“Can’t ‘member seein’ you ‘round town b’fore,” the old man says. “Then, don’t see many a’ yer kind but the once, s’pose.” He inclines his head westward. “Hill jus’ kin’a eats all you up.”

He leans forward, nakedly appraising his new table mates. “Him; I seen the healin’-sort come roun’ with their robes ‘n their ‘oh, holy day’s’ a-plen’y, yeah. But you, girl, not sure yer wearin’ a believable uniform ta fit tha’ part, ‘tever YER playin’ at.”

Thread and Oath exchange a glance. This, their fourth interview, is proving particularly tiresome. Because the previous three groups offered little more than slurred poppycock, however, they are reluctant to give up, despite the old man’s manner.

The tavern has emptied significantly, with only clusters of the most stalwart revelers remaining. Between the siblings and the Grove/Chlora inquisition, every remaining patron has been accounted for. Chlora and Grove appear to have progressed equally rapidly through their half of the population. Thread suspects, then, that their successes have been similarly minimal. This aged merchant and the even more ancient hearth tender are all the only potential information well springs left.

And this font, it seems, has more than a few dripping leaks.

Chewing back her frustration, Thread extends her arm, showcasing its faded leather sleeve. “I’m wearing armor,” she assures the merchant.

“Beeeeehhh,” he croaks dismissively, waving his hand at her. “Seen chiltins – tha few we got’n these parts – in more convincin’ garb.” His expression hardens as his eyes look her up and down. “Tha’ where you got these?” he asks. “Bur’row ‘um from little Spritch, maybe? He’d be ‘bout yer size. They do look familiar…”

“They are mine,” Thread snarls. She retracts her arm and lowers it toward the hilt of her blade (the warhammer ruse was abandoned after a particularly embarrassing exchange with the first group of patrons), letting her hand rest upon it a moment.“And so is this. I assure you : both are sufficient for my purposes.”

Sensing the escalating tension, Oath gulps and quickly interrupts. “Adventurers come in all manner of livery,” he says quickly. His tone is artificially warm, placating, “and… dispositions. I promise you, sir, we do fulfill the requirements.” He points toward Thump and the humanoids still seated around their sloppy table. “A fine band of companions, we are -- brave adventurers, all.” As he speaks, he nervously watches his sister, but her eyes never leave the offending merchant.

The Merchant glances from sister to brother and back again, his eyes finally settling on the hilt of Thread’s blade and the hand stroking it. “Ahrm,” he splutters. Then he waves his hand again, chuckling anxiously. “Meanin’ no a’ffense, ‘course. T’is a healthy troop, indeed.” Still, his gaze does not venture from Thread’s weapon. “Jus’ makin’ an observation, t’at’s all. Can’t blame a man fer usin’ his eyes while he still has ‘em ta use!”

Carefully, Oath settles a gentle hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Please,” he whispers.

Thread scowls at him before regarding the merchant once more. She slips her hand from the sword and rests it on the table with demonstrable casualness. “Indeed,” she says. “But how about giving your eyes a rest. Just this once, try using your brain. Maybe it can keep your mouth from getting you into--”

Oath loudly clears his throat; his grip tightens on her shoulder.

Thread grits her teeth, bending her neck slowly until it cracks. She sighs through her nose in a long, controlled puff. Then she begins again, “We’re just trying to ask if you know anything about the Hill. We don’t mean you any trouble.”

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“Nor to the town,” Oath adds brightly. “We are friends of the Fort through and through! But to its enemies, we will supply trouble in ample quotient.”

The old man swallows hard, finally looking up from Thread’s scabbard. “Yes,” he says slowly. Seeing the lightening of Thread’s demeanor, his shoulder’s sag in relief. “Yes… I see that now. Yes.” His tongue flicks faster as his mood rebounds, “I can help you. Yes. The Hill? ‘Course! I know’er! Wake up to ‘er e’ry mornin’ I’m in the Fort – which ain’ bin much lately, you understand. I travel, it’s how I live – city ta city ta village ta Fort; jus’ tryin’ to make my livin’, you understand. Still, e’ry mornin’ I’m here, I get up on yonder wall – got me a friend suff’rin’ the night duties; terrible job – an’ I jus’ watch it comin’ a-live like a sleepin’ drag’n wakin’ up outta the--”

“The Hill,” Thread interrupts, hissing through a tooth-clenched rictus. “What do you know about The Hill?”

