“We were...told,” Chlora says.

Across the tavern, the old merchant is evangelizing his fable about the monastery and the Hill’s inception. He is an elderly gentleman, doubtless, but compared to the blanket-swaddled husk beside the hearth beside the hearth, the merchant is little more than a wide-eyed toddler. Chlora and Grove sit across from him, seeking his counsel.

In spite of his apparent age, the fire tender’s eyes burn ferociously inside the pouch of billowed wrinkles exposed above the blankets. Under their blazing scrutiny, Chlora becomes momentarily unnerved, her response fumbled and stuttering.

“By whom?” That tuft of ancient flesh crinkles as the mouth within grows taut. Chlora hesitates.

“A lot of people,” Grove answers in her stead. The smoldering eyes shift in his direction. The fighter feels their sweltering regard and is forced to look away. He sounds wounded as he corrects himself, “Everyone honestly.”

“Yes… I suppose they would,” the old man says. His lips pucker up as he shifts beneath the blankets. “Not that they would be wrong. I AM something of the local expert on all things… old, aren’t I?”

The man’s head slowly cocks to the left. A pocked arm emerges from his bundle, extending toward the hearth like a narrow antenna. At its end, a nobbled wrist snaps up, sending a spray of sparkling powder into the fire.

The flames surge viciously. They are unleashed hounds rapturously pursuing a fluttering pigeon up the chimney. The man’s eyes seem to echo the blaze, intensifying until they glow hostilely, fire reflecting fire.

Grove stares in fascination. He imagines smoke jetting from the old man’s nostrils moments before his entire face erupts in a raging conflagration no less virulent than that in the hearth.

“I’m a ghost to them.”

Grove blinks several times. The rumpled face is normal once more, unsinged. The fire has retreated to its hearth and it sputters there, shrinking, as its flames begrudgingly abandon the chase. Grove shakes his head, awed by his own imagination.

The old man continues to watch the fire as he speaks, but his right arm snakes out from the blankets and swings toward the tavern. “They only remember me when the fire dies – or I give it too much life.” He snorts. “Some of them have seen the trick a hundred times, I wager, yet they can’t keep their eyes away. We’re all attracted to the things that make us afraid.”

“The Hill, though…” Chlora prompts.

The man does not seem to hear. He continues to muse, ignorant of the interruption. Chlora wonders if he even remembers that he has his company. “I was corporeal again – for a moment. Now, I am shadow.”

His head creaks toward her once more and Chlora feels herself recoil. “But there is value in being a shadow,” he says, “in being unseen. I hear things. But I am more than a shadow, because I REMEMBER things. Shadows may not hear, may not remember. But Old Staunch does. Old Staunch remembers and, unlike the shadows, he speaks his tales.”

Grove glances at Chlora. She waves a hand at him, urging patience. The gesture seems to say, “Just give him some time; he’ll get to it.”

But the old man quiets, his face twisting toward the fire once more.

So, voice low, Chlora asks, “That’s your name? Staunch? That’s what we should call you?”

“As you will,” Staunch sighs. “Shadows need no names.”

“Fine,” Grove says, “but what has STAUNCH, the shadow, heard about the HILL?”

“The Hill,” Staunch repeats, weighing the word on his tongue. “That tower of earth is about as old as they come.” In profile, the curdled tissue around his mouth strains into a coiled grin. “Even older than I.”

“No kidding,” Grove agrees, “so the two of you must be old friends. What do you know about it?”

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Staunch is silent a moment as he watches the fire, as if he expects that it, not he, is responsible for addressing Grove’s question. Finally, “There is a price.”

“Of course,” Chlora says. She unclasps her pouch and rests it on the table in front of her. Unbenownst to the old man, or even her companion, it is entirely empty. “We will pay you whatever you want.”

Staunch’s eyes slide toward the pouch. His face scrunches into a dismissive glare. “Coin,” he scoffs. Then his gaze rises, moving to Grove and settling there. Grove shifts nervously under the old man’s attention until he realizes that it is trained upon something over his shoulder.

Intrigued, Grove turns, discovering the source of his fixation : the still-swinging kitchen door.

“I… don’t know if we can help you out with her…” Grove says cautiously. “I suppose we could put in a good--”

“No,” Staunch cuts him off, giggling. “No, that is not the sustenance I desire, boy.”

