A Stranger Beside the FireA Short Story 8 of Blades, Bolts & Bad Decisions
Scene One: The Road and the Rain
The rain was the cold kind—sharp, thin, and spiteful. The kind that seeped in under armor and behind collars, not enough to slow a man down, but just enough to make him question why he hadn’t stayed in bed.
Deacon Bruce trudged on anyway.
His cloak clung to his back like a second skin, soaked straight through. One of his crossbows was wrapped in oilcloth and strapped behind his shoulder. The other was in his hand, as it often was. He never liked the feel of an empty hand—not since Ashrun.
The dirt path, more mud than road, wound through a thick forest that felt like it had forgotten how to be friendly. Birds were quiet. Branches creaked. And somewhere behind the clouds, the sun had gone missing.
That was when he saw the stranger.
Just a lone man, standing beside the road beneath a crooked old tree, holding a plain walking stick and wearing a wide-brimmed hat that kept the worst of the weather off his shoulders. He looked... average. Too average. Like the kind of face that never stuck in memory, no matter how many times you saw it.
The man raised a hand in greeting, and Deacon’s grip tightened on the crossbow.
“Afternoon,” the stranger said mildly. “Wet out.”
Deacon didn’t reply right away. He studied the man’s boots. They were clean despite the mud.
“Not often I see someone alone on this stretch,” Deacon said finally.
“Likewise,” the man said with a nod. “Name’s Eron. Heading west.”
Deacon hesitated, then gave a nod. “Deacon.”
“Would you mind company?” Eron asked. “Long roads are better with conversation. And I don’t snore.”
Deacon gave a grunt that might’ve been a yes. Might’ve been just wind in his throat.
The two men walked on in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the squelch of boots in mud and the occasional snap of wet branches. Deacon glanced sideways a few times. Eron kept pace with an ease that didn’t match his age or build. And he never once looked tired.
“Where you headed, Eron?” Deacon asked.
The man smiled. “Nowhere important. Just following the road. I go where it leads.”
“Hmph,” Deacon muttered. “That a philosophy or just bad planning?”
“Bit of both.”
The road stretched ahead, curling through the forest like a lazy river. The rain eased up, just enough for the birds to remember they had something to sing about.
“You look like a man with stories,” Eron said quietly. “If you ever feel like telling one, I’ll listen.”
Deacon didn’t answer. Not with words.
But he didn’t walk faster either.
They kept walking. And the forest, slowly, began to feel a little less lonely.
Scene Two: The Fire and the Quiet
The fire was modest—more ember than flame—but well-built, casting a soft glow over the edge of the woods. It smelled faintly of pine, smoke, and rain still clinging to the treetops. Deacon Bruce sat hunched on a stone, crossbow resting beside him, boots steaming lightly as they dried near the warmth.
Across from him sat the stranger—Eron—arms resting loosely around a battered tin cup. His wide-brimmed hat was pushed back just enough to show a lined face and eyes that reflected too much firelight for someone who claimed to be a traveler.
They’d only met this morning, but Deacon felt unusually... settled. Comfortable, even.
Maybe it was the tea. Maybe it was the silence.
“I used to have a forge,” Deacon said suddenly. “Ashrun. Town up the coast. Nothing fancy. Made nails, wagon axles, decent blades when I had the time.”
Eron looked up but said nothing.
“Gnolls came through like a flood,” Deacon continued, voice low. “Not raiders. A warband. Organized. Smart. Had something... dark guiding them.”
He ran a hand through his beard, eyes flicking to the fire.
“I didn’t run. I fought. Had no sword on me—just the hammer I used for smithing. That’s what I fought with. Some of us held the main square. Kept people moving. Kids, elders.”
Eron was still, listening. Not judging. Just listening.
“I went down during the last push. Don’t know what hit me. Next thing I remember, I was lying in the ruins, barely breathing. Covered in rubble. Forge was gone. Half the town too. But the hammer—my hammer—was in my hand. Like I’d never let go.”
He gave a soft, humorless laugh. “No food. No water. Three days buried and no one can figure out how I lived. Hell, neither can I.”
Eron stirred the coals with a stick. “Maybe something made sure you did.”
Deacon frowned at him. “That’s what people like to say. A blessing. A miracle.”
“You don’t believe in those?”
“I believe in steel, grit, and the gods staying quiet when it counts.”
Eron smirked faintly. “Sometimes the quiet ones are watching the hardest.”
That earned a glance from Deacon. He narrowed his eyes, studying the man’s face. Something about him was off—not wrong, just... not ordinary.
But the fire was warm. And the road behind them was long.
“You always this good at campfire talk?” Deacon asked.
“I’m better at tea.” Eron handed over a tin cup. “Drink.”
Deacon sniffed it. Pine, herbs, a hint of citrus.
“Not bad,” he muttered. “Still don’t trust you.”
“If you did,” Eron said, eyes twinkling, “I’d be worried.”
