Nyssarra

The gravel crunched softly beneath Nyssarra’s boots as she approached the modest cluster of timber buildings that made up Draynor Village. A chill hung in the spring air, carrying the scent of wood smoke and damp earth. The village seemed to breathe quietly, a small pocket of life tucked away in Gielinor’s sprawling wilds.

Nyssarra paused at the village well, watching a pair of children chase a scruffy dog around the stone circle. The dog, more mud than fur, yipped joyfully as the children darted about, their laughter bright against the muted morning sounds. For a moment, it seemed the village was just that—a place where simple joys held sway.

But Nyssarra had learned better than to trust appearances.

Her dark eyes drifted to the looming silhouette beyond the village—the once-proud Draynor Manor. Its blackened windows stared out like empty sockets, the stone walls stained with years of neglect. Villagers whispered that it was cursed, haunted by ghosts, or worse.

Nyssarra tightened the straps of her cloak and turned her gaze back to the village. She was here because the manor’s shadow stretched long, casting rumors and unease across Draynor Village. Something stirred there—something she needed to understand.

Before she could move on, a sharp voice called out.

“Oy! You look like a stranger. What brings you to Draynor?”

Nyssarra turned to see an elderly woman advancing, hands stained from digging in a nearby garden. Her eyes were bright, face weathered but lined with humor.

“I’m Nyssarra,” she said quietly.

“Hilda,” the woman replied, nodding. “And I don’t forget a face easy. You’re new ‘round here, aye?”

“Yes. I’m seeking answers about the manor.”

Hilda’s smile faded. “Best be careful what you wish for. The manor’s no friend to folk ’round here. Cursed, they say. Full of restless spirits, and maybe something worse.”

Nyssarra smiled faintly. “Restless spirits often find me first.”

Hilda laughed, shaking her head. “Brave, or foolish. Maybe both. If you’re looking for trouble, you’ll find it there. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The warmth in Hilda’s tone contrasted with the cold shadow cast by the manor, but Nyssarra nodded, appreciating the caution.

Moving down the main street, Nyssarra observed the village with quiet eyes. The crooked sign of the Draynor tavern swung lazily in the breeze. Fishermen mended nets outside a small dock. Villagers paused briefly to eye her—a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

At a narrow alley, Nyssarra caught snippets of hushed conversation. A pale-faced youth glanced nervously toward the manor’s dark silhouette.

“It’s not right,” he muttered. “People go in… don’t always come out. Heard strange sounds at night. Screams… and singing.”

Nyssarra crouched to meet his gaze. “Singing?”

He nodded, eyes wide. “Aye. Like a lullaby, but colder. Like it seeps under your skin.”

Her gaze lifted again to the manor’s brooding presence. “Thank you. That helps.”

The village offered a patchwork of stories as Nyssarra continued—some fanciful, some frightening. The manor’s last lord vanished long ago under mysterious circumstances. Rumors spoke of betrayal and forbidden magics. Cloaked figures moved under cover of darkness near its walls. The villagers’ faces paled at mentions of the place.

Nyssarra’s mind wove the threads together, a quiet resolve setting in.

As dusk deepened, the village transformed. Lanterns flickered in windows, shadows stretched long and ominous, and the air thickened with the scent of woodsmoke and something metallic, cold.

Drawn by the sounds of muted conversation, Nyssarra entered the Drunken Dwarf tavern. The murmur hushed as she stepped inside, all eyes turning to the newcomer.

She took a seat in a shadowed corner and ordered a simple stew. Nearby, a grizzled man with a weather-beaten face and a patch over one eye approached, lowering his voice.

“You’re looking for trouble, elf-girl.”

“I’m only half elf,” Nyssarra replied with a hint of a smile. “And trouble tends to find me.”

The man grunted. “Draynor Manor’s no place for the living. They say it’s cursed by an ancient song—sings you to madness if you’re not careful.”

Nyssarra’s eyes narrowed. “A song?”

“Any who’ve gone missing, they say they heard the music just before…” His voice trailed off, haunted.

Nyssarra left the tavern with the weight of his words settling in her mind. The manor was no mere ruin—it was a beacon of something dark, something alive.

Outside, the village lay hushed beneath a tapestry of stars. Nyssarra looked back toward the manor’s shadowed form.

Her hand brushed the crystal-tipped arrow at her back, a steady comfort.

This was only the beginning.