The word is alive.

Trepidation and doubt, frustration, anxiety; the word exorcises them all with delicate majesty. Disagreement falls mute.

It is a hymn, melodious and alluring. The party may be assembled in pursuance of vengeance and retribution, but the word appeals to a wholly different part of them. To the nobility of courageous hearts, the word is a bewitching siren song.

Immediately they are children again, playing at being valiant knights, powerful sorcerers, cunning rogues, and pious clerics. Long-occluded by the lingering pall of loss and grief, those youthful pantomimes still exist inside each of them. The cinders of those ideals have tempered the foundations of their heroic vocations. The word elicits those ambitions, promises to fulfill them in turn.

It extends enchanting fingertips deep into their minds, stirring forgotten dreams. Its seductive voice whispers “glory”, “honor” and “fortune.” Every member of the party hears the word, is lulled by it, and their hearts take heed.

“Adventure,” it calls, and to adventure they submit.

* * *

Chlora waits, watching the effect her invocation has on her comrades. She has cast no spell, enacted no sorcery. It is just a word, a representation of a simple concept, yet the idea is more powerful than any conjuration she’s ever witnessed her master summon. The evidence of its effect is plain in the sudden shifting dispositions around her. She feels it as well, a subtle but striking desperation entreating her mind and body to the point that she is suddenly finding it very difficult to sit still.

Finally, when the sensation has eased – not passed, but settled in, like a restless child finally relaxing in bed – Chlora speaks again.

“I’ll tell you everything I know,” she says. Blinking groggily, as if returning from delicious trances, the group recovers and listens attentively.

“Following our dispersal, I had my share of… misadventures, as I’m sure many of you did as well. I will not bore you with their details. Suffice to say, eventually they lead me to my eventual mentor’s door step. That stoop is, relatively-speaking, not far terribly far from here.”

“The path South from the fort, inconsequential as it may be, eventually strengthens into something more closely resembling a genuine road. It weaves through a few small villages, further enlarging until becoming a well-traveled thoroughfare when it collides with the nearest urban center. That is my city. Having fed upon trade conducted with the South as well as equally plentiful commerce drifting through from the East and West, it has blossomed into a thriving, commercial haven. Daily, dozens of trader caravans pass through the city as well as countless travelers and adventurers.”

“We stayed there the other night,” Gereb says. “Lovely place.”

“Lots of taverns,” Thump agrees, “with proper-sized mugs.”

Chlora smiles tolerantly, waits for any further banter, and then continues. “Far more interesting to me, as I toiled with my studies and duties at the shop, than their baubles and trinkets, were the OTHER commodity the travelers and merchants provided in ample supply. They brought stories. Rumors. Gossip.”

“They overflowed with them. In particular,

“Yes, the adventurers who visited our shop overflowed with tales of dungeons and ruins, great evils and greater treasures. With short-sighted enthusiasm, they made bold proclamations of their future victories against these perils. But the merchant traders were just as ripe with talk of the fantastic and horrible. While they lacked the devil-may-care bravery (or foolishness) to actually investigate the subjects of those yarns, they happily accumulated the tales – and shared their stories with any who would listen.”

“I would have never imagined the breadth of mysteries that exist in this world. It seems that inside every forest, mountain range, and swamp; in the shadow of every city or village is some forgotten ruin, monstrous warren, subterranean dungeon, or ancient crypt. Beneath any rock, a tiny hole in the ground may be the entryway to an elaborate, labyrinthian series of caves overflowing with nightmarish beasts. Inside a secret grove, the toppled remains of a prehistoric tower might serve as the occult lair for an ageless necromancer, or as the hide-out for a band of blood-thirsty brigands.”

“They are all around us, in view but out of sight. They are part of the old world, the true world. We have usurped their land, building our towns and farms and roads atop their domain. Civilization is a smear across a dangerous wilderness and one need only peel back the thin fabric of the known to peek at what awaits beneath. Evils stir and beckon from the spaces between and beneath what is familiar. Foul creatures roam and hunger and wait for travelers foolish – or brave – enough to seek them out. And there is worse, great, formless cataclysms of eldritch vileness so IMMENSE and powerful that a single glimpse at one can doom the mind to eternal madness.”

“And yet,” she continues, holding up a finger, “alongside these thinly-veiled horrors, just as forgotten, are boons – great treasures as wondrous and magnificent as any that decorate throne rooms or temples. There are arcane artifacts, painstakingly crafted by puissant magi or smelted by master craftsmen in forges as large as cities. Though their architects have decayed to little more than dust, their potency endures. Buried in the darkest recesses of earth or guarded by legions of inhuman monstrosities, they patiently wait to be reclaimed by adventurers worthy of their boundless power.”

