At the seemingly innocuous goat ranch, Bertha sat in her office, a small, cluttered space filled with maps, reports, and a surprising number of throwing knives. She stared at the official-looking letter in her hand, her brow furrowed in confusion.
"Captain Field Agent?" she muttered, reading the title aloud. "Just like that?"
She reread the letter, searching for some explanation, some indication of why she had been promoted. All it mentioned was her recent report on the Shadowwood Cult. A report. A report that, while detailed, hadn't exactly involved any daring rescues or high-stakes confrontations.
"This is weird," she said, tapping the letter against her desk. "Shouldn't promotions be... harder? I mean, I've been a field agent for years, and suddenly, one report and I'm a captain?"
She eyed the letter suspiciously. Was this some kind of elaborate prank? Or was there something more to her report than she realized? The Shadowwood Cult was definitely dangerous, but she hadn't given them enough credit to warrant a promotion this easily. She was starting to get a bad feeling about this.
Bertha sighed, the promotion letter now crumpled in her hand. "Captain Field Agent," she repeated, the title sounding absurdly formal in the dusty confines of her goat ranch office. "And now I need two subordinates."
She glanced around the room, her gaze settling on a map of Oakhaven. "In this village?" she muttered. "Where am I supposed to find two capable agents? Most of these people can barely read."
Her mind flickered through potential candidates. "Markus," she said, frowning. "He'd be perfect. Strong, resourceful, always willing to help. But I haven't seen him in over a week. That's... unusual for him." A flicker of worry crossed her face.
"Sharon," she continued, thinking of her younger sister. "Hmm. I don't know. Do I really want to drag her into this mess? She's too impulsive."
Then, Gordon's face popped into her mind. "And Gordon," she sighed. "He's... well, he's Gordon. He's barely literate. And why the hell does being able to read even matter for a field agent in this village? It's not like we're deciphering ancient scrolls. We're dealing with monsters and cultists."
She threw her hands up in exasperation. "This is ridiculous! I need trained agents, not... not villagers." She paused, then muttered, "Though, Gordon has some magical ability... still, this is a mess."
And Lukas. Yes, Lukas. He was another enigma in Oakhaven. Bertha had always found it peculiar that he possessed such refined literacy skills, especially in a village where such abilities were rare. It was out of place.
"Lukas," she muttered, tapping her pen against her chin. "He can read and write perfectly. Too perfectly. Is he secretly rich? A noble in hiding, perhaps?" She shook her head. "If it weren't for my job, I'd never have known. He hides it well."
But then, a wave of revulsion washed over her. "But his personality..." she shuddered. "All that flirting. If I recruit him, he'd definitely get the wrong idea. He'd think it was a sign, an invitation." She imagined his smarmy grin and the over-the-top compliments, and she felt a wave of nausea. "No way," she declared. "Absolutely not. I'd rather face a horde of goblins."
Bertha sighed, the weight of her decision pressing down on her. Markus was missing, Sharon was her sister, Lukas was... Lukas, and Gordon was, well, Gordon. She rubbed her temples, feeling a headache begin to form.
"This is impossible," she muttered, pushing the paperwork aside. "I can't make a decision today. I'm too tired, too frustrated."
She stood up, stretched her aching muscles, and decided to call it a day. "I've had enough headaches for one day," she declared, grabbing her coat. "Tomorrow Bertha can deal with this mess." She left her office, the goat ranch fading into the evening shadows as she made her way home, hoping a good night's sleep would bring some clarity.
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Gordon stood beside his house, his gaze fixed on the empty goat pen, a deeper sigh escaping his lips. It wasn't about money. It was about broken promises. He had promised his mother he would take care of the goats, that he would prevent them from devouring her precious belongings. But the ghost business at Mr. Suhat's house, and the ever-growing dread of the Ichor Curse, had consumed his thoughts, leaving him neglectful.
He had forgotten to properly tend to them, and his mother, understandably frustrated, had sold them. It wasn't about the money; it was about his failure to uphold his word. A wave of guilt washed over him, a sharp pang of regret. He had let his mother down, and he had let his goats down. The empty pen was a tangible reminder of his lapse in responsibility.
But there was nothing he could do. The goats were gone, and dwelling on it wouldn't bring them back. He needed to focus, to find some semblance of order in the chaos that had become his life.
