A Ballad of Wandering Bard

The forest beyond Suntails Hollow whispered with the hushed rustle of leaves and the distant cry of nocturnal creatures. Beneath its shadowy canopy lay a sprawling, crude camp. Tents made from scavenged materials ringed a central fire, where figures lounged—scarred, rough, and deadly.

This was the Red Bear Bandits, a notorious coalition of outlaws. Though once a terror across the north, they had become fractured and hunted after a reckless raid on a noble's caravan. Their motley group was now reduced and on edge, their cohesion hanging by threads of greed and desperation.

Smoke curled from the central fire, circling the imposing figure of Krag, the Red Bear leader, a massive goliath whose broad shoulders gleamed in the flickering light. His skin bore the pale, stony texture of his people, marred by long-healed battle scars. In one hand, he clutched a dagger, which he drove into the center of a weathered map spread across a wooden crate.

"We've licked our wounds long enough," Krag growled, his deep voice rumbling like an avalanche. "Tomorrow night, we raid Suntails Hollow. If they're as fat on crops as we've heard, we'll take every last scrap and bleed that village dry."

Snatch, a wiry human with sharp features and a missing ear, grinned wickedly as he leaned closer to the fire. "Reckon them hollow folk'll curl up and cry the moment we come down on 'em. Easy pickin's."

Seated beside him was Grista, a squat dragonborn with dull, copper-colored scales dulled further by mud and grime. She spat into the fire, her sharp teeth flashing as she grinned. "Ain't just farmers. Suntails been good for years, they say—best grain, fattest pigs. Folk'd kill fer their stuff. Makes ya think what we'll find once we're done with 'em."

Around the fire, the rest of the Red Bear Bandits chuckled and jeered, their laughter cutting through the night air.

"Tomorrow," Krag said, raising his mug and letting its contents slosh carelessly onto the ground. "We make 'em weep!"

Sitting apart from the main group, a halfling named Corvin watched the revelry with narrowed eyes. Unlike the others, his demeanor was calm, his sharp gaze more calculating than bloodthirsty. He adjusted the folds of his dark cloak and finally spoke, his tone measured.

"You're all blind," Corvin said quietly, his words slicing through the bandits' crude chatter.

The laughter faded, replaced by glares and confused looks.

"What'd you say, runt?" Snatch growled, the firelight catching on his chipped teeth.

"I said you're blind," Corvin repeated, his calm demeanor unshaken. "Doesn't it strike anyone as odd how one hollow has such abundant harvests when everywhere else struggles?"

Grista hissed through her teeth, her claws gripping her rusted axe. "What're you talkin' about, Corvin? They're farmers. Farmers farm. We raid what they grow. End of story."

Corvin tilted his head, his sharp gaze meeting hers without flinching. "That's it, then? No curiosity? No suspicion? The weather's the same in every hollow, yet Suntails alone prospers. Either they're exceptionally lucky..." He leaned forward, his tone dropping. "...or there's something unusual going on."

The murmurs that followed were nervous, uneasy, but Krag's voice crushed them like a boulder.

"Enough of your bleatin'!" Krag snapped, glaring down at Corvin. "What're you scared of? Some farmer has a god wavin' a hoe fer 'im? Get outta here with that."

Corvin didn't rise to the taunts. Instead, he laced his fingers and spoke as if addressing a dim-witted apprentice. "It isn't fear—it's caution. Because if there is something unusual, the baron's hounds will look like puppies compared to what's waiting for us. Do you want to watch what's left of the Red Bear collapse because of another reckless raid?"

Grista pushed herself to her feet, her copper scales glinting menacingly in the firelight. "And what? You want us to bow out? Go crawl under a rock while you hide and—"

"If my insight isn't appreciated, Grista," Corvin said sharply, standing and adjusting his cloak, "then the men under my banner won't join the raid." He paused, his steely tone brooking no argument. "I don't trust this hollow's fortune, and neither should you. But if you insist on going, we'll remain here—ensuring we don't 'leak' information."

The other lieutenants exchanged glances. Snatch spat on the ground. "Cowardly runt. Yer nothin' without the Bear's name at yer back."

Krag's scowl deepened, his massive hands curling into fists, but the leader eventually waved them off. "Fine. Sit on yer thumbs while the rest of us get rich. Just don't cry when we come back loaded and leave you with scraps."

