Proclamation of an Invasion

The retreat was a chaotic, painful blur. My analytical processes were largely overridden by basic survival imperatives: breathing, movement, evasion. The forest, once a quantifiable environment of trees and trails, became an unpredictable obstacle course of thorns that tore at my clothes and roots that threatened to trip my already unsteady feet.

The sounds were a cacophony of system failure. Rovy’s desperate, ragged breaths. Bane’s grunts of pain with every jarring step, his large frame moving with a sluggishness that indicated significant physical damage. Sylv’s frantic, arrowless movements, her usual grace replaced by a desperate, scrambling agility. The throbbing behind my eyes—a residual effect of the entity's psychic interference—was a constant, debilitating static that corrupted all incoming sensory data.

We did not run as a unit. We ran as four separate, damaged components, each moving on the last dregs of its operational capacity. Bane, despite his shattered shield arm and the dark stain spreading across his side, consistently positioned himself as the rear guard, a final, crumbling wall between us and a pursuit that never fully materialized. It was an illogical, inefficient act of self-sacrifice, driven by a primitive protective instinct.

Our desperate flight continued until the crude wooden walls of Raven loomed into view through the trees. We burst through the nearest gate, a chaotic, unannounced entry that sent the two guards stationed there scrambling for their spears. They shouted warnings, demands for explanation, but our momentum was too great, our state of panic too evident for any coherent response. We simply surged past them, a blur of grime, blood, and desperation, leaving them to follow in our wake, their own alarm rising as they witnessed our condition.

We did not stop until we slammed through the doors of the Adventurer's Guild, a stark contrast to the quiet morning we had left. The air, usually thick with stale ale and low murmurs, was now shattered by our frantic entrance. Rovy and Bane, despite their visible injuries and exhaustion, immediately began to vocalize the alarm.

"Goblins! An army! Deeper in the Whisperwood!" Rovy shrieked, her voice hoarse, her remaining dagger still clutched in her hand. Her face was streaked with grime and a thin line of blood from her cheek, her eyes wide with an emotion I categorized as extreme alarm.

Bane, leaning heavily against a sturdy wooden pillar, his breath coming in ragged gasps, added his own guttural warning. "Orcs! Big ones! They're organized! It's an invasion!" His voice, usually a low rumble, was strained, the effort of speech visible.

Their frantic cries cut through the Guild's morning calm like a discordant frequency. Adventurers, who moments before had been idly chatting or examining mission boards, froze. Their conversations ceased, replaced by a collective intake of breath, a ripple of unease. Faces turned, expressions shifting from curiosity to disbelief, then to a dawning comprehension. The data of their collective emotional response was clear: fear, rapidly escalating into panic.

Sylv, however, was silent. She stood beside me, her chest heaving, her golden eyes wide and unfocused. Her light armor was torn, her blonde hair disheveled, her face pale beneath the grime. She was a static entity in the midst of the escalating chaos, merely observing, just as I was. Her silence was a deviation from her usual highly reactive emotional output, a curious anomaly. I noted the subtle tremor in her hands, a residual physiological response to stress.

The cacophony of panicked shouts and desperate warnings intensified. Adventurers began to cluster, their voices rising in a confused chorus. Guild staff, initially stunned, moved with a newfound urgency. Amidst this chaos, Sylv's continued stillness was a significant deviation from her established patterns.

"What is wrong with you?" Her voice, though still hushed by exhaustion, cut through the din, directed at me. Her golden eyes, now focused, narrowed slightly. "Why are you just... standing there? Say something!"

"The acquisition of comprehensive data is always relevant," I stated, my voice unwavering. "Understanding the complete organizational structure of this urban environment is crucial for optimal strategic planning. Aside from the Adventurer's Guild and the City Guard, what other factions exist within Raven?"

Sylv's brow furrowed, her expression shifting from exhaustion to profound confusion. "What? What are you talking about? Now is not the time for... for questions about city factions! Don't you see what's happening?!"

Rovy, overhearing my question, turned to me, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Einar, are you serious? We just escaped an army, and you're asking about factions?"

"He's hopeless," Sylv sighed, running a hand through her disheveled hair. "Look, yes, there are mercenaries. A lot of them. They mostly stick to themselves, take contracts, fight for coin. But they don't really get along with the Guild. Too many… 'differences in methodology,' as you'd probably put it."

I processed the information. Mercenaries. An independent, combat-oriented faction. Their presence introduced new variables into the city's defense matrix. A multi-factional defense, if properly coordinated, could optimize resource allocation. However, the reported animosity presented a significant obstacle.

The current method of relaying information through emotionally compromised individuals was proving inefficient. A direct intervention was required. I took a step forward, moving towards the growing cluster of agitated adventurers. I raised my voice, projecting it with calculated force to cut through the din.

"Attention!" My voice, flat and devoid of emotion, was nonetheless amplified by the sudden silence that fell over the nearest group. "I possess information regarding the current hostile threat."

A City Guard captain, a burly man with a scarred face, pushed through the crowd. "Who are you? And what information?"

I paused, a microsecond of processing. I needed to simplify my output. "Listen," I began again. "We encountered a large group of goblins. More than usual. And with them, were orcs. Their presence indicates an alliance, a coordinated effort." I let the image form in their minds. "They were organized. Their pursuit was... controlled. They allowed us to escape."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the Guild. Disbelief, fear, and a dawning understanding flickered across faces.

"This indicates a strategic manipulation," I continued, my voice steady, my gaze sweeping across them. "We were not merely escaping. We were sent. We are couriers. The information we carry is their intention: a large-scale assault on Raven. An invasion."

My pronouncement, delivered with a detached certainty, ignited a fresh wave of chaotic vocalizations.

"An invasion?!" a burly warrior slammed a fist on a nearby table. "Are you mad, boy? Goblins don't invade! They raid!"

"And Orcs? We haven't seen Orcs this close to Raven in decades!" another adventurer added.

The City Guard captain stepped forward, his face grim. "This is a serious accusation. Do you have proof of this 'alliance' and 'manipulation'?"

"The proof is in the observed anomalies," I stated. "Their numbers, their coordinated tactics, the presence of a larger, more intelligent entity, and the deliberate cessation of pursuit. These variables deviate from established goblin behavioral patterns. The logical conclusion is a planned, strategic offensive."

My words, cold and logical, did not quell the chaos. They fractured it. Arguments erupted. Some adventurers began to consider the possibility. Others dismissed it as the ramblings of a traumatized individual. The system was volatile, its components reacting with inefficient, emotion-driven skepticism. The city of Raven, I concluded, was not just facing an external threat. It was facing the failure of its own internal logic.