The moment they pushed through the heavy wooden door of the Adventurers Guild, the atmosphere shifted. Sharwood's streets held a tense, watchful quiet. Here, a different kind of energy thrummed, a controlled chaos that buzzed beneath the surface. The building, a solid behemoth of timber and stone, felt larger on the inside, the main floor sprawling around a central hearth. Rough-hewn tables were crowded with figures clad in practical leather, dented mail, or sturdy cloth, adventurers. Some cleaned weapons with focused intensity, others huddled over worn maps, voices low and urgent, while a few near the back engaged in louder banter over clattering tankards, though even their laughter seemed brittle, easily broken. The air was thick with a primal cocktail of scents, woodsmoke, stale ale, sweat, damp leather, the faint metallic tang of old blood, and the sharp smell of whetstone dust.
"Operational hub: Adventurers Guild, Sharwood branch," William mentally catalogued, his eyes scanning, processing. "Functions observed: Contract negotiation (notice board), intelligence dissemination (map huddles), equipment maintenance, personnel R&R. Decentralized network nodes for specialized talent." He kept the thought about work hard and play hard to himself this time, the underlying tension too uneasy.
Behind a scarred wooden counter that had seen better decades, a man looked up as they entered. He was old, grizzled, his face a roadmap of wrinkles and faded scars, one particularly jagged line ran from his left temple down across his cheekbone, puckering near his mouth. But his eyes, despite the weathering, were sharp, missing nothing. They locked onto Julia immediately, a flicker of recognition, then concern. "Julia! Gods, good to see you upright. Edward blew through here twenty minutes ago like a gale off the mountains. Said he needed Lucas, now. Trouble follow you out of Tallenwood?"
Julia stepped forward, her voice crisp, professional, cutting through the low hum of the room. "Potentially significant trouble, Jorun. We need to speak with Lucas and Captain Oswald. Immediately."
The old man, Jorun, let out a low grunt, his weathered fingers, callused and slightly crooked, drumming a slow tattoo on the scarred surface of the counter. His expression darkened, the lines deepening. "Figured as much. Doesn't bode well." He jerked his head towards a sturdy staircase at the back. "They're both upstairs. Strategy room. Been in there most of the morning since the first reports came in. Mood's fouler than goblin brew."
The stairs groaned under their weight, each step a creaking protest that seemed loud in the sudden hush as they ascended, leaving the boisterous common room sounds behind. The air up here felt different, still, charged with a tense, almost metallic anticipation. "Another day at the office," William thought wryly, "if your office whiteboard tracks potential apocalyptic invasion vectors instead of program status milestones."
The strategy room door was thick oak. Inside, pragmatic efficiency ruled. A massive rectangular table, its surface deeply scarred by countless map weights, knife points, and spilled drinks, dominated the space. The walls were almost entirely covered with detailed maps, regional surveys, local terrain charts, fortifications marked in varying colours. Thin lines of faded red and black string crisscrossed the maps, denoting known patrol routes, suspected enemy movements, potential invasion corridors. A complex, three-dimensional puzzle of survival strategy.
Edward stood at the head of the table, back ramrod straight, recounting their encounter in a low, intense voice. Two other men listened intently.
One, seated, was Lucas. He was compact, dressed in well-made but practical tunic and breeches, looking more like a prosperous merchant or a guild master than a frontline warrior. His hands were smooth, his hairline receding, but his keen, intelligent eyes missed nothing, darting between Edward and the map. He radiated an aura of sharp intellect and quiet authority, a man who understood war through logistics, intelligence, and strategy.
The other, standing opposite Edward, leaning slightly over the map, was clearly Captain Oswald. Martial might personified. His polished plate armour, though clearly worn and bearing numerous minor dents and scratches, fit him like a second skin. A functional longsword hung at his hip, balanced and ready, clearly an extension of the man, not mere decoration. His face was square-jawed, weathered like old leather, his eyes hard, steady, assessing everything in terms of threat levels and necessary force. He looked like a man who had spent a lifetime staring into the abyss of conflict and hadn't blinked.
Leadership duo identified, William processed instantly. Strategist/Administrator (Lucas) paired with Field Commander/Tactician (Oswald). Classic, effective command structure.
"Julia. Good." Edward acknowledged their entrance with a brief nod, not breaking his report's flow. He gestured towards William. "William was with us when we encountered the second group. He dealt with the goblin that attacked him earlier. He can corroborate."
William felt the weight of the two leaders' gazes shift to him. Lucas's eyes were sharp, analytical, taking in his strange attire, his makeshift crutch, calculating his potential value or liability. Oswald's gaze was more direct, assessing physical condition, perceived competence, threat level – zero, in his case, William suspected. He felt suddenly exposed, like an outlier data point presented without context in a critical briefing. He consciously straightened his shoulders, trying to project… well, not competence, perhaps just neutrality.
