Melhin the Hunter. His name was legend, his deeds whispered low and quiet around crackling dung-brick campfires all across the Wastes of Shurax. His traveling merchant company were regarded as celebrities at minimum, heroes more frequently. They’d faced the Ravager and lived – indeed, not only lived: they’d come away with a taste of its flesh-warping blood. From Tarri to far Nemsynet, he was heralded, but Melhin wanted nothing of their fawning adulation or shocked awe. No, he wanted one thing, and one thing only: to find the Ravager once more, and to strike it dead once and for all. In his single-minded quest, he’d developed an uncanny knack for discovering the faint, mysterious trails of the other great beasts and horrors of the Wastes, leading more than a few of his caravan journeys on long, meandering paths across the sands as he ground through supplies and men alike in search of his hated foe.
All of which was well and good, except that Chimminy was aware of exactly none of it; apparently the grand tales of Melhin’s dead-eyed deathwish had not yet reached Upper Midwest Lod’nonderry, or in truth, any of the sweeping expanse of the Great Empire of Bryttan. What Chimminy did know was that for seemingly no good reason, Melhin charged damn near double the going rate on his ramshackle, much-abused-looking caravan (presumably to fund his ongoing crusade, but it’s hard to excuse him for that if you’re unaware of his life’s mission).
“Oi, we’ve got ta pay this man ‘ere twelve gold pieces ferra pack o’ withered-looking, unidentifiable jerky, a bottle o’ dubious origin ‘e claims’ll cure all our many ills, and fer tha right ta catch a ride ta tha city that ‘e’s lit’rally from? Queen o’ Air an’ Darkness forfend that we balk at ‘is generous offer, lest poor Akbar an’ Orion starve ta death in the meantime. I’ve got 'alf a mind to put me umbrellas in 'im, I do. . .”
Chimminy grumbled at a similar pace, but with a rapidly increasing vulgarity that was more than a little shocking from a being of his stature and bright coloration, for the first dozen hours of the journey, pausing only when the caravan wagon he was perched upon ground to a sudden halt. He looked up to see Melhin’s withered, scarred right hand raised in a tense fist; silence blanketed the caravan as the moon lit the scene in an eerie half-light.
“Oi, whassis all about, eh?” he demanded unhappily. Melhin hissed back at him.
“Silence, fae. Culth raiders. Behind and before. I’ve seen a trail. Could follow. May be trouble. Better than raiders.”
It’s possible the caravan master waited for the confounded consensus of the adventurers behind him, or maybe he was just timing his next move to unseen stimuli only his piercing grey eyes could perceive. Whatever the case, nothing at all moved for an agonizingly long held breath, before the entire caravan and its surroundings exploded in a whirlwind of motion, tearing through the sands as numerous spears and javelins whistled through the air with deadly intent. The wagon rocked violently, threatening to throw Chimminy to the raiders after all, but he clamped his tiny hands around a leather-bound satchel of what he now realized were swords of some kind. Wincing through the pain, he rode along for what seemed like an eternity, until at long last the sounds of the raiders giving chase faded behind them.
“Ah, some peace at la–”
A great and terrible roar tore through the night, and something enormous rose above them, blotting out the pale moonlight.
“Ah soditall.”