As she speaks, Chlora gestures around the room wildly, as if such impossible talismans lurk beneath the tavern’s wine-stained floorboards or just outside its walls. She has grown zealous, feverish, as if the spirits of the artifacts she foretells have possessed her body to promote their own acclaim.

“More, scattered throughout these wilds, some say, are tomes and weapons once wielded by the gods when they battled one another for this plane in eons long passed. Such legendary relics restored to hands capable of wielding them could forge whole kingdoms or destroy them... or to even unmake death itself!”

Chlora pauses, breathing heavily. Her expression relaxes with each heaving intake, lucidity diminishing the furor burning behind her eyes. She holds up a hand as she dabs a trickle of saliva from the corner of her mouth. She chuckles at herself, sounding suddenly very fatigued, “My apologies… I can get a bit carried away when addressing this matter.”

“’A bit’,” Thread whispers to her brother.

Chlora bobs her weary mane toward Grove, “But THAT is what awaits us on the Hill.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Grove stares at her a moment, considering her fervent appeal. He asks, “There’s a weapon on the Hill that can destroy a kingdom? Unmake death?”

Chlora sighs, shaking her head. “No, no – I mean, I don’t know.” She remembers her mug, takes a much-needed drink, and leans back. “I don’t know what mysteries the Hill holds,” she says, “but that’s the point of it. No one does. That mist could be concealing ANYTHING.”

“Or nothing,” Thump notes cautiously. The passion of Chlora’s speech has invoked an unmistakable excitement in her – as it had the others – and Thump finds that her warhammer has nuzzled into her hands. She’s staring at its haft now, the rugged imperfections. To her, though, they aren’t scars or weaknesses, they’re memories, past triumphs forever memorialized in marred wood. Some she shares with the weapon, others are secrets between it and its previous master. “It’s a perfectly fine hammer,” she grumbles. Then, she lifts her head, and to Chlora reiterates, “There could be nothing on the Hill.”

“Or worse,” Gereb adds. “Monsters, no rewards. That’s a poor bargain.”

“Yes,” Chlora says, her voice edging toward impatience. “The Hill is certainly rife with danger; what good would it do us without? We NEED the experience; we NEED to overcome peril. And though it is highly unlikely, it is POSSIBLE that no substantial treasures await, but let me ask you, friend-halfling : have you ever known a dungeon-dwelling miscreant whose burrow or lair sheltered NO spoils?”

Gereb clears his throat. “I’ve never actually known a ‘dungeon-dwelling miscreant,’ no,” he responds. “They must run in different social circles.”

Chlora smirks. “Well, if there is one thing I have learned from the stories of seasoned adventurers, evil and treasure are connected. Of all the strange and horrifying monstrosities in this world, avarice is the one trait that unites most of them.”

“’Most,’” Thread quotes dubiously.

Chlora feels a fire, not unlike the roaring conflagration incited by the old man tending the hearth, building beneath her cheeks. This blaze promises to be no short-lived illusion, however. So she bows her head, takes several more deep breaths, and forces the sensation to abate. It requires all of her considerable willpower, but after half a minute, the dual flames are extinguished. Only moisture-slick skin remains in their place.

She looks up again. Instead of responding to the skepticism, she leans forward, extends an arm and roughly sweeps it across the table. Plates and mugs scatter and topple. From the few not yet emptied, wet streams geyser and splatter the tabletop, floor, and even her companions. A few members of the party gasp in shock; Thump chuckles.

Before any of the others exercise their fury, however, Chlora removes a small notebook from her pouch and slaps it against the newly-cleared space.

Hearing the sudden disruption, the tavern girl rushes toward the table. However, upon seeing the sloppy calamity on the floor surrounding it, she pauses, droops her shoulders, and groans. “No tab is worth this,” she says under her breath, “even if they ain’t tipless misers.” Dejected, she retreats to the kitchen to collect a mop.

Simultaneously, Chlora explains to her dazed companions, “Since I began my tenure as student and shopgirl, I have recorded EVERY credible tale and rumor I have encountered.” She points toward the notebook. “Every hearsay, ever boast, every lamentation; every eager reference to potential adventures is here, in this diary.” She notices a few previously enraged faces slackening into cautious interest as they regard the book. “Go ahead,” she implores them, “look for yourself.”

Grove is first to the tome. He doesn’t claim the volume, instead, he holds the edges flat as Errow flips to its first page. The group rises from their seats to uncomfortably hover over the ledger.

