure even existed at all, or if they were some trick of his mind.

"That... that’s my escort?"

The words were harsher than he intended, but Caelan couldn’t help it. He had worked with loners before, brooding types who seemed to fade into the background. But this—this was different. Whoever the figure was, they didn’t even seem to exist in the same world as the rest of them. It would be a two-day journey to Ashendale, and Caelan had planned to be there for a few days. But the thought of spending the next week with a loner. Someone distant… withdrawn, left him questioning his choices. Would they even talk? Or was he supposed to simply endure the silence?

Arfam let out a low chuckle, a sound rich with hidden amusement. "Aye," he said, his grin barely visible beneath his thick beard, “Ya might wanna go introduce yaself.”

Caelan stared at the cloaked figure in disbelief, a feeling of unease creeping up his spine. With a resigned sigh, he took a step forward.  The figure sat with their back pressed against the corner of the guildhall, their blood-red cloak and look old, worn. It enveloped the mercenary entirely, making it nearly impossible for Caelan to read the person’s posture or stature beneath the folds.

As he drew nearer, the figure’s head shifted slightly, a subtle yet deliberate movement. It was as if the air around them had thickened in response to his presence. The voice that followed was low, clear, and impossibly calm, though there was an unmistakable wariness woven into the words.

"Are you the mage?"

Caelan hesitated, his breath catching for just a moment. "Yes,"  forcing his tone to sound more confident than he felt, "I take it you're my escort?"

The cloaked figure stood in a single, fluid motion. As the they straightened, the shadows from the hood seemed to shift, and for a brief moment, Caelan caught a glimpse of pale, sharp features—high cheekbones that cut sharply against the shadow of the cloak. But it was the eyes that struck him most. The silver-blue hue was unnatural, almost metallic, like shards of ice glinting in the dark.

“I’m Eldrin,” he said quietly, his voice as cold as his gaze. “Frostblade.”

Caelan blinked, his brow furrowing in disbelief. "Frostblade, huh?" he said with a dry laugh, shaking his head slightly. "Bit dramatic, don’t you think?"

Eldrin’s eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of annoyance—or was it something else?—passing across his expression. For a moment, Caelan wondered if he had said too much. But Eldrin’s response came without pause, his voice cool and unruffled.

"And Stormweaver is not?" he asked, his tone sharp but controlled

Caelan's mind stilled. He hadn’t expected the retort.

Stormweaver wasn’t even a title as such. More a moniker given to him be others, years ago, while he was still an apprentice. For a brief moment, he considered offering some rebuttal, some clever comment to deflect the tension. But something in Eldrin’s gaze, made him rethink. It was probably best not to piss off yet another mercenary - especially so soon after meeting.

 “Fair point,” he muttered, hoping to simply move on from the awkwardness. “Let’s just get to business… I assumed that Arfam has briefed you?”

Eldrin gave a slight nod, his movements smooth, almost mechanical. “Escort the mage scholar to the ruins of Ashendale. Ensure his safety while he conducts his research. Return once complete.” His words were direct, devoid of emotion, each one falling into place like a command.

Something about the man’s demeanour felt odd, and Caelan couldn’t help but eye the mercenary more closely, his gaze lingering on the details of Eldrin’s attire. The heavy cloak covered most of their form, but beneath it, Caelan noticed the subtle but deliberate arrangement of weapons. Two daggers were sheathed at Eldrin's side, their hilts worn and familiar with use. A third, smaller blade was strapped to their boot, though it was more of a thick, coarsely wrapped sandal than a true boot—barely anything more than a few leather strips held together with primitive skill. The leather armour they wore was finely crafted but simple, decorated with runes that seemed to pulse with the faintest glistening of frost and ice. A small pouch hung from Eldrin’s belt, its contents unclear - coin perhaps?

"Eldrin!" Arfam’s voice echoed across the guildhall, his tone taking on a fatherly edge, one that Caelan didn’t quite expect from the gruff and joking dwarf. "Play nice," he added, his voice carrying an authority that hinted at more than just casual jest.

Caelan’s gaze flicked back to Arfam, who was leaning against the counter, arms crossed and watching the exchange with mild amusement. He gave a subtle wave of his hand, as if to dismiss the tension in the air.

Eldrin gave a sharp huff in response. The sound was so quiet, so controlled, it was almost imperceptible, "I am always pleasant," he muttered.

