Thirty Three
Meanwhile, in The Rumble Mountains
Concealed in the icy peaks of the Rumble Mountains a familiar figure was returning home.
The proud timber lodge's newest owner- The Crimson Hunter was returning home after collecting her latest bounty.
Her last quarry- bandits wanted for stealing from The Tabernacle were dispatched quite easily by Robyn. She had tracked and killed them within the day, turning in their heads to the Inquisitors for the reward.
On her way out of Myst City she had learned it had been attacked by the Dark Claws the night prior and that Umbra had departed the city with Astralode's ward.
Annoyed she had missed the opportunity to kill vampires, she instead returned home to prepare to track Umbra's journey through the peaks.
The Inquisitors told her the young maleficus had killed the higher vampiress leader of the Dark Claws with only help from Astralode's apprentice.
The crown had even named Umbra a member of the Golden Sun Order!
The Order really is a sad broken shadow of its former glory; Robyn thought to herself as she kicked open the lodge doors.
She stripped off her armor and tossed it alongside her cloak on the floor.
The fireplace was still smoldering so she threw a bundle of books on it to reinvigorate the flames.
Normally she wouldn't burn books or scrolls, she did respect literature but these tomes and scrolls were different, vile.
The lodge's former residents were a small coven of maleficae.
She had slain every single one of them as they were preparing their latest nefarious ritual, and their books on witchcraft now fueled her fireplace where they belonged.
Just shy of a year ago she had braved The Frozen Wastes chasing a particularly dangerous bounty, near the home of the Dwarves- Dwarvenholme.
She actually enjoyed the company of Dwarves, they were direct, honorable and great storytellers.
There was no tiptoeing around courtesy and etiquette like humans, they spoke what they meant and washed every story down with a generous pint of ale.
She had led a small party of dwarven warriors to track her prey- the Jotunn troll leader, Grondol.
The oversized brute had been attacking dwarven traders and generally being a thorn in their side.
She was happy to get the killing blow and win favor with Dwarven Thane Ulfgar. Now Grondol's arm was nailed above her fireplace with the other trophies.
She hadn't expected the generous parting gift from the Thane, a breastplate of the rarest and more importantly magic-resistant metal in Turbulus- Turbulite.
Wearing the ornate breastplate made slaying the coven easy, watching them fume with frustration as their spells bounced harmlessly off her was priceless.
Over the months after Robyn had gutted the lodge, stripping away the occult materials of the maleficae; converting it into a respectable hunting cabin adorned with her trophies and maps.
The head witch of the tundra coven's skull now hung above her fireplace, the rest of her acolytes buried face-down in shallow graves outside.
More than they deserved Robyn frowned.
The cauldrons, ritual circles and all manner of gruesome artifacts in the lodge had been burned or discarded, replaced by Robyn's trophy pelts and personal armory.
Robyn strolled past a wyrm's head she had recently cut from a mighty beast out east in The Lava Fields; she tossed her newest sachet of gold on the lumpy couch and retrieved her sharpening stones.
As she sat on the couch polishing her blades her eyes were fixed on the witch's skull above the mantle. The old hag, Lady Spite had arrogantly pronounced herself an unstoppable force of darkness; she soon changed her tone when she saw Robyn slay her disciples with ease.
The detestable malefica had even tried to sneak an attack on the Crimson Hunter under the ruse of surrender but Robyn had 'evicted' the foolish old woman and claimed the lodge as her own.
The basement was probably the vilest part of the residence, human cadavers and dismembered limbs hung over bloodied altars and spell circles.
An entire necromancy lair, complete with grotesques lined its candle-lit walls. Robyn wasted no time trashing the place and giving the victims a respectful cremation.
She could have made a tidy profit pawning the occult relics but decided such objects deserved to be destroyed lest they fall into the hands of other maleficae.
Feeling restless, Robyn wandered over to her weapon racks and examined the battered longsword she had dug out of a wyrms spine.
This battered weapon was the only thing remaining of the last slayer who took up the challenge to slay the mighty beast.
She brushed her fingers over the notches on the sword's hilt; the original owner had recorded his impressive kill count on it.
Such a sad remnant would not be a trophy for her walls; she instead decided to sell it at the local trading post for the next brave adventurer to wield.
She knew the trading post owner, a grizzled mountain man named Bruce Magnus. The trading post doubled as a modest inn. Bruce would offer shelter to passing travelers and restock their supplies for the frigid trails at a modest cost.
Like many of the people Robyn interacted with, Magnus grew tired of her cold demeanor and coarse personality. He had tossed her out after she slew a fugitive staying in his inn, dumping him unceremoniously outside the entrance.
She hadn't visited the trading post in weeks but knew that with a few fine pelts the old trader would calm his hostility.
She packed a large hiking pack full of trade goods and left for the door, suddenly recalling the enormous Amarok wolf pelt slung over the dining table.
There were always bounties on Amaroks, they constantly attacked trade routes and stalked weary travelers in blizzards, ferocious, clever beasts perfectly camouflaged in the snow.
The pelt wasn't the biggest Amarok she had slain but it would surely be a good peace offering at the trading post to win over Magnus' cooperation once more.
Robyn hauled the supplies over her back and donned her thick hooded cloak she had made of a bear pelt and departed the lodge.
By her estimate, Umbra would reach the pines near the trading post by the following nightfall, if he took the southern pass- the fastest trail through the Rumble Mountains.
With any luck, Robyn could ambush him on the trail and finish her errands in one trip.
Let's do this!
Robyn took a deep breath and marched through the deep snow on her way to the southern pass, barely noticing the frigid winds she had trained in for years.