They sat quietly after that. Just the fire, the woods, and two men beneath the stars—one carrying the weight of a past burned in ash, the other carrying something stranger.
And for the first time in a long while, Deacon’s dreams were silent.
Scene Three: After the Storm
The rain had passed in the night, but it left behind chaos in its wake.
By morning, Deacon and Eron had followed the winding road through a narrow valley to find it half-submerged. A flash flood from the hills had torn through the region like a beast, snapping trees, drowning paths, and swallowing part of a village nestled in the lowland basin.
Smoke curled from shattered chimneys. Sheds lay splintered like driftwood. A child sobbed somewhere beneath a collapsed awning.
Without a word, Deacon was moving.
He tossed his crossbow aside, waded into the thick muck, and shouldered a half-submerged wagon off a trapped goat. Eron followed at his side, steady and sure-footed, pulling tangled fence posts out of the way and redirecting frightened livestock.
“Anyone else still inside?” Deacon called to the villagers, who were standing in shock, many barefoot and waterlogged.
An old woman pointed to a partially sunken house. “The Wilners. They— They didn’t come out.”
Deacon was already moving, boots sinking deep in the muck with every step. “Eron, with me.”
Eron grabbed a long branch and a length of broken rope. “On it.”
They climbed atop the porch, which groaned under their weight, and found the front door wedged shut. Deacon braced himself and kicked it in with a sharp crack. Inside, the floor tilted with water, furniture floating like forgotten ghosts. From beneath an overturned table came a voice—thin, frightened.
“In here!”
Deacon grunted, shoving the wreckage aside while Eron steadied him from behind. A man and his wife were huddled together, soaked but alive.
“You both breathing? Good,” Deacon barked. “Can you move?”
The man nodded shakily. Eron handed him the rope.
“You’re gonna follow this out, one at a time,” he said calmly. “Hold tight. Don’t fall. I’ll be right behind you.”
They made it out slowly—first the woman, then the man. Deacon went last, slipping once in the flood-slick hall. Eron caught him without a word and hauled him up.
When they emerged into the gray light, a few villagers cheered. Someone clapped Deacon on the shoulder. He just waved them off.
“Check the barns,” he told them. “And someone put a kettle on before I freeze to death.”
Eron passed him a dry cloth from a satchel. “You alright?”
“I’m old, wet, and my knee’s screaming. So… normal,” Deacon muttered, wringing out his sleeves.
They sat on a broken cart as the villagers gathered their wits. Children were being fed, wounds were cleaned, and homes were accounted for.
“You didn’t have to follow me in there,” Deacon said, quieter now.
Eron shrugged. “Felt right.”
“You’ve got good instincts for a traveler.”
Eron gave a faint smile. “Maybe I’ve walked a lot of roads.”
They didn’t say much after that. But when the villagers offered bread and thanks, they both accepted it politely, and when a little girl offered Deacon a wildflower, he tucked it behind his ear with a grunt and said nothing.
That night, they sat beside another fire—smaller this time, but still enough. Deacon didn’t ask where Eron’s dry socks came from. And Eron didn’t offer.
But he did say, before they turned in, “Some folks fix the world with gold or crowns. Some with swords. And some with hammers and hard choices.”
Deacon stared into the fire a while before replying.
“I’m just trying not to break what’s left.”
Eron smiled softly. “That’s why you were chosen.”
But Deacon didn’t hear. He’d already fallen asleep beside the coals.
Scene Four: The Measure of a Man
Two days later, the road bent inland through a stretch of wooded hills. The path had dried, and spring birdsong replaced the howl of the storm. Still, Deacon moved with a quiet edge—like he was expecting trouble around every bend.
They found it before noon.
A wagon had overturned just off the path, its goods scattered across the grass—sacks of grain, barrels of salted pork, iron tools for trade. Three rough-looking men stood nearby, swords drawn, while a young farmer knelt with his hands behind his head. Blood ran down his temple. A woman clutched a child against a tree, silent and wide-eyed.
“Highwaymen,” Deacon muttered. He was already lowering his crossbow from his back.
Eron touched his arm. “Wait.”
“What?”
“Let me try something.”
Deacon gave him a wary glance. “You going to bore them to death with a story?”
Eron smiled and stepped forward.
“No weapons, old man,” barked the nearest bandit. “Walk away, and we won’t have to take your boots too.”
Eron looked at them—really looked. His eyes, though ordinary, seemed to pin the leader in place like a spear. When he spoke, it was quiet but unmistakable.
“Three armed men threatening a farmer, a woman, and a child. Is this what you dreamed of being, when you were boys?”
There was a beat of silence.
The bandit sneered. “We dreamed of eating. This pays.”
“Then you’re selling yourselves short. You’re not murderers. Not yet. Don’t choose that path today.”
The leader’s sneer faltered. One of the others shifted his feet.
“You don’t know anything about us,” the leader said, quieter now.
“I know what you could be,” Eron replied.
Something passed between them—an understanding deeper than words. Then, slowly, the leader lowered his sword.
“Come on,” he said to the others. “We’re not killers.”
