The village head's

The Village Head’s home is made from sturdy timber and stone, standing slightly apart from the smaller cottages as a symbol of his position. As he leads you through the threshold, the smell of roasted root vegetables and dried herbs replaces the acrid stench of the skirmish. He gestures for you to take a seat at the heavy trestle table, his movements slow and weary, before calling out to the back of the house. From the kitchen shadows, two women emerge

The first was his wife, Demy, a woman who carried herself with a quiet, grounded authority. She approached you with a basin of heated wine and a cloth, her eyes steady and observant. As she knelt to attend to your body, wiping the grime and dried blood from your skin, her touch was firm and practiced, the heat of her hands seeping into your aching muscles.

Beside her, his daughter Tunde moved with the grace of a young willow. She carried a heavy pitcher of cool well-water, filling a wooden goblet and offering it to you with a dip of her chin. Her eyes, bright and curious, lingered on the hilt of your sword, the weapon that had saved her homebefore meeting your gaze with a mixture of reverence and youthful fire.

The Village Head stood by the hearth, watching the interplay of firelight and shadow across the faces of his kin. He waited until the dust of the road had been washed away and the first draught of water had cleared your throat.

"Traveler," he began, his voice a low rumble that resonated through the timbered room. "You have bled for us this day, and the debt we owe cannot be paid in coin alone. My house is yours, ." He stepped forward, his gaze moving between the two women who flanked you. "Speak your heart without fear. Tell me... which of them do you favor?"