Corvin inclined his head faintly and turned away, his figure swallowed by the darkness beyond the firelight. Behind him, the men and women loyal to his banner watched silently, their discipline a stark contrast to the revelry they left behind.

As Corvin disappeared into the forest shadows, the campfire's warmth couldn't chase away the simmering tension among the remaining Red Bear lieutenants.

Grista threw another stick into the flames with a frustrated growl. "That halfling thinks he's so damned clever. Acting high and mighty while we do the real work."

"He's always been like that," Snatch sneered, adjusting the belt holding his dagger. "Corvin talks all smart, but when it comes down to it, he hides behind his cloak while the rest of us swing steel."

One of the bandits near the edge of the fire, a lanky dragonborn with tarnished silver scales, cleared his throat hesitantly. "To be fair, his plans have kept us alive more than a few times."

Snatch shot him a venomous glare. "Yeah? And when'd we ever see him put his neck on the line? No guts, just chatter."

"Enough!" Krag barked, his voice cutting through the bickering. The massive goliath glared around the fire, his presence silencing the grumbles. "I don't give a rat's ass what you lot think about Corvin. If he wants to sit this one out, fine by me. Just means more spoils for the rest of us."

"But boss," Grista said, her brow ridges furrowing, "what if he's right about this place? What if there is somethin' unusual going on in that hollow?"

Krag snorted and leaned back against a log, his knife lazily spinning between his fingers. "If there is, we'll deal with it. A dozen hollows worth of spoils, and this one's got 'em all. That's all I care about."

The murmurs faded into uneasy silence, and while the lieutenants resumed planning, the seed of doubt Corvin had planted lingered in the minds of a few.

…

Earlier that day, the Red Bear scouts returned from their reconnaissance of Suntails Hollow, reporting back to the lieutenants in low, clipped tones.

"Not much of a fight, if you ask me," one scout, a burly human with an eyepatch, said with a chuckle. "Wooden gates, few guards at most—if you can call 'em that. Just farmers with tools."

Grista grinned. "Sounds easy enough. Anything worth mentioning?"

The scout hesitated, glancing at his companion, a younger dragonborn with cobalt scales. "Well... the fields looked different. Crops taller than I've seen, even this late in the season. And the tools—newer than anything I've seen in other hollows."

"That all?" Snatch asked, his tone mocking. "Taller corn got you pissin' your boots?"

"No," the dragonborn scout interjected quietly. "It's the people. They looked... different."

Grista tilted her head. "Different how?"

"Stronger," the dragonborn replied, his gaze uncertain. "Not just in how they worked, but in how they carried themselves. Like they weren't afraid of anything."

"That's just farmer pride," Snatch spat. "They won't be proud when we've got 'em by the throat."

The older scout shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe there's more to that hollow than we think."

The lieutenants waved off the scouts' concerns, returning to their planning with renewed arrogance. But a few of the bandits, especially those who had accompanied the scouts, exchanged uneasy glances as they walked away.

…

Corvin's own men had spent time watching the hollow over the last week, quietly gathering intelligence without being seen. That night, as the campfire blazed, one of his subordinates—a half-orc named Vedrin—approached him near their small cluster of tents.

"You were right to question them," Vedrin said, crouching beside Corvin's camp chair.

Corvin looked up from a piece of parchment he'd been studying. "What did you find?"

Vedrin scratched his chin, his brows knitting together. "Suntails isn't like the other villages we've hit. The people... they have this energy. Almost like they're enchanted, though it's not clear how. And there's this... this group of kids—barely grown adults. They're always training near the edge of the village, under this massive oak tree. Didn't get close enough to see much, but something about them doesn't sit right."

"Magic?" Corvin asked, his tone cautious.

Vedrin hesitated. "Could be. Or it could just be... something else. Either way, there's something going on in that hollow. My hunch tells me."

Corvin sighed, leaning back in his chair and letting his sharp eyes scan the dark canopy above. "Let them laugh, Vedrin. But when this falls apart—and it will—we'll be here to pick up the pieces."

Vedrin grunted in agreement before fading back into the shadows, leaving Corvin alone with his thoughts.

As the crackle of the Red Bear's main fire echoed through the night, Corvin's jaw tightened. Whatever lay ahead in Suntails Hollow, it wasn't just another raid.