Grove turns back, sharing a relieved look with Chlora. “What then, friend Staunch?” she asks, “What can we get for you?” Chlora glances at the table between them, realizing for the first time that, akin to her barren pouch, it is empty. “A...drink?” she suggests.

The old man frowns, “Your companion may have already drained the town dry.” He shakes his head, “No, no drink.”

“Then what’ll it be,” Grove asks. “You can fill up on whatever you want while unloading that mental reservoir in our direction. That’s a fair exchange, isn’t it?”

A rough, thwapping sound interrupts the conversation. Chlora and Grove whirl to see the serving girl waddling through the open kitchen door. She faces away from them, hunched by a tremendous burden.

“What is happening?” Grove asks.

Slowed by her cumbersome freight, the girl does not clear the doorway quickly enough. She grunts as the door slaps against her right arm during its retraction. Carefully, she slips loose from it and continues her awkward, reverse march.

“Impossible,” Grove mutters again as he glimpses the woman’s cargo. “Even for her.”

Confused, Chlora says, “What does she carry?” Distracted, Grove does not reply.

Grove looks to his allies. They are in animated discussion around the table. Well, two of them are. Gereb and Errow, becoming fast-friends it seems, talk and laugh boisterously. Though the tavern’s din has greatly diminished, the pair have not yet adapted the volume of their conversation.

Thump, however, sits in silence. Both massive elbows are wedged against the table, chin tucked into flattened palms. Bored or sullen, she only half-hears her companions’ banter, and shares in it not at all.

“Thump,” Grove beckons to her. Even with the ambient noise softened to an inoffensive chatter, Thump does not appear to hear. “Hey, Thump!” he tries again with similar results.

“What’s she carrying?” Chlora repeats, bending in her seat for a clearer view. The tavern girl is halfway across the room, stepping with focused meticulosity. Only her hips defy the rigid bend of her stature, jabbing left and right to a melody only they can hear. To Chlora’s eye, she moves as if retreating across a grease-slickened tightrope. Despite her best efforts, though, she can not identify the woman’s haul.

“THUMP!” Grove raises his voice, nearly shouting. The big warrior lifts her head and glances around, confused. “Who does she THINK is calling; there’s barely anyone in here,” he mumbles. Then, louder, “Over HERE.”

Finally she looks in his direction. Brow furrowing, she mouths a single word in query.

Grove repeatdly jabs his finger toward the tavern girl just as she reaches the party’s table. As Thump turns in that direction, the girl abruptly drops her load onto the table top. A thin mist splashes upward from it as the girl leans away, straightening her back with visible relief. The burden’s newest caretaker wobbles, unappreciative of the added weight.

“Nex’...time,” the breathless waitress says, “I’m just... running a tube... from the keg.”

Thump stares down at the delivery, up at the waitress, and then sharply rises. With one lumbering motion, she scoops the frowning woman into her arms and effortlessly lifts her from her feet.

Across the room, Chlora gasps. Most of her companions share the sentiment. Gereb, interrupted mid-syllable, views the exchange, closes his eyes, and slaps a palm across his face in dread.

Yet the waitress doesn’t scream, doesn’t protest, nor even attempt to wriggle free. She just hangs there in limp acceptance for three weightless seconds as Thump hug-shakes her.

Eventually, Thump, still overjoyed, carefully sets the woman back down, fits her with an adulatory grin and re-seats herself. The tavern girl brushes herself off but, despite her best efforts, loses control of her scowl. It crumbles, reforming into a new, unfamiliar design as she watches Thump dip the massive cooking spoon into the frothing cauldron and shovel out a heaping scoop of brew. When the liquid sloshes into Thump’s mouth, the warrior produces a satisfied squeal and thrusts the empty spoon toward the fluid once more.

“I thought you might like that” the tavern girl says quietly. When she looks away from the warrior, she notices the attention of the entire tavern is upon her. The alien smile reconfigures once more, resuming its more traditional form. “Well, go on,” she hisses to the onlookers. “Ge’ back to your merry’in’. Only got but the one cauldron!”

Though scowling, there is still unmistakable pride in her flourish as she spins and dashes toward the kitchen.

“I think she just made a friend for life,” Chlora says, beaming.

Grove watches Thump as the spoon, nearly as long as Gereb’s arm, battles foam to retrieve a fresh portion. Giddily, Thump holds it aloft, letting the fluid slowly trickle onto her tongue. “Which one?”