The Cool humid breath of the jungle clung to the air as the travelers arrived in the small, rain-kissed village of Dhamarra, where the scent of damp earth mingled with the fragrant blossoms of the canopy. Light showers pattered against the great, broad leaves overhead, their whispering descent barely disturbing the hush that had settled over the gathered villagers.
Word had spread of a rare and wondrous beast a bringer of change, one who lead people away from great danger and change — the Golden Stag, a creature spoken of in hushed tones, more legend than truth. Apprentice Forest Walker draped in the emerald-hued leathers of his calling, stood before the assembled crowd. The creature’s presence, he claimed, could be traced by the golden streaks left upon tree trunks or the faint, spectral glow of violet hoofprints pressed into the moss-laden earth. Yet none who had pursued these signs had returned with proof, and so, a call had been issued for a party bold enough to seek out the truth.
The company set forth, their path winding ever upward into the mist-veiled heights of the mountains, where the jungle thinned but never relented. The ascent was arduous, the terrain slick with rain and tangled with grasping roots, yet they pressed on. As the daylight waned, they found themselves ill-prepared for the wild chorus of insects and unseen creatures that emerged in the dusk, flitting and creeping through their camp. Sleep came in fitful fragments, disrupted by the ceaseless hum and the unseen eyes that watched from the undergrowth.
Before the first blush of dawn, the weary band rose and pressed onward, nearing the peak where they sought the trace of their quarry. Yet as they climbed, the very air seemed to shift—a change unnatural and urgent. The warning signs were subtle at first: a sharp, dry crackle in the breeze, a faint luminescence weaving through the mist. And then, the Spark Storm descended.
It was unlike the natural tempests they had come to expect in this untamed land; the very fabric of the storm seemed drawn forth by some distant, unseen force, its fury manifesting with unnatural speed. The party huddled low, seeking what shelter they could as the storm roared above, arcs of raw energy lashing at the landscape. To act recklessly in such a moment would have been folly, and so they waited, breath held, until the storm at last began to wane.
When the heavens calmed, the party cast their gazes toward the distant valley, where they had glimpsed the lightning’s final arcs drawn towards a singular point—a place where, perhaps, the Golden Stag had taken refuge. Yet, battered by the elements and ill-equipped for what dangers lay ahead, they made the prudent choice to turn back to the village. There, they would gather supplies, steel their resolve, and return to the wilds prepared—for the hunt had only just begun and it seemed like there was more going on than what was first made apparent.