They fled into the woods without another word.
Deacon approached, crossbow still raised. “You’re either a miracle worker… or terrifying.”
Eron shrugged. “Words can cut deeper than steel.”
The woman sobbed with relief. The child offered Eron a handful of crushed dandelions. He smiled and tucked them into his belt like royal honors.
That night, Deacon tossed a second blanket toward Eron. “You earned it.”
“You’d have handled it if I hadn’t.”
“Probably. But I’d have had to explain a lot more blood to that kid.”
Eron chuckled. “You’re a good man, Deacon.”
“No,” Deacon said. “Just trying to be.”
Scene Five: The Starwatch
They camped beneath a vast clearing where the trees gave way to sky—ink black and full of stars. Deacon sat beside the fire, sharpening a dagger that looked like it hadn’t seen a proper grindstone in weeks. Across from him, Eron leaned back against a fallen log, arms behind his head, eyes fixed upward.
“You always watch the stars like that?” Deacon asked.
Eron smiled. “Only when I want to feel small in a good way.”
“Hmph.” Deacon looked up too, the blade forgotten in his hands. “I always feel small when I think of what I lost.”
The silence between them stretched—not uncomfortable, but wide enough to hold weight.
After a while, Eron said, “I’ve traveled far. Seen a lot of men break under far less than what you’ve carried.”
Deacon snorted. “I’ve broken plenty. Just had to get back up.”
“That’s what matters.”
The fire popped, casting warm orange across Deacon’s weathered features. Eron studied him, thoughtful.
“There’s a strength in you, Deacon Bruce,” he said softly. “More than muscle and grit. It’s the strength to make others believe they can survive, too. That matters more than any title or throne.”
Deacon didn’t speak for a long while. When he finally did, his voice was quiet. “My village didn’t survive.”
“No. But you did. And you’ve made sure others have since.”
Deacon looked at Eron. “You talk like you’ve been around longer than you look.”
Eron just smiled.
“You got a family somewhere?”
“In a way,” Eron said, eyes twinkling. “I keep an eye on people like you. Not because you need protection—but because the world needs reminders of what’s good in it.”
That answer didn’t make much sense… but it didn’t feel wrong.
Deacon reached into his pack, pulled out a tin of dried fruit, and tossed it across the fire. Eron caught it easily.
“Here. Payment for the strangest conversation I’ve had in a month.”
Eron chuckled, popped a piece of apricot into his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. “Then I’ve done my job.”
Deacon arched an eyebrow. “What job’s that?”
Eron looked at him, something deep and ancient behind those ordinary eyes. But all he said was:
“Traveling companion.”
Then he stretched out under the stars, pulled his cloak over his chest, and was soon snoring like an old mule.
Deacon lay back too, staring upward, unsure what had just happened… but feeling better than he had in weeks.
Final Scene: The Road and the Rogue
Morning broke with the scent of pine and campfire ash. Deacon was already up, packing away the last of his gear, when a shadow skimmed the tree line—broad sails, a glint of bronze, and a figure at the prow of a sky-skiff striking the most dramatic pose known to pirates.
“Deacon Bruce!” Jandar called, standing tall at the bow of the Storm’s Fury’s smaller drop-skiff. “Tell me this isn’t your attempt at a relaxing vacation.”
Deacon looked up, hand shielding his eyes, then groaned. “He found me.”
The skiff descended in a swirl of wind, landing with a practiced flourish that sent pine needles flying. Jandar stepped off, his ornate pirate hat somehow untouched by the breeze, cape flaring just so, boots gleaming despite the mud.
“Been tracking you for two days,” he said. “Didn’t even leave a note. Rude.”
“I didn’t need backup.”
“You didn’t say that when the gnoll shaman lit you on fire last spring.”
“That was one time.”
“And the forge-beast. And the mushroom cult. And that incident with the barrel golem—”
“I said one time,” Deacon cut in, grabbing his pack.
Jandar grinned, clapping him on the back. “Come on, you’re not fooling anyone. You missed me.”
Behind him, the skiff pilot leaned out—Kerzog, in his human guise, looking faintly bored. “I told him to let you be.”
Jandar ignored that. “So. You coming, or are you gonna keep brooding in the woods with your mystery monk?”
Deacon turned—only to find Eron was gone. No sound. No footprints. Nothing but an empty bedroll and a faint smell of woodsmoke.
“He was here,” Deacon muttered.
Jandar arched a brow. “Who?”
Deacon looked at the spot a moment longer, then shook his head. “Just… someone passing through.”
He climbed aboard the skiff. Jandar gave him a sidelong look. “You alright?”
Deacon glanced once more at the trees. “Yeah. Think I might be.”
As the skiff lifted off, sailing toward the horizon, Jandar leaned back in the seat beside him.
“So,” he said, “you want breakfast, or do I tell Kerzog to land us directly in the middle of a sea-battle with ghost corsairs?”
Deacon cracked a rare smile. “Let’s start with breakfast.”