"The goblin that attacked me," William began, adopting his most professional, data-delivery tone, "was small, as described. Green-skinned, pointed ears. Weapon: crude club. Armour: minimal, tattered leather only. Consistent with a lightly equipped scout or skirmisher profile rather than heavy infantry." He gestured briefly towards his bandaged leg. "Speed and aggression were notable, however. Managed to inflict injury despite equipment deficiencies."
Julia and Edward quickly added their own precise details, the number encountered in their fight (eight), the number eliminated (seven), the one escapee, the similar lack of heavy gear, the unusual coordination they'd observed. Each statement seemed to add another layer of tension to the already taut atmosphere in the room.
As Edward spoke, Lucas shuffled through a stack of flimsy parchments on the table, his finger tracing lines of hastily scrawled script. "Matches the morning's intelligence," Lucas murmured, looking up, his keen eyes grave. He tapped the parchments. "Before you arrived, Edward, we'd already had three separate reports filter in."
Captain Oswald nodded grimly, straightening up from the map. "Three different adventuring parties, operating independently. All reporting unusual goblin activity, significantly south of their established territories." He jabbed a finger at marked locations on the large map pinned to the wall behind him. "Here, near the northern ridge overlooking the Mirehill. Here, close to the western fork of the Blustream. And another group encountered along the eastern logging trail, barely half a day from Sharwood itself."
Lucas pulled a ledger closer. "Standard goblin behaviour is small groups, intensely territorial squabbles, opportunistic raiding. Rarely coordinated beyond their immediate warren." He looked up, his gaze sweeping across Julia, Edward, and lingering on William. "These reports, however, indicated… some level of organisation. Consistent movement between typically hostile groups. Signs of rudimentary signalling between them. And now your encounter confirms it." Multiple independent reports cross-validated, William thought, his own pattern-recognition faculties kicking into high gear. Data points indicate statistically significant deviation from baseline goblin behaviour. Variables: Synchronization, Cross-territorial Coordination, Communication (rudimentary signalling). Probability of random occurrence: Approaching zero.
"We were compiling this, preparing to dispatch a dedicated reconnaissance team to assess the scale," Lucas continued, his voice tight with controlled urgency. A mirthless smile touched his lips. "But it seems the three of you have saved us the trouble. You didn't just stumble onto a stray band, you confirmed the methodology."
William felt a chill despite the stuffy room. It wasn't random. It was systematic. "Coordinated probes," he stated, the words coming out before he could filter them.
Edward nodded sharply. "The group we fought… they moved together too well for typical greenskins. And the one that got away…" he grimaced, "it wasn't just fleeing in panic. It felt… deliberate. Like it was falling back to report."
Oswald's hand rested heavily, unconsciously, on the pommel of his longsword. "Reconnaissance," he said, the word like stone. "Probing our defences. Testing response times."
"Exactly," Julia breathed, her eyes wide with understanding and dawning horror. "They're mapping us. Seeing how far they can push, where the weak points are."
William connected the final dots, the implications aligning perfectly, chillingly, with the scale of the threat Julia had described, with the nightmare vision. "You think… this is the Dark Legion? Using goblins as expendable scouts?"
Lucas and Oswald exchanged a heavy look, a silent confirmation that needed no words.
"It's the only conclusion that fits the data," Oswald said finally, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Neverus is many things, but impulsive is not one of them. He gathers intelligence. He softens targets. He prepares the battlefield meticulously before the main assault."
The room fell silent again, but this silence was heavier, colder. The weight of impending invasion settled over them, thick and suffocating. The colourful pins and strings on the maps suddenly looked less like strategic tools and more like markers on a patient awaiting dissection.
"Sharwood…" Lucas murmured, tracing a line on the map with his finger, his voice barely above a whisper. "It controls the eastern passes through the mountains. If the Legion can force their way through here…"
"The road to the capital… to Aver itself… lies open," William finished the thought, the strategic vulnerability starkly, terrifyingly obvious even to him.
The tension in the room ratcheted up, transforming from professional concern into something sharp and acute, the tangible awareness of sitting on the edge of a precipice. These weren't just goblin sightings anymore. They were the first tremors before the earthquake, the scouting parties before the main invasion force. Whispers of the coming storm.
"We're well-defended," Lucas said, pushing away from the table, trying to inject confidence into his voice, but it sounded thin, strained. "The garrison is strong, the walls are sound, the Guild provides crucial support. We can hold against considerable force. But…"
The word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken fear, a silent acknowledgment of their precarious position, of the sheer, overwhelming power wielded by the enemy they now knew was likely turning its gaze towards them.