Author's Note: This is my first story here, I hope you enjoy it. It's meant to be a bit of a slow burn, so don't expect the thrills to start too early, but I'm hoping it will be worth it. I like to think of my writing as "cozy erotica" if such a thing exists (and if it doesn't, it does now!) Many of my works will be inspired by my love of dungeons and dragons, so if you like ttrpgs too, feel free to suggest scenarios you'd like to see our intrepid adventurers encounter. All characters are over the age of 18.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gandren straightened his robes, tugging at the worn fabric and freeing himself after once again getting snagged in some unruly underbrush. He smoothed the once pristine cloth with his weathered hands and took a deep breath before continuing his trek through the twisting vines and brush. In his left hand he held his curved metal shield, using it to push aside the leaves and branches. In his right hand he held a serrated hunting dagger, which he used whenever he encountered brush that needed to be cut in order to pass. At his hip hung his trusty warhammer with its worn leather braided handle. His attire showed plenty of wear, but it was also evident that everything he owned was well cared for. He wasn't the kind of man who spent outlandishly for items that would make him look wealthy, but instead someone who was willing to spend gold on quality belongings that would last.
This most recent adventure had steadily grown longer and longer. He'd originally come to the forest of Felln in search of a local woodcutter who hadn't returned to his village on schedule and was feared to be lost or killed. Luckily, Gandren was able to locate the man, who had sustained an injury to his leg that had prevented him from making it home on his own. On the way back to the woodcutter's village, they had encountered troubling signs of bugbears in the area, so after delivering his charge and collecting his reward, he made his way back to the area where they found the tracks and followed them for a few hours until he found the bugbear, which he dispatched as humanely as he could. He never enjoyed killing anything, but Bugbears were dangerous to travelers making their way through the wood, and when they made their way this close to the various villages in this area of the forest, the safest thing to do was to deal with them permanently.
After that he ended up taking on a number of small quests and errands for people he met along the way, delivering goods, escorting merchants, and sourcing ingredients for a local witch who made potions and poultices for her community. Before he knew it, he'd been in the forest for well over two weeks, when he had only originally only planned to stay away from home for a few days. It didn't much matter how long he ended up questing, as he lived alone in a small cabin just outside of the village of Brell, with no one waiting by his hearth for him to return safely. It wasn't like he didn't like people, but many people seemed to find his brusque manner off putting, and he often neglected to shower for days at a time. In the woods he only showered when he ran across a clean stream, so when he was at home he had just fallen out of the habit of maintaining his hygiene to a level that others would find normal. He wasn't disgusting by any means, he just didn't see the point in wasting water when 'somewhat dirty' was good enough for him. He spent most of his days at home maintaining his adventuring equipment, oiling his weapons, sharpening them, and patching and repairing any new tears his cloak and robes had acquired on his latest trip.
If he was being honest, being home just reminded him of how lonely he was, at least when he was out adventuring there was the chance he could run into someone in need of aid, which he was always willing to provide. Back when he frequented the local tavern his buddies used to tease him that his insistence on always providing aid was going to get him killed, and on more than one occasion it very nearly had. It was his decision though, and over time as he had found himself drifting further and further away from his former circle of friends, he found himself spending more and more time wandering aimlessly through the woods. It felt good to have a duty, to have something that gave him direction and meaning, and it chased away the inner darkness that he used to just try to drown with ale.
It had been a few days since he had run into anyone new in need of his help, so he supposed it was about time he start heading back to Brell and to his little hovel. He had already put it off for an entire day, almost unconsciously refusing to turn northward toward his home. Every time he thought about turning back, he stubbornly found another reason to keep going. First it was tracks that may or may not have belonged to a dangerous creature which he felt he should really hunt down for the protection of travelers, even though he knew they looked weeks old and there wouldn't be much to follow. When he gave up on that fruitless pursuit he reasoned that he was getting close to a stream he knew of, and that he could reprovision there for the 4 day walk home, even though there were plenty of streams he could stop at that wouldn't be out of his way. Finally, he decided he couldn't put it off any longer and took out his compass to start plotting the way home, though he was familiar enough with these woods to be able to find his way home without it.
He was fond of this compass, having won it in a game of cards off a traveling merchant back in his tavern-going days. He'd always been good at card games, because he's always been good at reading people. Sure, you needed luck on your side, but you'd be amazed how much you can accomplish by learning to read the little expressions and tells that gamblers let slip after a mug or two of ale. The merchant had not wanted to let it go, lamenting that it had been in his family for generations, swearing up and down that it had magical abilities, though he was unable to be more specific. Gandren didn't put much stock in so called 'magic' artifacts, they were frequently frauds created by minor wizards and witches hoping to make a few gold off of an unsuspecting noble. They often came with promises of grand abilities, when in fact they were just minorly enchanted to resist wear, or in the worst cases actively worked against you. This compass had served him well since he'd won it, and though there had never been any indication of magic, it never seemed to need much polishing, and the needle swung more smoothly than any other compass he'd ever used, so he liked it.
It was odd then, that on that morning it seemed to twitch, first pointing to the direction he knew to be North, but then jumping slightly to the East, before returning to the North. It had never done anything of the sort before, so he scratched his coppery hair and beard and turned in a circle, watching the needle cling to the North before once again jumping to the East for just a moment. "Damn thing must be getting old," he sighed, "it's a shame... was a nice compass." He turned the smooth metal over in his hand, admiring the engraved oak leaves that circled the back, and ran his thumb over the shooting star design etched into its center. "Ah, well. Can't be helped." He stowed the compass in his satchel and started off to the North, without even a sidewise glance towards the East.
