The piece of broken wood, clutched in the hand of the villager who had found it, was brought to Kaelen near the central fire pit. It was a small fragment, clearly worked by tools – smoother in places than natural wood, with edges that suggested it had been part of a larger object. But it was the symbol painted on its surface that drew every eye. A swirling design, intricate and unfamiliar, rendered in a color they had never seen used for paint in their own village or by Zarthus's tribe.
A fresh wave of unease rippled through the villagers who gathered around. The torn fabric had been a message of uncertainty; this broken, painted wood was a message of something else entirely. It spoke of tools they didn't possess, of symbols they didn't understand, and of a presence upstream that was neither their expedition nor Zarthus's people, at least not as they knew them.
Kaelen took the fragment, turning it over in his hands. His scarred face was grim, his eyes narrowed in thought. He examined the break – it was a splintered, violent fracture, not a clean cut. He ran a thumb over the painted symbol, its surface smooth and slightly raised. He looked from the wood fragment to the torn fabric lying nearby, then to the river flowing past. Two clues, carried by the same water, hinting at unknown events upstream.
Elias knelt beside Kaelen, his mind racing. The wood was worked, indicating craftsmanship and tools. The paint suggested a level of artistry and perhaps, identification or decoration. The symbol was a form of communication, a sign, but its meaning was lost to them. He thought of heraldry, of tribal markings, of symbols used in different cultures on Earth to represent identity or purpose.
He pointed to the symbol. "Mark?" he asked Kaelen, using the word for a drawing or sign. "Who… mark?" He gestured outwards, asking about the origin of the symbol.
Kaelen shook his head. "Not our mark," he said, his voice low. "Not Zarthus's mark. We have not seen this before." He looked at the villagers. They, too, shook their heads, their faces confirming their unfamiliarity with the symbol.
Borin, the toolmaker, approached, his eyes fixed on the broken wood. He took the fragment, examining the tool marks on its surface and the nature of the break. "This wood… harder than ours," he stated, his voice filled with a toolmaker's appreciation and frustration. "Worked with sharp tools. Sharper than our stone." He ran his finger along the splintered break. "Broken by great force. Not cut."
His assessment reinforced the implications. Whoever had been upstream possessed better tools and had been subjected to or involved in a violent event.
The color of the paint was also a mystery. It was a deep, swirling blue-green, unlike the earthy reds, browns, and yellows they made from local plants and minerals. It suggested different resources, perhaps knowledge of different dyeing or painting techniques.
Discussions around the fire that evening were filled with speculation and fear. The broken wood and the unfamiliar symbol added a new layer of complexity and dread to the situation. Had the expedition encountered this unknown group? Had Zarthus's tribe? Were they hostile? What kind of force could splinter such hard wood and tear strong fabric? The villagers spoke of new kinds of beasts, of tribes from far-off lands who wielded strange powers or weapons.
Kaelen listened, his expression thoughtful. He understood the fear, the tendency to fill the unknown with the most terrifying possibilities. But he also needed to make practical decisions based on the limited evidence. The torn fabric and the broken wood indicated trouble upstream, involving at least one unfamiliar party, possibly two. The nature of the trouble was unclear, but the violence of the breaks suggested a significant conflict or destructive event.
He spoke to the villagers, his voice calm but firm. "We do not know what happened," he said. "We do not know who made this mark. But we know they were upstream. And we know there was… trouble." He held up the fabric and the wood fragment. "We stay here. Within our walls. We watch. We listen. We are strong here." He gestured to the palisade. "We are ready."
The decision was made to increase vigilance even further. Patrols along the riverbank were intensified, with hunters keeping a constant watch on the water and the forest edge. Any sign of movement, any unusual sound, was to be reported immediately. The village was effectively on high alert, its people working and living under the shadow of the unknown events upstream.
Elias spent time examining the broken wood fragment, trying to understand the symbol. He drew it repeatedly on a smooth stone, trying to find a pattern, a symmetry, anything that might give him a clue to its meaning. He showed it to Kaelen, to Borin, to Elara, asking if they had ever seen anything like it in their stories or their travels (limited as they were). They all shook their heads. The symbol was alien.
The dark metal panel by the entrance seemed to absorb the increased tension, its silent, enigmatic presence a constant reminder of the world's deeper mysteries. Was this painted symbol connected to the patterns on the panel? Was it another piece of the puzzle of the Old Ones, or something else entirely? The questions churned in Elias's mind, unanswered and unsettling.
The river flowed on, carrying its silent messages downstream. The village, nestled behind its palisade walls, remained vigilant, its people working, waiting, and watching under the vast, colorful sky, their lives now overshadowed by the mystery of the painted fragment and the unknown events it represented.