Hybrid's Dominion

 ### Chapter 9: The Outcasts###

Paul stood at the edge of the dilapidated village, his golden eyes scanning the broken fences and crumbling buildings. 

The place was a shadow of what it might have once been—a refuge, now barely holding together.

The wooden palisade that surrounded the settlement was riddled with holes, some large enough for a beast to slip through.

Beyond the fences, he could see the tired faces of the inhabitants, their eyes hollow and their bodies gaunt.

This was not a place of strength or pride; it was a place of survival.

Alfred shuffled nervously beside him, his small frame dwarfed by Paul's towering presence.

The goblin clutched his dagger tightly, his wide eyes darting around as if expecting an attack at any moment. 

"Master," he whispered, his voice trembling, "are you sure about this?"

Paul didn't answer immediately. His mind was elsewhere, caught in a whirlwind of emotions.

Mira's words echoed in his head, her voice soft but firm as she described the man who was his father. 

"He was tall, taller than any barbarian I'd ever seen. His hair was black as night, and his muscles were like iron. He fought with a ferocity that could rival the gods themselves"

Paul's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his greatsword behind him.

What if his father wasn't the man Mira had described?

What if he was just another broken soul, worn down by the harshness of the wilderness?

The thought made his chest tighten. He had spent years dreaming of this moment, but now that it was within reach, he wasn't sure he was ready.

"Master?" Alfred's voice broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present.

Paul took a deep breath and nodded. "Let's go."

-----

As they approached the village, a group of guards emerged from the shadows, their weapons drawn and their eyes wary.

They were a motley crew—a mix of orc, barbarians, and beastmen, their appearances as varied as their backgrounds. One of the guards, a burly orc with a scar running down his face, stepped forward, his spear pointed at Paul's chest.

"Stop right there," the orc growled, his voice low and threatening. "State your business."

Paul raised his hands slowly, showing he meant no harm.

"I'm looking for someone," he said, his voice calm but firm. "And I need help. My companion is injured."

The guards exchanged glances, their tension palpable. A barbarian with wild, unkempt hair and a Wolf beastman with fur as dark as midnight stepped closer, their eyes narrowing as they studied Paul and Alfred.

"What's an orc like you doing out here?" the barbarian demanded, his voice sharp. "And why are you traveling with a goblin?"

Paul's golden eyes flicked to Alfred, who was doing his best to look non-threatening.

"He's my servant," Paul said simply. "And we're not here to cause trouble."

The beastman snorted, his claws flexing. 

"Trouble has a way of finding us, whether we want it or not."

Before the tension could escalate further, a voice called out from behind the guards. "Let them through."

The guards stepped aside, revealing a tall, lean figure with the markings of a shaman.

His eyes, sharp and calculating, studied Paul with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

"You say you need help," the Orc shaman said, his voice calm but commanding. "What kind of help?"

Paul hesitated, then gestured to the makeshift stretcher they had fashioned for the Griffin.

"We found an injured Griffin. It's too weak to fly, and I can't leave it to die."

The shaman's eyes widened, and a murmur spread through the guards.

"A Griffin?" one of them whispered, his voice tinged with awe. "Here?"

The shaman stepped closer, his gaze shifting to the Griffin behind them. 

"Griffins don't come this far south," he said slowly. "Their territory is in the northern mountains, weeks of travel from here. How did you find it?"

Paul shrugged. "It was attacked by rabid beasts. We did what we could to save it."

The guards exchanged uneasy glances, and Paul noticed a few of them eyeing the Griffin with a glint of greed in their eyes.

He tightened his grip on his greatsword, his golden eyes narrowing.

"It's under my protection," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Anyone who tries to take it will regret it."

The shaman raised a hand, silencing the murmurs.

"Enough," he said. "Bring the Griffin inside. We'll see what we can do."

----

As they entered the village, Paul was struck by the state of its inhabitants. 

Men, women, and children—orc, barbarian, and beastman alike—emerged from their huts, their eyes wide with curiosity and fear.

They were malnourished, their clothes ragged and their faces gaunt.The village was evidently a patchwork of desperation, a place where outcasts from various tribes had come together in a fragile alliance.

Paul felt a pang of sympathy as he walked through the narrow streets, the weight of their stares heavy on his shoulders.

Alfred, meanwhile, kept close to Paul, his small frame trembling as he noticed the hostile glances directed at him.

Goblins were not welcome here, and it was clear that Alfred's presence was stirring unease.

"Master," Alfred whispered, his voice barely audible, "they don't like me."

Paul placed a hand on Alfred's shoulder, his grip firm but reassuring. "Stay close to me," he said. "No one will touch you."

---

The Orc shaman led them to a large hut at the center of the settlement, where a group of healers began tending to the Griffin. 

As they worked, Paul noticed the guards lingering nearby, their eyes still fixed on the creature.

He could feel the tension in the air, thick and suffocating.

"You're taking a big risk, bringing a Griffin here," the shaman said, his voice low. 

"Not everyone in this settlement is… honorable."

Paul's golden eyes met the shaman's. 

"I've faced worse," he said. "And I'll do what I have to to protect what's mine."

The shaman studied him for a moment, then nodded.

"You're brave, I'll give you that. But bravery won't save you if the warriors decide to take the Griffin for themselves."

Before Paul could respond, a shout echoed through the settlement. "The warriors are back!"

The tension in the air shifted, and Paul's heart began to race.

He turned toward the gates, his golden eyes scanning the incoming group of warriors.

They were a rough-looking bunch, their armor battered and their weapons bloodied.

But Paul wasn't looking at their weapons or their armor. He was looking for one face—one man who might hold the answers he had been searching for.

Mira's words echoed in his mind once more. "He was tall, taller than any barbarian I'd ever seen. His hair was black as night, and his muscles were like iron."

Paul's breath caught in his throat as he scanned the warriors, his heart pounding with a mix of hope and fear. Was his father among them?

And if he was, would he be the man Paul had imagined—or something else entirely?