Alavin retraced his steps back to Griffin's Roost. This time, he traveled much faster than on his outward journey, but as he neared Griffin's Roost, he stumbled upon a strange sight.
As dusk approached, Alavin bathed beneath a waterfall in a valley, caught a trout, and was preparing to start a fire to cook it when someone suddenly burst into the valley.
Staggering, with tattered clothes and dark shackles hanging from his limbs, the man looked like a prisoner. He swayed weakly and wearily.
Alavin frowned slightly and slowly stood up, his right hand reaching for the throwing knife at his belt, vigilant.
The man's hair was disheveled, his body was filthy, and he seemed surprised to find someone in the valley. He stood at the entrance to the valley for a while, then slowly backed away.
But at that moment, shouts came from the old woods outside the valley, sounding like a group of people rushing this way.
The man's hair was matted to his face, making it hard to see his expression, but Alavin could feel his internal struggle. The voices grew louder, and the man gritted his teeth and turned to flee.
Alavin suddenly pointed deeper into the valley. "Hide there!"
The man looked into the valley, then back at Alavin, said nothing, and stumbled to the deepest part of the valley. There, thick vines and a hidden nook offered concealment.
Alavin acted as though nothing had happened, sitting on a rock and roasting his trout.
Before long, a group of men in black tunics rushed into the valley. Their presence was strong, like unsheathed swords, and their intensity could be felt from afar.
They saw Alavin by the lake, cooking his fish, and all frowned in unison, not rushing in.
Alavin tensed inwardly but forced himself to look up calmly. The group wore matching clothes and curved knives, and all wore white masks with only two narrow slits, giving them an eerie appearance.
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