“Ah-ahaha,” the man laughs nervously. Though she has made no further suggestions toward it, his eyes consider Thread’s blade again. He breaths deeply when he find its still safely within its sheath. “The Hill, right,” he visibly re-centers himself. “I haven’t heard much a’ late, you understand, seein’ as how I ain’t BEEN ‘round, but a few years ago,” he glances around the tavern, appraising, and then smiles. “Settin’ in this very seat, in fact. I was talkin’ to a fella – er… maybe it was a gal – actually, could’a been one ‘a them walkin’ sheep folk. They REALLY loved tha’ Bone’s stew. I watched one’a the bigger ones drink up a whole --”

Thread’s mouth twitches.

“-- right, The Hill,” the merchant censors himself prudently. “But tha… person… got to talkin’ ‘bout how the Hill came ‘round in the first place. Its ORIGIN, they called it.” He leans forward conspiratorial, grinning with knowing pride. “A mon-astery,” he says, nodding.

Oath flinches. He asks, “A monastery? Here?”

The merchant nods more vigorously. “I know, know! I didn’t b-lieve ‘im either at first. Bu’ then he goes on, soundin’ like he was THERE when it all happened! It was in tha olllll’ times, ya understand, tha way back : ‘fore the Fort, ‘fore tha villages to tha South, maybe-even!”

“So there was amonastery on the hill…” Thread summarizes. “Is it still there?”

The old man smiles crookedly, as if that question were the gilded hinge connecting his entire tale. “Yes’n’no,” he says. “BOTH! See, tha’s the thing, in’it? In tha’ beginnin’, tha’ ol’ temple was there, sure t’was, but it wasn’t crestin’ the Hill, no t’wasn’t. It WAS the Hill.”

The siblings exchange a confused glance. Seeing this, the merchant holds up his hands. “I mean, it BECAME the Hill,” he clarifies. His eye glints, “The monks, they weren’ satisfied bein’ down here, on tha groun’ jus’ worshippin’ whoever they were worshippin’. No, they wan’ed a PRIVATE audience, maybe, or they were tryin’ to storm tha gates an’ OVERTHROW their own deity! It’s a lil’ sketchy here, ya’ understand, but either way, they used their magics to raise up tha very groun’ their temple was sittin’ on!” He lifts his hands upward, flattened palms shaking with excitement, as if he conducts the rising soil himself. “Up, up, up!” half-maddened, he is nearly shrieking the command. “High up in’ta’ tha sky until they jus’ about reached the gods themselves!”

He suddenly drops his hands, laying them against the table. His voices lowers, “Bu’ somethin’ wen’ wrong. Their magic was jus’a lil’ off, or they weren’t quite strong enough ta’ finish tha’ job or maybe.” He pauses, glancing furtively around the nearly-empty tavern. “Maybe the gods don’ LIKE havin’ unexpected visitors.”

He leans back in his chair, shaking his head. “I don’ know, but either way, tha’ whole thing came crashin’ back down. Bu’ not ALL the way down, ya’ see. The groun’ had already had a taste’a the sweet winds up there, so it refused to sink any lower’n you see it now.” He chuckles. “Didn’t like competin’ with the river fer breath, I don’ know.”

“And the monastery?” Oath asks. “The monks? What became of them?”

The merchant extends his bottom lip thoughtfully and then shrugs. “Don’ know,” he admits. “Maybe all those monks ga’ crushed up in tha’ collapse, temple too. Maybe not.” He leans forward again, hands flat against the table, and lowers his voice. “Ask me, though?”

“He just did,” Thread remarks snidely. The merchant ignores her.

“I say they’re still there, both of ‘em : the monks AN’ their temple. But maybe they’ve changed, too. Sure, their Hill never made it ta heaven, but it ended up changed, didn’t it? TRANSFORMED? I’m thinkin’ maybe the monks transformed too. Maybe they’re still up there, in their temple, thinkin’ ‘bout givin’ it another go.” His eyes widen suggestively, “Or maybe they got their eyes on someplace else, huh? Maybe someplace closer to the ground.”

He leans back in his seat, folding his arms, “Ya understand?”