I woke to the same wind that had been carrying trouble for weeks and spent the day chasing its source through Lakeshire and the surrounding hills. The inn’s cellar still buzzed with the echoes of last night’s plans, and I found John J. Keeshan where the gossip said — stubborn as a thorn and twice as loud. With his pride nudged and his gear recovered, the old soldier finally let me stitch a thread of purpose back into the Bravo Company. We celebrated quietly; I felt a small, private fanfare for hitting level 22 — the world seems a little less reckless when your feet are firmer and your aim truer.
Out in the Redridge scrub I dug into the orc problem: cages opened, witch doctors confronted, and a hulking boar’s trail ruined one poor gardener’s daffodils. I learned a new trick, Counter Shot, and an odd thing happened to my pack — I made bronze and tin bars after some patient mining and smelting, which felt oddly satisfying for a hunter who usually trusts arrows more than anvils. The land tried to teach me humility today; it taught me hard, four times over, with a few falls that left my pride battered but my spirit intact.
By sunset the Bravo Company was whole, the surveyor’s spyglasses were promised, and several new quests sat in my satchel like fresh scent. I can feel the net tightening around the Blackrock plans, and I’ll sleep with an arrow within reach and a mind on the river path that leads to Camp Everstill.