"The Residents, Barley I."

The burly man's name was Wyatt Redstone, a name that held a good enough rapport in the village of Barley to allow him courteous nods and respectful handshakes. He was a man of faith, a teacher in Avarician customs to the youth, whose voice held a modicum of authority and comfort. But now, as he spoke to Millie, his words were thick with something else—a tremor of uncertainty that had never been present before.

"It's about your son... the village chief, Castrol," he finally managed to say, the words coming out in a rush.

Wyatt's eyes searched Millie's face, looking for a hint of understanding or perhaps a glimmer of hope that she could handle the weight of his next words. The wind had died down to a hushed whisper, as if the very storm itself knew the gravity of the moment and was giving them a moment of reprieve.

"What about Castrol?" Millie's voice was tight, her jaw set.

Wyatt took a step back, his hand dropping to his side. "He's... alive and well, elder Millie," he said, his words almost lost to the wind.

...At that moment, a collective sigh of relief washed over the group, as if the very storm itself had held its breath in anticipation. The survivors looked at each other, the tension in their eyes momentarily easing. For a brief instant, the only sounds were the soft whispers of the wind and the gentle crunch of the fresh snow beneath their boots.

Yet, there was something in the speaker's tone, a dark undercurrent that suggested the narrative had merely taken a sudden and unexpected turn, and the final act of this grim play had yet to unfold.

"Enough theatrics, boy!" Millie barked, her voice cutting through the frosty air like a knife. "Spit it out!"

The burly man swallowed hard, his bearded face contorting as he wrestled with his words. The anticipation in the group was thick, a palpable tension that seemed to freeze the very air around them.

"Mr. Wyatt, what is it?" Lilly stepped forward, her eyes filled with a mix of concern and curiosity. "What happened with uncle Cass?"

The burly man, sweat beading on his brow despite the frigid temperature, took a deep breath before speaking. "Your son, Castrol," he began, his voice low and heavy, "his health... i don't know if him being well is such a good thing."

Wyatt's words hung in the air like the frozen breath of a dragon, a cryptic fog that wrapped itself around the hearts of the listeners. Millie's eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward from where she sat perched on a large rock, the very essence of her being demanding an explanation.

"When the horns first blared across Avaricia, the village, Barley, like the rest of the continent was awe-stricken, our faces tilted heavenward in euphoria at the trance inducing symphony that seemed to call to our very souls," he started, his voice low and solemn, "And it was in this chaos, that your voice, village elder, broke our trance, pulling us back to reality as you emerged as our light and saviour."

Wyatt painted a picture of utter pandemonium, of a world poised precariously on the edge of oblivion. Yet amidst the chaos, there was a solitary beacon of hope.

"In the heart of the storm, when the very earth seemed to tremble with the fury of the gods," he began, his voice a steady bass that seemed to resonate through the icy ground beneath them, "you, elder Millie, emerged as our guiding star."

"Snapping us from our awe-stricken stupors," Wyatt continued, his eyes misty with memory, "And guiding us to barricade ourselves from the coming onslaught."

"...You were like a fiery comet, streaking through the night sky. You didn't just lead us to the red-square; you gave us purpose, you gave us strength to fight against the shadows that sought to consume us."

Wyatt recounted, "You rallied us, Elder Millie," he said with a reverence that was almost palpable. "You called upon the blacksmiths and the bakers, the young and the old, and we became more than a mere village. We were a bastion of hope amidst the swirling chaos."

Yet, amidst the tales of valor and unity, a shadow fell over Millie's heart as she realized the Montfreeds, were absent from the throng of villagers. Her eyes searched the faces around her, but there was no sign of Arteus or his mother, Hanna. And this realization forced her forward, out into the frosting cold to gather the members of the flock ostracized from the rest of the village. Barley would stick together.

The decision to leave the precarious shelter of the red square was not made lightly. Yet, in that moment of crisis, Millie knew that she could not leave her friend, someone she regarded with the same love as she would her own children, in peril's grasp.

It was then that leadership of the flock was thrust upon the shoulders of the next eligible person, Castrol Pennant.

The aftermath of Millie's departure was one of chaos and confusion, yet Castrol, the village Chief, knew that the time for indecision was long past. His voice, once a gentle guide through the storm, had grown strong with the weight of his newfound responsibility. He called to the villagers, his words echoing through the desolate streets like the toll of a funeral bell.

"To the red-square!" he shouted, his voice carrying over the howling wind. "We must stand together! For Avaricia! For Barley! For our ancestors and for those yet to be born!"

Yet his pleas fell upon deaf ears, as the villagers' trust remained steadfast in the woman who had abandoned it all for the sake of outcasts. For the sake of those who for all they knew could be the reason the gods decided to turn on them upon this day.

