RPM
Tellussoil
AwesomeZero5
supamusu
Fetzen
Red Hood
Not a Sayan
SkyeOfStars[If you are interested in joining a setting like this, check out: roleplayerguild.com/topics/196759-ise…]
@Mazn Zito - Asset Goal = ?
@VoLimiNaL - Asset Goal = ?
@MrJack - Asset Goal = ?
@Spoiled Bread - Asset Goal = ?
@Scarcerushdown - Asset Goal = ?
The village does not react all at once. It reacts in pieces.
When Jilly’s bright voice cuts through the muted air—cheerful, unguarded, and wholly out of place—several heads turn at once. A man hauling a basket of turnips pauses mid-step. A woman drawing water from the well straightens a little too quickly. Somewhere behind a shutter, wood creaks as someone leans closer to listen.
No one answers immediately.
Not because they didn’t hear—but because they are deciding who should answer.
Mazn’s instinct to keep moving, to not let the group settle too tightly in one place, proves well-founded. The longer they stand, the more obvious it becomes that Wickerford is a village that notices patterns, and newcomers who linger draw attention whether they wish to or not. Ria’s presence softens some looks, but not enough to erase the tension entirely.
Finally, an older villager—broad-backed, sleeves rolled up, hands still dusted with flour—clears his throat.
“Brenwick…” he repeats, slowly, as if testing whether saying the name aloud will bring trouble down on him. His eyes flick briefly toward the road they came from, then toward the fields. “That’s… Marra Brenwick. Lives on the edge of the village. Near the old fence line.”
He hesitates, then adds, quieter, “She shouldn’t be talking to outsiders.”
That is all he offers. He does not stay to elaborate.
At the same time, Kind’s presence has a different effect.
The closer the pale creature drifts toward the outer homes, the more pronounced the villagers’ unease becomes. Doors that were merely ajar close. Curtains fall. A child is pulled sharply back inside by an unseen hand. The creature’s sing-song repetition of the name Brenwick does not draw answers—it draws distance.
Yet the house Kind is drawn to is not wrong.
It sits a little apart from the others, just beyond where the packed dirt road thins into uneven grass. Its fence is half-collapsed, its gate hanging crooked on one hinge. The windows are intact, but dark. Untended. Not abandoned in the sense of long neglect—rather, abandoned recently, as if care was interrupted rather than forgotten.
Back near the village center, Frederick’s suggestion to begin with the houses proves sound, even if the villagers themselves make it clear they want no part in guiding strangers door to door. A few more murmurs confirm what the baker hinted at:
“She lost her girl.”
“Should’ve kept quiet.”
“Nothing good comes of stirring things.”
No one contradicts that Marra Brenwick exists.
No one volunteers to take them to her.
From where they stand, several paths are now plainly visible:
- Follow the directions given and approach Marra Brenwick’s home directly, risking whatever consequences that brings
- Attempt to speak privately with someone who seems less fearful—perhaps a laborer, a youth, or a solitary elder
- Investigate the edge of the village, where the fields meet the marsh and the fence line breaks down
- Or regroup, compare impressions, and decide how openly—or quietly—they want to proceed
Above it all, the village remains watchful.
Not hostile.
Not welcoming.
Just waiting—to see whether these strangers will ask the wrong questions… or the right ones.
@Mazn Zito - Asset Goal = ?
@VoLimiNaL - Asset Goal = ?
@MrJack - Asset Goal = ?
@Spoiled Bread - Asset Goal = ?
@Scarcerushdown - Asset Goal = ?
Wickerford — When Strangers Ask Questions
The village does not react all at once. It reacts in pieces.
When Jilly’s bright voice cuts through the muted air—cheerful, unguarded, and wholly out of place—several heads turn at once. A man hauling a basket of turnips pauses mid-step. A woman drawing water from the well straightens a little too quickly. Somewhere behind a shutter, wood creaks as someone leans closer to listen.
No one answers immediately.
Not because they didn’t hear—but because they are deciding who should answer.
Mazn’s instinct to keep moving, to not let the group settle too tightly in one place, proves well-founded. The longer they stand, the more obvious it becomes that Wickerford is a village that notices patterns, and newcomers who linger draw attention whether they wish to or not. Ria’s presence softens some looks, but not enough to erase the tension entirely.
Finally, an older villager—broad-backed, sleeves rolled up, hands still dusted with flour—clears his throat.
“Brenwick…” he repeats, slowly, as if testing whether saying the name aloud will bring trouble down on him. His eyes flick briefly toward the road they came from, then toward the fields. “That’s… Marra Brenwick. Lives on the edge of the village. Near the old fence line.”
He hesitates, then adds, quieter, “She shouldn’t be talking to outsiders.”
That is all he offers. He does not stay to elaborate.
At the same time, Kind’s presence has a different effect.
The closer the pale creature drifts toward the outer homes, the more pronounced the villagers’ unease becomes. Doors that were merely ajar close. Curtains fall. A child is pulled sharply back inside by an unseen hand. The creature’s sing-song repetition of the name Brenwick does not draw answers—it draws distance.
Yet the house Kind is drawn to is not wrong.
It sits a little apart from the others, just beyond where the packed dirt road thins into uneven grass. Its fence is half-collapsed, its gate hanging crooked on one hinge. The windows are intact, but dark. Untended. Not abandoned in the sense of long neglect—rather, abandoned recently, as if care was interrupted rather than forgotten.
Back near the village center, Frederick’s suggestion to begin with the houses proves sound, even if the villagers themselves make it clear they want no part in guiding strangers door to door. A few more murmurs confirm what the baker hinted at:
“She lost her girl.”
“Should’ve kept quiet.”
“Nothing good comes of stirring things.”
No one contradicts that Marra Brenwick exists.
No one volunteers to take them to her.
From where they stand, several paths are now plainly visible:
- Follow the directions given and approach Marra Brenwick’s home directly, risking whatever consequences that brings
- Attempt to speak privately with someone who seems less fearful—perhaps a laborer, a youth, or a solitary elder
- Investigate the edge of the village, where the fields meet the marsh and the fence line breaks down
- Or regroup, compare impressions, and decide how openly—or quietly—they want to proceed
Above it all, the village remains watchful.
Not hostile.
Not welcoming.
Just waiting—to see whether these strangers will ask the wrong questions… or the right ones.
