The unnatural chill in the forest deepened with every step north. Roric and the thief moved like specters through the dense pines, their goal a swirling pillar of frosty light visible just above the treetops. They were still a good three hundred yards from its source when Roric stopped dead, his hand shooting out to halt his companion. His Hunter's senses, which had been on edge since they left camp, screamed a silent warning. It wasn't a sound or a scent, but a sudden, profound wrongness in the woods ahead—a stillness where there should have been the rustle of night creatures, the feeling of being watched by eyes far older and more aware than any wolf's.
His intuition was not wrong. Minutes earlier, in the grove, Hemlock's head had turned from the vortex, his gaze fixing on a point deep in the southern woods. He had felt their discordant passage, two sharp, unnatural presences cutting through the sacred quiet of his domain. He gave Elara a single, sharp look. "Stay with the boy. Let no one pass." Before she could reply, the old druid had turned and melted into the treeline, moving not with the haste of a warrior, but with the deliberate, silent purpose of the mountain itself. And now, he emerged from the shadows before the two mercenaries, a gnarled staff held loosely in one hand, his ancient eyes seeming to absorb the faint moonlight.
Roric's gaze remained locked on the old druid. He saw not a frail elder, but a Tier 2 Professional. An obstacle. He gave a slight, almost respectful inclination of his head. "No trouble intended, old-timer. We saw the light from our camp. Orders were to check on the disturbance."
"Your investigation is concluded," Hemlock stated, his voice calm but unyielding. "There is nothing for you here. Turn back."
"We have our orders," Roric's voice lost its feigned casualness, hardening into a flat, professional tone. "We look, and then we leave. Step aside."
Hemlock's gnarled hand tightened on his staff. The very air around him grew heavier, charged with unspoken power. "There is no 'aside' for you to step to. There is only the path back the way you came."
Roric gave a nearly imperceptible nod, a signal passed between professionals who had worked together before. He kept his eyes locked on Hemlock, drawing the old man's focus, a predator fixing its prey before the true strike.
The thief did not run. He simply sank back, his dark furs bleeding into the deep shadows cast by the surrounding pines. His movement was a fluid, unnatural silence, more a ripple in the dark than the passage of a man. He became a ghost, circling wide to the left, his feet making no sound on the fresh snow as he sought a path around the old druid, a way to reach the glowing grove undetected.
Hemlock remained focused on Roric, his ancient eyes unblinking. Yet, a part of his consciousness was tethered to the forest floor, feeling the unnatural tremor of the thief's silent passage. The man was skilled, his steps light as falling snow, but he could not hide the disturbance of his life force from the very earth he walked upon.
The thief saw his opportunity. While the Hunter held the old man's gaze, a wide path around the druid lay open. He moved to take it, a shadow detaching itself from other shadows, his goal the glowing grove just beyond the confrontation.
He took three silent steps before the ground beneath him came alive.
Hemlock didn't even glance in the thief's direction. He simply stomped the butt of his gnarled staff into the frozen earth. With a sound like tearing canvas, vines the color of wet slate erupted from the snow. They were Graspervines, a mountain creeper known for its fibrous, leather-tough tendrils. They coiled around the thief's ankles and calves with crushing speed, pulling him off balance. He let out a startled cry as he crashed to the ground, his legs hopelessly entangled in the living snare.
The thief's cry was the snap of a breaking bowstring. The time for subtlety was over.
With a guttural snarl, Roric exploded forward.
He was no longer a patient stalker but a striking viper, his body low as he covered the dozen paces between them in two ground-eating strides.
His short sword appeared in his hand, drawn in a blur of motion. It wasn't swung in a wide arc but thrust in a straight, lethal line, aimed directly at the old druid's chest. He had to close the distance. He had to make this a fight of steel and bone.
Roric's sword point was a silver flash, closing the distance in a heartbeat.