A murmur grew among the survivors, whispers that grew louder and more insistent until they coalesced into a cacophony of voices that drowned out the howling of the wind. The villagers of Barley, once a united front, now split into two factions, each with their own beliefs about the prophecy and the path they must follow.

The first group, the one that had gathered around Millie at the red-square, remained steadfast in their faith in her. To them, she was more than just an elder; she was a symbol of resilience and hope in the face of unimaginable horrors. Her strength and guidance had brought them through the initial stages of the prophecy's wrath, and they would follow her into the very maw of the apocalypse if need be. These people remained under Castrol's watchful eye, and took shelter in the Barley reserves.

On the other hand, whispers grew louder in the shadows of the village, speaking of a different leader, a man of faith who had seized opportunity to rally the troops, one—Tobias Kingg.

It was in the heart of this tumult that Wyatt Redstone, in the procession led by Castrol, had an epiphany, "Castrol," He murmured, "He is not a man who can lead us to safety."

"We must find elder Millie," he exclaimed with a passion that belied his weariness, "She is the only one who can lead us to salvation."

Wyatt's words seemed to cut through the icy doubt that had settled in the hearts of the villagers. They had seen the destruction wrought by the prophecy, they had felt the bite of the arctic wolves, and they had watched as their world crumbled around them. But in that moment, as they stared into the abyss, they found a spark of hope in the form of a woman who had stood against the very gods themselves.

With newfound determination, Wyatt raised his voice to the heavens, his call echoing off the icy ruins that surrounded them. "The prophecy has torn us apart, but we must not let it consume us!" He roared, the very air vibrating with his conviction. "We stand together or we fall alone! Find, elder Millie!!"

One by one, the survivors turned to him, their eyes reflecting a flicker of hope amidst the despair. They knew of his unwavering faith in Avarician customs, his belief in hierarchy and that together they could weather any storm. And now, with the very fabric of their existence under threat, his words resonated deeper than ever before.

Wyatt's challenge to Castrol, according to him, was not one born of malice, but of survival. "You have led us well," he said, his voice firm yet respectful, "but our fate lies elsewhere. With those who dare to stand against the shadows, with those who have been forsaken by fate itself."

The burly man's words struck a chord within the survivors, their eyes lighting up with the hope that had been extinguished by the prophecy's cruel hand. Castrol looked on, his own gaze flickering with doubt and anger. Yet, in the face of his people's need for guidance, he knew he could not hold them back.

"If you believe so strongly in her," Castrol said, his voice tight with tension, "then go. But know that you leave the safety of our walls."

Wyatt's eyes met Castrol's, and for a moment, it was as if they were the only two men in the world. The decision was clear. With a firm nod, he turned to the villagers who had gathered around him, their eyes wide with a mix of hope and fear. "Those who wish to stand with me," he called out, "Those who believe in the power of unity and courage, come! We leave now to find Elder Millie and bring her back to guide us through these dark times!"

The crowd murmured among themselves, their breaths frosting in the cold. Some looked to Castrol, seeking his approval, but he remained stoic, his jaw clenched tightly. Slowly, a group began to form around Wyatt, their steps deliberate as they moved away from the safety of the Barley reserves, each one casting a final glance over their shoulder at the group they had chosen to follow.

Castrol watched them go, his heart heavy with the weight of his decision. He knew that to survive this ordeal, they would need unity, not division. Yet, as the last of them disappeared into the blizzard, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of doubt. Was he truly the rightful leader of this desperate band of survivors?

Thus, ended Wyatt's recounting of the events that had led them to this moment. His group split off from Castrol's, forming a third faction in Barley focussed on finding elder Millie. And as time would eventually tell, on their way they would meet arctic wolves, be surrounded, and need rescuing from Arteus.

"So you see elder Millie," Wyatt said, his voice a mix of urgency and desperation, "We need you. Your strength, your wisdom, your guidance. We are lost without your leadership and ask that you show us the way forward."

The silence that followed was as thick as the snow that continued to fall around them, the only sound the muffled thud of their own hearts beating in their chests. The survivors of Barley looked to Millie with a mix of hope and fear, their eyes wide with anticipation.

And then, without warning, the silence was shattered by the sharp crack of skin on skin. Millie's hand flew through the air, landing squarely across the burly man's weathered cheek. The sound echoed through the forestry, a stark reminder of the humanity that still lingered amidst the chaos of the prophecy.

"Fool," she hissed, her eyes alight with a wrath that belied her fragile frame. "You speak of unity when you allowed doubt to divide us?"

The air was charged with tension, the villagers gaping at their leader, astonished by her outburst. Yet, within her anger, there was a flicker of hope. For it was clear that the spirit of the Elder had not been vanquished. Her passion, though fueled by anger, burned as fiercely as the embers before them.

-To Be Continued-