Arfam snorted, a low chuckle escaping his lips. “Sure you are, kid,” he said, his voice dripping with mock exasperation, but there was affection in his tone. The dwarf shook his head slightly, his thick beard shifting with the motion, as though Eldrin’s attempts to come across as unbothered were as predictable as the sun rising.

There was a shift in Eldrin’s posture, something subtle, almost imperceptible. He stiffened, and Caelan thought he heard him mutter under his breath, just loud enough to catch: "Not a kid."

The words were clipped, sharp, and Caelan couldn’t quite decide if it was a response to Arfam's teasing or simply a reflection of Eldrin's own internal frustration. Either way, the shift in Eldrin’s demeanor was palpable—a quiet, barely-contained irritation.

Before he could stop himself, Caelan let out a short, unexpected laugh. The interaction had been so jarring, so completely out of his expectations, that it caught him off guard. The awkwardness hung in the air, and for a split second, it felt almost surreal—a bizarre misstep in a situation that was already uncomfortable. Eldrin’s face remained as unreadable as ever, his features set in that same detached, almost aloof expression. Yet, Caelan could feel the air around him shift - grow colder, heavier - as though Eldrin was somehow sucking all the warmth out of his surroundings.

Caelan quickly cleared his throat, attempting to regain some semblance of composure. His amusement faded almost as quickly as it had come, replaced by an unsettling tension that made him feel suddenly self-conscious.

“Sorry,” he muttered, his voice holding a nervous edge, “I didn’t mean to... Well, this isn’t exactly what I expected.”

He cleared his throat again, pushing away the lingering sense of discomfort. This wasn’t the time for awkwardness or uncertainty—he had a job to do, and he needed to focus.

“Well, then,” Caelan said, shaking himself out of the moment. “I need to grab my pack. Meet you outside in ten minutes?”

Eldrin gave a short nod, the coldness of his expression never wavering. "Ten minutes," he agreed, sharing a fleeting glance with Arfam before moving quickly to the door. He exited the guild hall, leaving behind a silence that felt almost... suffocating.

The Oakwood Adventurers Guild was brimming with activity, a lively mix of people filling every available bench. Young faces lit with excitement, old veterans sharing stories, and nervous newcomers shifting restlessly in their seats. Humans made up the majority, but he spotted a few dwarves, a halfling, and even a gnome, all eager to carve their names into the annals of adventure.

Arfam was relieved that pledge day only occurred twice a year. The process was a necessary tradition, but it often irritated new adventurers who believed they could simply waltz in, register, and be ready to work by the next day. He chuckled to himself, imagining the chaos that would ensue if that were the case. A well-structured system was essential, even if it meant today would be stressful.

Today was about more than just signing names on a parchment; it was about ensuring each aspiring adventurer was prepared for the challenges that lay ahead. He scanned the room, his eyes catching on the various groups. Some had already formed parties, their camaraderie evident in the way they leaned into whispered conversations and shared nervous laughter. Others sat alone, a few fidgeting with their gear, casting uncertain glances around the room.

His heart swelled with pride and concern; these kids were his responsibility. Each one represented a potential hero or heroine, and it was his duty to make sure they were equipped not only with skills but also with the right mindset to face the dangers of their quests.

Amidst the cacophony, he spotted Eldrin, standing slightly apart from the throng. The elf had been more than a bit annoyed when Arfam had insisted that he register like everyone else. Arfam may be letting the runaway conscript live at the guild for free—another thing that seemed to irritate the young elf—but that didn't mean he could skip out on tradition and formality. But what he saw in Eldrin now was not irritation, not annoyance or anger, but something else. The elf's posture was just slightly too stiff, his hands trembling as his eyes kept darting around the hall.

Eldrin closed his eyes, attempting to drown out the noise, but it only amplified the pounding in his chest. The lively chatter around him felt overwhelming, a sea of voices that washed over him like a tide. The scent of sweat and wood smoke filled the air, and with it came a wave of nausea that twisted in his stomach. Breathe, he told himself, but the breath felt trapped, caught somewhere deep inside him.

Shadowed images surfaced at the edge of his mind. Days and nights spent under the command of his master, a stern figure looming over him, always demanding more, always ready to remind him how replaceable he was. His failures, his mistakes, punished swiftly. He'd been trained to kill without question, his body hardened to fight, to withstand pain—but not this. Not the quiet battle of standing in a room full of people.