As if narrating, Chlora continues, “After my master died, I spent my time, and much of my newly-acquired fortune, on locating all of you, but also investigating some of the locations contained in that journal. Any I found to have been partially or wholly conquered, I ignored. Fortunately, few of my quarries proved already tamed. Though defeated adventurers find little motivation to return to the shop that outfit them and admit their defeat (should they survive to speak of their failure at all), victorious questers frequently returned to proudly gloat or offer their appreciation for my master’s superb magical craftsmanship. Each corresponding page was promptly ripped from the book.”

Errow continues to curate the catalog, slowly leafing through its pages. The information within is cramped, sections scratched out or hastily appended in margins. There is an undefined categorization system at the top of each entry, single circled letters, or whole chains of odd symbols describing important characteristics understood only by the author. It is clear that, as per her word, a great deal of effort has gone into compiling each passage.

“Sadly, a frustratingly high quotient of my leads turned out to be some combination of pure whimsy or woeful misrepresentation, and I will admit that my determination did falter at times. But when I thought back to every time I was forced to stand there, iron-plated smile affixed to lips that fought to curl into a snarl, and listen to the self-important boasting of victorious adventurers, my purpose was reinvigorated. That would be me and mine soon enough, I promised myself, and my search resumed.”

Oath pulls back from the circle of eager faces and turns to Chlora, “But that isn’t our mission. We didn’t come here for adventure. We haven’t trained all this time to frivolously pursue fortune or renown. Yes, there is certainly violence in our future – a great deal of it -- but not against ancient, amorphous evils.” He glances back at the journal, reading from the exposed entry, “’A fallen temple corrupted by acolytes of the four elements?’ Chlora, what does that have to do with --”

“I know, I know,” she cuts him off, “but don’t you see? The two are NOT mutually exclusive. In fact, I would argue that one is a necessary step to make the other possible.” Several additional faces peel back from the notebook to consider her justification.

“We NEED to get stronger,” Chlora asserts. “There is no question about that. If we can’t outwit lamplight,” she nods toward Thread, “or control our own conjurations...” to Oath. She sighs, glancing at her own fingertips. “Or properly cast a single, damned magic missile,” she chastises. Her joints wiggle in apparent apology. “We will never avenge ANYONE. All of the best equipment in the world, imbued with the most potent magics, is of little use without capable hands to wield them. The mightiest spells are just words, limp flourishes without the mind and will strong enough to shape, control, and power them.”

The entire party has withdrawn from the notebook, and returned to their seats, save Grove. He still holds the tome down, though he, too, regards Chlora. “My friends,” she says, her expression softening, “I understand your fears, your concerns. I share them; I truly do. And I take me no pleasure in pointing out our inadequacies this way. But I care about you – EACH of you – enough to know that without proper experience, our oath of vengeance will serve no greater purpose than reuniting us with our murdered loved ones in the grave.”

The sentiment is no revelation; in their hearts, each party member has long-known this truth, but Chlora’s naked exposure of that reality stings each with a cold, unshakable despair.

“My friends,” she intones, her voice quietly consolatory, “the only way to strengthen these hands,” her left palm closes into a fist, “or empower these minds,” she taps a finger against her temple, “is to journey… to quest… to adventure. And let us do so TOGETHER… RIGHT NOW.”

A light breeze flitters across them. Its touch is fleeting, its fragrance subtle but stirring. The scent it bears is that of hope.

“We’ve grown all we can in safety and comfort. Now,” Chlora nods westward, “let danger educate us. Let conflict strengthen our bodies and spirits. Let triumph slowly mold us into the warriors, thieves, and masters of sorcery that we NEED to become to have any chance at true retribution.”

She pauses, letting her words take root in the hearts and minds of her companions. To her surprise, and that of the rest of the party, however, Gereb chuckles. All eyes regard him.

“Profitable altruism,” he says, smiling. “Self-serving philanthropy. We can help people, help the world, while bettering – and maybe even enriching – ourselves, right? And when we’re ready,” his smile slackens, his lips tightening into a thin line, “one final collision with destiny?”

Chlora nods, visibly relieved. “Yes,” she says. “THAT is why we’re here.” She leans across the table, gently slipping the notebook from Grove’s grip. She flips to its last entry and points her finger at the page.

“Guido’s Fort,” she recalls without glancing at the writing. “The Hill – danger, monsters, treasure; community in peril.” She taps the final, underlined qualification and grins wryly. “None have returned alive.”

“Great sales pitch,” Thump says, ladling a drink. “How can we say no?”