Whispers of the Unseen

Elder Borin, bless his leathery, scowling face, was not a man to embrace change. He was a man who embraced tradition, which in Eldoria, meant embracing anything that could lift a boulder, shoot a lightning bolt, or at least grunt loudly enough to scare off a badger. We, his twin stars of underwhelmingness, Elara and I, were about as far from that as a snail was from a dragon’s sneeze.

“Right, then,” Borin grumbled, his voice like gravel tumbling down a well. He stood in the village square, arms crossed over his chest, looking like he’d swallowed a particularly sour turnip. “The beast is gone, thanks to… well, thanks to the heavens not letting it eat us all. Now, back to *useful* things.” He gestured vaguely in our direction, and I swear I heard a tiny whimper from a nearby chicken.

Elara, ever the strategist, nudged me. “Ask him, Lyra.”