Hemlock did not retreat. He stood like an ancient oak, rooted to his spot, and slammed the butt of his staff into the ground once more.
He did not raise a wall of stone, but called to the forest itself.
With a sound of tearing wood and groaning fibers, the bark on the nearest ancient pine peeled away. The large, thick plates flew through the air and interlocked before him, weaving themselves into a rough, layered shield.
Roric's blade struck the makeshift barrier. There was no sharp clang of metal on rock, only a dull, heavy thud. The sword punched halfway through the topmost layer of bark before its tip snagged in the tough, fibrous layers beneath.
A shower of woody splinters and dust exploded from the point of impact.
Roric abandoned the sword, leaving it embedded in the splintered shield. A professional never relies on a single method of attack.
The cloud of woody debris was still in the air, a temporary screen.
His left hand flickered to his belt and back in a motion too quick to follow. A thin, black dart, no longer than his finger, was suddenly between his thumb and forefinger.
He flung it.
The dart shot through the lingering dust, a flicker of darkness aimed at the old druid's exposed chest.
Hemlock, his eyes still fixed on Roric, twisted his body with surprising speed. He couldn't dodge completely, but he brought his left forearm up, a desperate, instinctual block.
The sleeve of his robe, woven from bark-skin and as tough as cured leather, deflected most of the force. The dart didn't pierce deep, but the impact was enough. The tip, coated in a viscous, dark substance, snapped off, lodging itself almost harmlessly in the flesh of his forearm.
A slight grunt escaped Hemlock's lips, his jaw tightening for a fraction of a second. He gave no other sign he'd been hit.
The pain from the dart was a distant thing, a mere insect sting. What mattered was the violation.
Hemlock's eyes, which had been fixed on Roric, now seemed to gaze through him, into the very earth beneath their feet. The bark shield before him crumbled, its purpose served.
He let his gnarled staff fall into the snow.
He dropped to one knee and slammed his open palm flat against the frozen ground.
"RISE!"
The command was not a shout, but a low rumble that came from the depths of his chest and resonated with the mountain itself.
The frozen earth before him churned. Roots and dark soil coiled and compressed with unnatural speed, knitting themselves into a stocky figure no taller than a man but twice as broad. Plate-like bark formed over its torso and limbs, and moss clung to its shoulders.
Two points of amber light ignited deep within its head, fixing on Roric with an unblinking, alien intelligence.
Roric took an involuntary step back. His heart hammered against his ribs. This was no simple nature magic. This was a summoned Guardian, a living siege engine of wood and earth. A Tier 2 summon.
The Treant Guard took a single, grinding step forward, its amber eyes fixed on Roric.
Faced with the summoned creature, Roric made a critical, instinctual error. He saw not a magical construct, but a beast. He reached out with his mind, a subconscious flicker of a Hunter's talent: Beast Empathy. He sought to read its intent, to find its fear.
He found only a void.
And from that void, the cold, absolute fury of its master flooded the connection. Hemlock's rage, pure and undiluted by any emotion save a chilling resolve, slammed directly into Roric's mind.
The Hunter screamed, a thin, choked sound, and staggered back, clutching his temples. His vision dissolved into a painful grey static.
Hemlock ignored the mentally crippled Hunter. He raised a hand towards the ensnared thief. The Graspervines tightened, then whipped upwards, launching the man through the air like a stone from a sling. He landed in a heap a few feet from his dazed companion.
Hemlock stood tall, the amber-eyed Treant an immovable sentinel at his side. He pointed a gnarled finger towards the dark forest from which they had come.
"Go," Hemlock's voice was cold as the grave. "If you are seen on this mountain again, you will not be leaving it."
The thief, bruised but lucid, scrambled to his feet. He saw his leader standing upright but vacant, stumbling blindly and clutching his head. Without a second thought, the thief hauled Roric's arm over his own shoulders and began the arduous task of dragging his superior back into the concealing darkness of the pines. In moments, they were gone.