Kapitel 17: Chapter 17: The Unlikely Guardian.
Eryndor's legs ached, his feet blistered and raw from walking for what felt like an eternity. His surroundings had changed from dense forests to rocky plains, and now to open meadows. The sun blazed overhead, its rays mercilessly beating down on him, sapping the little strength he had left. He had been walking for eight days straight, surviving on scraps of food and the occasional sip of water from small streams. The journey had been grueling, filled with dangers at every turn.
Wild animals prowled in the night, their glowing eyes visible in the darkness as they circled his makeshift camps. Bandits had ambushed him on the third day, forcing him to use what little magic he could muster to defend himself. But the worst of all were the spirits. They came at night, their ghostly whispers echoing in the wind, chilling him to the bone. He could feel their malevolent intent, their hatred for the living.
Eryndor had barely slept since he left his old camp, and his body was nearing its limits. He stumbled into a clearing, the sound of rushing water drawing him forward. Pushing through the tall grass, he emerged onto the banks of a wide river. Its clear waters sparkled in the sunlight, the gentle sound of its flow bringing a small measure of peace to his weary soul.
Kneeling by the water's edge, he cupped his hands and drank deeply, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat. He splashed his face, the cold water jolting him back to full awareness. As he sat back, his eyes scanned the opposite bank, and he froze.
An old man sat on a flat rock, his figure silhouetted against the bright sunlight. He wore a tattered cloak, his face obscured by the hood. Beside him lay a simple staff, its surface worn smooth with age. The man appeared to be fishing, a thin line disappearing into the water.
Eryndor's instincts screamed at him to remain cautious. He reached for his dagger, his hand tightening around the hilt as he slowly rose to his feet.
The old man turned his head slightly, as if sensing Eryndor's presence. "No need for that, boy," he said, his voice raspy but calm. "I mean you no harm."
Eryndor hesitated. The man's tone was disarming, but he had learned to trust no one. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice hoarse from days of silence.
The man chuckled softly. "Just an old wanderer. And you? You look like you've been through the seven hells and back."
Eryndor didn't answer immediately. He studied the man, trying to discern if he was a threat. There was something strange about him, something otherworldly. Finally, he decided to take a chance. "I'm just passing through," he said cautiously.
The man nodded, reeling in his line and inspecting the empty hook. "Passing through, are you? To where, might I ask?"
"Anywhere but here," Eryndor replied. "I need to find a place where I can rest. Somewhere safe."
The old man tilted his head, as if considering the boy's words. "Safe," he muttered, almost to himself. "A rare thing these days."
Eryndor shifted uncomfortably. "Do you know of any nearby villages or settlements?"
The man sighed, leaning back on his rock. "There's a small village a few days' walk downstream. But you won't find much welcome there. These lands are harsh, and people don't take kindly to strangers."
Eryndor frowned, his shoulders slumping. The thought of walking for several more days was almost unbearable. He looked at the old man again, curiosity beginning to outweigh his caution. "Why are you out here alone?"
The man smiled faintly. "I could ask you the same thing, boy. But I won't. Everyone has their reasons."
Eryndor bit his lip, debating whether to press further. Finally, he said, "You don't seem like an ordinary old man."
The man chuckled, his laughter carrying a hint of mischief. "And you don't seem like an ordinary traveller. I've seen the way you move, the way you carry yourself. You've got secrets, boy. Big ones."
Eryndor stiffened, his hand instinctively moving toward the glowing tattoo on his forearm. He quickly covered it with his sleeve, but the old man had already seen it.
"Ah," the man said, his voice softening. "So it's true. Magic flows through your veins."
Eryndor took a step back, his heart pounding. "How do you know that?"
The old man tapped the side of his head. "Let's just say I've got an eye for these things. Don't worry, I'm not your enemy."
"Then who are you?" Eryndor demanded, his voice rising.
The man stood slowly, leaning on his staff for support. "You can call me Solan. I've been wandering these lands for longer than I care to admit. And you, young one, have caught my attention."
Eryndor's eyes narrowed. "Why? What do you want from me?"
Solan smiled, his expression unreadable. "Nothing, boy. But I see potential in you. And danger. The kind of danger that could shape the fate of this world."
Eryndor's stomach churned. He had heard similar words before, from Asvarion and others. He didn't want to be some destined hero or a pawn in a larger game. He just wanted to survive.
"I don't need your help," Eryndor said, turning away.
Solan's voice stopped him. "Maybe not. But you'll need someone's help soon enough. The path you're on is fraught with peril, and you can't walk it alone."
Eryndor paused, his fists clenched. Deep down, he knew Solan was right. But he couldn't bring himself to trust the old man. Not yet.
"I'll think about it," he said finally, without looking back.
Solan chuckled again. "Fair enough. The village is downstream. If you change your mind, you'll know where to find me."
Eryndor walked away, his thoughts a storm of uncertainty. He didn't know if he could trust Solan. But trust isn't something you get to think about when your life is in danger. A frying pan or fire situation.
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein