A Matter of Faith

The guard let out a long sigh, water dripping from his nose onto his chainmail. It doesn't look like he's enjoying himself either
"We've got a logging camp not far from the road down south. There've been some...odd occurrences lately. They have half a mind to pack up and leave" he looks between the rest of his men, then back at you "We’re stretched thin, but if truth be told, we’re not equipped for whatever’s out there. If you lot are willing, maybe you can do some good."

"A couple of hours' walk down south. Then two or three more once you veer from the Duke's road into the dirt path" or 'mud' path, if the guard was to be more precise. Describing the trouble, however, is a bit more complicated for him to do "Something about....rabid animals. Best you ask them about it when you get there"

You make your way off the main road and down the muddy track into the edgd of the woods. The rain continues to falls steadily, even harder as the sun begins to set above you. As you approach the camp, the forest presses in on all sides; tall pine and dense undergrowth so thick you can see past the first rows of trees.

The logging camp ahead is in a complete state of disarray. What was once a rough but orderly worksite now looks as though something massive tore through it. Tents lie flattened or half-shredded, a wagon has been upended, and tools are scattered across the ground.

The shaken, tried loggers, all men, move through the wreckage, shoulders hunched and soaked to the bone. They work in silence or mutter curses under their breath, lifting tarps, righting barrels, salvaging what they can.

Two figures lie beneath a crude tent fashioned from oilcloth. One is unmistakably dead; his chest collapsed, legs twisted, eyes staring glassily at the sky. The other groans, clutching his side where a jagged wound seeps blood through layers of soaked fabric. His face is pale, and his breathing is shallow. It looks like he isn't long for the world, despite the attempts of a third man kneeling beside him to presses down with a shaking hand to stop the bleeding

Boudica kneels beside the wounded man, murmuring a quiet prayer to Petra. A gentle warmth spreads from her hands, and the bleeding stops almost immediately, the torn flesh knitting itself closed. The man stirs for a moment, looking at you with quiet awe, before he slips back into unconsciousness.

You make your way beneath the dripping trees, the rain still falling around you. The sounds of the camp fade behind, replaced by the soft patter of rain on leaves and the squelch of boots in wet soil. After a short walk, you come upon the clearing where the loggers had been working.

Axes, saws, and iron wedges are scattered across the muddy ground, between the felled trees and chopped logs. It’s not hard to spot the trail. There are animal tracks everywhere, cutting through the underbush in a very wide path of broken branches and trampled shrubs. But something is strange; the trail doesn’t just lead away from the camp. It leads back.

Multiple tracks go both directions, back and forth through the same passage. If this was truly a stampede, a panicked flight from danger… why did the animals return? It doesn't make sense that they would double back toward whatever sent them fleeing in the first place.

A few minutes more of walking along the tracks, and you spot it. A small, wrinkled-skin grey mouse, hops though the mud ahead of you. It is oddly focused, stopping every few feet to sniff the earth, its whiskers twitching before it dashes forward again, running around the big puddles as it continues along the animal trail.

It hasn’t noticed you yet, you think. It’s small and quick, but if you hurry, you might just catch up to it; assuming it doesn’t vanish into the forest once it realizes you're pursuing it.