Accounts
These are the stories travelers tell.
Some are true. Some are exaggerated. Some are outright lies. But all of them were written down because someone believed them, or feared them, or needed others to know.
Read them as you will. Believe what you choose. The world does not care either way.
The Night at Crow's Rest
A stranger arrived at the inn just before midnight. No horse. No pack. Just a sword on his back and mud on his boots.
He paid in silver and asked for a corner room. Didn't speak beyond that. The innkeeper remembers his eyes. Said they were the kind of eyes you see on men who've stopped sleeping.
Around dawn, someone started screaming in the courtyard. The stranger was already dressed, already armed. He walked out into the yard and found three men trying to break into the stables. Bandits, probably. Desperate ones.
The fight lasted less than a minute.
When the innkeeper came outside, all three were dead. Clean cuts. No hesitation. The stranger wiped his blade on the grass, nodded once, and left without another word.
The innkeeper burned the bodies and never spoke of it again. But he wrote it down. Just in case anyone came looking for the man with the tired eyes.
"He didn't look angry. Didn't look sad. Just... tired. Like he'd done this a hundred times before and would do it a hundred times more."
— From the innkeeper's journal
The Singing Blade
There is a story told in the southern villages about a blade that sang when it was drawn. Not a hum. Not a ring. A song. Clear and mournful, like a voice from another world.
The bearer was a woman whose name has been lost. Some say she was a knight. Others say she was a murderer. The stories don't agree on much except this: when she drew her sword, you heard the song. And if you heard it, you were already dead.
She disappeared decades ago. No one knows what happened to her. But travelers still report hearing the song late at night on empty roads. Always distant. Always fading.
Most believe it's just the wind. Some know better.
"I heard it once. Just once. I was alone on the road and the sun was setting. It sounded like someone was crying. But when I turned around, there was no one there."
— Anonymous traveler, recorded at Greyhollow
Archivist's Note: This story has been told in at least six different villages, with different details each time. It is likely a legend, but legends often have a seed of truth.
The Man Who Refused to Die
A swordsman was ambushed on the Ashford Road by a group of hired killers. Seven men. All experienced. All armed.
The fight lasted until sundown.
Witnesses say the swordsman took three wounds in the first minute. A cut to the shoulder. A stab to the ribs. A slash across the face. He should have fallen. He didn't.
He kept fighting. Kept moving. Even when he was bleeding. Even when he could barely stand. He fought until all seven were dead.
When it was over, he collapsed. A traveling healer tried to save him, but by the time she arrived, he was gone. Bled out in the dirt.
The healer buried him there, by the side of the road. No marker. No name. Just another grave no one will remember.
"I've seen men refuse to die before. But this was different. He wasn't fighting to win. He was fighting because he wouldn't let himself stop. Like dying was a choice, and he hadn't made it yet."
— Eyewitness account, name withheld
Conflicting Report: A merchant claims to have seen a man matching this description three months later, alive and traveling north. The reports cannot be reconciled.
[Additional entries to be added]
There are always more stories. More names. More warnings. But the archive can only hold so much.