The village elder's thanks and the spoils of battle

After Gresvin had helped extinguish the last fire, he could not help but gaze around. The smell of burnt wood and meat overwhelmed his senses. The ground was charred black due to the fires, and almost all of the buildings had been caught on fire. Only a few were still able to stand. How long they would stand was a debate that would soon appear.

Gresvin sighed as he saw the corpses of the bandits and the villagers on the ground, 'The Endless Plains sure is dangerous like the stories tell. Even a small village has no hope of survival in this region,' he thought.

The sheer destruction of a minor, untrained bandit group was catastrophic. 'Would they even survive a larger trained attack?' He observed the last remaining villagers who had fought valiantly and came to a rather obvious conclusion: 'Likely not.' His sigh deepened even further.

As he was caught in thought, the village elder's voice could be heard, "How many was it this time?" his voice was evidently so… tired. 

The man had fought since the beginning of the battle and was able to defeat quite a few attackers; from what Gresvin saw, he accomplished a lot. 

A sharp but strong voice replied shortly after, " 21 bandits with standard gear." The words had attracted Gresvin's attention. "21, huh? That isn't too big of a party," he pondered. He felt more and more that the village was quite lucky to have survived.

"21? Then how many had we managed to kill before they ran off?" the elder asked curiously. The middle-aged man's expression was strange when he answered, "None were able to escape." 

The small group of men who had fought looked at each other strangely. "How come?" the elder muttered softly. The mere notion of them being able to even kill that many was a pretty hard thing to accept. The elder had a sudden thought and quickly asked, "Was there someone who helped fight during the chaos?" His words rang out but seemed to fall on deaf ears, not really, but none of the men had an inkling as to who was able to help them. Gresvin, who had lived in the abandoned cabin, had not come to mind in the slightest.

The middle-aged man who reported to the elder thought for a moment and said, "Well, I do not know who it is, but, his archery skill is quite something." his excitement was rather evident on his face. "Archery? Tell me quickly!" the elderly man urged. "Well, out of all the bandits, 15 of them have arrows lodged in their neck with no other wounds on the body. The arrows should be the ones to have killed them," the man answered honestly with a hint of respect in his eyes, remembering the corpses of the bandits.

The elderly man thought extensively but was unable to put a face to the deed. His thoughts were only interrupted when he heard a mighty shout, "Where should I throw this?" He turned towards the direction of the voice and saw the man he had allowed to stay in the village helping clean the debris.

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly upon seeing the man. His gaze was attracted to the arrows in the sling, and the bow hung over his shoulder. A thought popped up, 'Bow and arrows? Was it him?' 

Gresvin was busy helping the villagers clean what he could, but the amount of destruction was too much for just a few of them. Gresvin could not help but feel saddened; even if he did not have much of an interaction with the villagers, some of them had been quite good to him, and now, there they lay. 

As ice-cold corpses, their last breath had already been taken.

'I was too late,' he thought upon witnessing the damage that had been done. Around 14 villagers remained, seven of them being the men who had defended the village, but the rest were either killed or had fled the area. Gresvin had no idea if they would return, but it was unlikely, considering now that the village was found.

Gresvin had learned from the smith that the only reason they were able to live was that the village had yet to be found. They were not a marked village. Only those who are marked would occasionally be raided or pillaged if there were people lucky enough to survive and rebuild the village.

Gresvin did not think they would return, seeing as the village had probably been marked, and raiders and bandits would continue to appear in the near future.

While Gresvin was caught in thought when he heard a tired voice call out, "Umm, Gres…Gresvin right?" 

Gresvin turned and saw the village elder slowly make his way towards him, "Your name? It's Gresvin right?" the man asked again. Gresvin was surprised for a moment before he quickly reacted, "Yes that's my name."

The village elder observed Gresvin with one last glance and asked, "Are you the one that killed that helped us during this battle?"

"I helped where I could," Gresvin admitted, somewhat confused. "Young man, answer me this. Why have you decided to help us? You surely could have been able to flee on your steed," the village elder asked with increasing curiosity.

Gresvin stood astonished for a moment when he heard the few questions; he thought to himself, 'Yeah, why would I not escape?' he questioned himself. The memories of the people helping him slowly appeared one by one. The smiles of those he was able to come in contact with, although somewhat strained, made him smile.

These people did not need to help him when he arrived, yet they did—not necessarily out of kindness, but seeing as they had given him a chance in this world. He, too, had found his reasoning.

"Why not?" Gresvion replied honestly. The answer surprised the village elder, and he could not help but ponder on the words. He mumbled them over and over when Gresvin continued, "I mean, even though you did not help me out of kindness but helped me due to me being able to pay. You all have helped me very much over the last few weeks, and I am thankful for that. Besides, a warrior does not flee in the face of battle, we must run towards it!"