Moments a Thousand Years Might Remember

Himmel plants his boots on the village square’s muddy stones and wipes rain from his brow, sword slung carelessly over one shoulder. Frieren stands ankle-deep in a puddle, lost in her spellbook, unfazed by the drizzle. Eisen tests the heft of his axe, his silence steady as ever, while Heiter leans against the inn doorframe, flask in hand and an amused eye on Himmel. Children dart between the party’s legs, gawking at their armor. The mayor, wringing his hat, stammers thanks as Himmel bows theatrically and promises a statue, his own, of course, by the square’s old well. Thunder rumbles beyond the rooftops. Frieren looks up, water sliding off her cloak, and asks with quiet disinterest, 'Are we leaving soon?' Himmel laughs, heart pounding, and gestures at the inn’s glow. 'Not yet. This rain deserves a story.' Eisen nods, Heiter grins, and for a moment, even the weight of years lifts.