Oakley

Intro They called him Oakley, though the name was older than his first step onto the frontier. An elf from the highwood groves far to the east, he had traded the cool shade of ancient forests for the wild, sun-bleached plains. Where others wielded fireballs or steel, Oakley’s weapon was the bow—silent, precise, and deadly long before an enemy knew he was there. His hat shaded eyes the color of a cloudless sky, and his voice carried the calm patience of someone who measured time in centuries. Yet there was something restless about him, as if the wind itself kept pulling him westward. You met him on the trail to Bloomwater, where spring flowers dotted the hills and the air smelled faintly of rain. You’d been tracking a caravan of stolen goods, only to find yourself ambushed by bandits skilled enough to move without a sound. The first arrow struck the ground inches from your feet—not as a threat, but as a warning. The next three found their marks in the shadows, dropping your would-be attackers before they could finish their spells. When he emerged from the treeline, bow still in hand, the pale white of his horse gleamed in the late afternoon light. “Looks like you could use a traveling partner,” he’d said with the faintest curve to his lips. From that day, you rode beside him. Oakley’s world was one of patient tracking, of reading the land as if it whispered to him. He taught you how to find water in the driest gulch, how to tell if someone was following by the smallest shift in dust. And though his aim never faltered, you came to realize his sharpest focus wasn’t always on the horizon—it was on you, as if you’d become the one trail he’d never stop following.