A burst of laughter rang out, sharp and loud. Eldrin flinched, the world tipping for a moment, edges blurring as his vision swam. Cold crept into his fingertips, a sharp, familiar chill that prickled painfully as frost crystals began to spread across his hands. No. Control it. Not now. He took a deep breath, willing the ice to recede. Hold on.

But the pressure behind his eyes grew, his breath quickening as though it had a mind of its own. The sounds merged into an endless echo, laughter turning to taunts. He took a step back, his elbow catching a table, rattling cups and drawing unwanted eyes.

“Hey, watch it!” someone barked, but Eldrin barely registered the words. His heart was pounding. Chest tight. He couldn't focus on the hall anymore.

His hands began to ice over again, the cold snaking up his wrists, frost biting through his gauntlets as he clenched his fists tighter. The sensation would usually have grounded him, but instead, it only reminded him how close he was to losing control.

Across the room, he caught sight of Arfam, whose easy smile had fallen into a look of worry as he pushed through the crowd, eyes locked on Eldrin. No, not Arfam. Not here. He couldn’t look weak in front of a room full of people. Strangers. But it was too late; Arfam was already making his way over, his expression shifting from joviality to urgency.

No, no, no, Eldrin thought, his pulse hammering in his ears. He was one step away from spiraling completely out of control, and he couldn’t let that happen—not in front of everyone.

His breath came in shallow gasps, each inhale a desperate attempt to calm the chaos in his chest. The laughter, the scents of sweat and smoke, the warmth of too many bodies—it was all closing in. Suffocating.

Focus.

Every face around him blurring into a smear of eyes and mouths, watching, laughing. He felt the frost spread, a lattice of ice locking down his fingers.

“Eldrin!”

Arfam’s voice sliced through the fog, the firm, familiar tone anchoring him just enough to focus. “C’mon, lad. Eyes on me.”

Eldrin’s lips parted to speak, but no sound came out. His mind was still spinning, his body frozen with the ice creeping over his knuckles. Weakness. The memory of his master’s voice hissed in his mind. Pathetic. Useless.

“Let’s go outside, away from the noise,” Arfam murmured, his grip gentle but insistent around the elfs wrist as he guided him toward the door. Ignoring the curious glances and whispers.

The moment the fresh air hit his face, Eldrin gasped, the chill piercing through the fog in his mind, loosening the ice from his fingers. He staggered into the wall, pressing his back against the rough stone, the cold bite against him a grounding sensation as he fought to steady his breathing.

Arfam kept a hand on Eldrin’s arm, his tone steady. “Deep breaths, kid. In and out.”

“Not a kid,” Eldrin whispered, fighting the lingering tremor in his voice.

Arfam chuckled softly, though his gaze stayed focused and steady. “To me, ya are. Now breathe.”

The cold night air settled over Eldrin, the panic easing its grip as he let the frost melt from his hands, the icy tendrils retreating with each steadying breath.

“Ain’t no shame in feeling overwhelmed,” Arfam murmured, his voice soft, pulling Eldrin back to the present. “Noise like that can be a lot to handle, even for the best of us.”

Eldrin nodded automatically, trying to steady his breathing. The remnants of panic clung to him, each exhale still sharp and uneven. How could he be this weak? He'd been trained from childhood to be a weapon, to fight in the areas against creatures, 'monsters', other conscripts. A room full of adventurers shouldn't make him feel like this.

"They were all looking at me... Judging,” he muttered, eyes fixed on his hands. Fingers flexing. Banishing the last traces of frost.

Arfam shook his head gently, "Aye, they were looking, but not for the reasons ya think. Most are probably just curious. You're a new face to most of 'em."

Eldrin pressed his back against the stone, feeling the rough texture dig into his skin. He wanted to believe Arfam, but the weight of uncertainty clung to him like a shroud. Curious? Or judging?

“Trust me, lad,” Arfam continued, his voice unwavering, “Ain't nobody out here lookin’ to judge ya. Give it time, there's some good kids 'ere. Just keep ya hood up, head down, and breathe.”

Eldrin nodded, swallowing hard. The words felt foreign, but something about them resonated.

Arfam’s hand left his arm, his warm presence retreating as he started back toward the guild. Eldrin watched him go, feeling a twinge of envy at the dwarf’s easy confidence.