With a heavy heart, Gordon turned away from the empty pen and headed towards his workplace. He needed the distraction, the routine, anything to take his mind off the swirling turmoil within him. The questions about his dreams, the high priest's soul, and the Ichor Curse gnawed at him, a constant, unsettling presence. He hoped that the familiar tasks of his work would provide a temporary respite, a moment of peace amidst the storm.
Gordon entered the hunter's guild, his mind still reeling from the loss of his goats, when he was met by Edi. Edi's usually stoic expression was grim, his eyes holding a weight that sent a shiver down Gordon's spine.
"Gordon," Edi said, his voice low and somber, "I have some bad news. Thomas... Thomas is dead."
The words hit Gordon like a physical blow. "Dead?" he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "But... but I just saw him yesterday. He was getting better." A wave of disbelief washed over him, followed by a surge of grief. Thomas was gone, just like that. It didn't make sense.
Gordon rushed to Thomas's house, his heart pounding with a mixture of grief and disbelief. He found the house filled with a somber atmosphere. Thomas's father was consoling his weeping mother, his own face etched with sorrow. Gordon entered, his steps heavy, intending to pay his last respects to his friend.
As he approached Thomas's body, laid out on the bed, a strange sensation washed over him. It wasn't just grief; it was something darker, something more unsettling. He could feel it, a lingering dread that emanated from the lifeless form. It was a tangible presence, a chilling aura that made the hairs on his neck stand on end. This was not a normal death.
Gordon glanced around the room, his eyes scanning the faces of Thomas's grieving family. They seemed oblivious to the chilling aura that permeated the air, their focus solely on their sorrow. He watched as they comforted each other, their expressions filled with grief but not fear.
A cold realization settled over Gordon, he was the only one who could feel it. The lingering dread, the unnatural presence that clung to Thomas's body, was invisible to everyone else.
A horrifying thought struck Gordon. Thomas was a victim of the curse. But not the Ichor Curse, not exactly. The lingering dread he felt wasn't the same as the chilling presence of the Ichor victims. It was something else, something... related.
A dreadful possibility emerged, was Thomas contracted this new curse while they were burning the bodies of the Ichor Curse victims? The sheer volume of infected corpses, the proximity to the burning pyre, it must have been the source. The thought made his stomach churn.
Suddenly, Elias's feigned illness didn't seem so annoying anymore. He understood Elias's fear, his desperate attempt to avoid the same fate that had befallen other villager. Elias, in his fear, might have saved himself.
Thomas was his friend. And this... this thing was defiling his corpse. Gordon's grief turned to a cold, burning anger. He wouldn't allow this to happen.
He closed his eyes, took a deep, steadying breath, and focused his mind. In an instant, his power surged through his veins, a familiar rush that cleared his senses. The lingering dread around Thomas's body sharpened into focus, revealing its true nature. It wasn't a specific curse, but rather a dense, concentrated wave of hate. A residue, perhaps, of the Ichor victims' suffering that evaporated by the burning pyre.
But Thomas was a normal human, without any magical defenses. This concentrated hate, this toxic energy, must have slowly eroded his mind and body, poisoning him from the inside out. Gordon cursed his own lapse in awareness. If only he had sensed it yesterday, he might have been able to help. But it was too late.
All of it happened in a second. And when a distant screams of a thousand voices began to resonate in his mind, growing louder with each passing second. He knew he had to act, and he had to act fast.
In a heartbeat, he sharpened his focus, his mind a steel trap. He summoned his power, a whirlwind of energy that reached out and grasped the concentrated hate clinging to Thomas's corpse. He solidified his will, hardening the energy into a tangible form.
Then, with a grim determination, he opened his mouth, just a sliver, and slurped it all in. The concentrated hate, the lingering dread – he consumed it, just as he had consumed the high priest's soul. The sensation was repulsive, a taste of pure, unadulterated suffering, but he swallowed it down, refusing to let it linger.
He had done it. He had consumed the concentrated hate, the lingering dread, the essence of Thomas's unnatural demise. The act was grotesque, a violation of the natural order, but he had done it nonetheless.
And he had done it without anyone noticing. The grieving family, their eyes red and swollen, remained oblivious to the strange, unsettling scene that had just unfolded. They saw only a grieving friend paying his respects, a solemn figure standing beside the lifeless form of their loved one. They were unaware of the dark energy that had been consumed, the silent battle that had been fought and won.