Beside the dark waters of the River Shrill lie the lonely walls of Guido’s Fort. It is an isolated outpost, alone amongst miles of wilderness. The meager torchlight from the settlement’s western gate casts splinters of pale illumination across the river’s mile-wide surface, while its southern gates remain open to the few brave traders who arrive along the single, dilapidated road connecting the fort to civilization.
Looming over the fort, the shadow of a massive, cliff-faced rise beckons from the river’s distant shore. Known only as “The Hill,” this 400-feet-tall, mysterious mound serves as a siren song to heroes who see its fog-shrouded, densely-forested slopes as an invitation to adventure. This earthen fortress has, by its very presence, birthed countless legends and myths, but remains an unconquered monolith, as no one to ever challenge The Hill has returned to reveal its hidden horrors. Hulking and foreboding, it waits to test the mettle of even the most seasoned adventurers.
Rumors and gossip of what truly lurks and festers upon the Hill are exchanged in hushed reverence among the fortfolk, but these days, few who visit the town, and none who live there, ever possess the courage – or foolishness – to challenge the Hill’s Horrors.
Tonight, however, that is about to change.
Inside the weather-warped walls of Guido’s Fort, amidst its few dozen buildings, the colony’s lone tavern offers a glowing, crimson sacrifice to the late evening’s darkness. Held erect by rods and wires, an old, human skeleton stands before the building’s grizzled facade. Within this eternal guardian’s grasp, a tall torch casts its spectral light across the tavern’s porch and entrance. The flame, maintaining its unnaturally crimson hue by means of alchemist’s powder, is a welcome beacon for locals and visitors alike. Guido’s Bones is open for business, and the promise of a crackling hearth, warm food, and mugs of strong drink has welcomed many patrons this night.
A figure pauses beneath the Bones’ fading marquee, regarding the skeletal watchman. His hooded head shakes as he produces a parchment from a pocket of his cloak. The document is quickly skimmed and tucked away once more. With one last, amused glance at the skeleton, the figure pushes open the door and considers its interior.
The hall swells with voices; perhaps two dozen of its tables are occupied, though the soaring volume could easily suggest far more. The clientele are a disparate assortment of animated families, ruckus worksmen, and a few lone figures tucked quietly at the edges. Many tables are covered in plates of steaming mutton, beef, cheeses, and bread. At these, around mouthfuls of delicious-smelling morsels, conversation is sporadic, sloppy, and complimentary the repast being shared. Just as many tables, however, are covered only in empty tankards, the few drops of amber liquid inside them readily forgotten for the fresh, foam-covered mugs that have replaced them. These groups produce the lion’s share of noise, companions amiably wailing out the impoverished notes of ancient ballads or simply over-loud observances of the day’s toils. Few words within the tavern are spoken quietly; the various conversations and tunes compete with one another for dominance of the din.
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At the table nearest the door, a pair of children argue with one another through saliva-flecked scowls about which of them will be the first to overcome the Hill, while their parents tolerantly remind them that neither can actually lift a sword, let alone vanquish the nightmare denizens of that cursed mound.
Behind them, three robust young men in dusty work clothes huddle above a bubbling thimble-sized cup of red-tinted brew, elbowing one another instigatively. Several times one reaches out and briefly fingers the tiny tonic, only to pull back abruptly, generating moans of disappointment from his allies.
The companions continue to chide and encourage one another in equal measure until, finally, one grips the mug confidently. He glances proudly at each of his companions as they cheer for him, takes several deep breaths and tips the glass toward his spreading lips. A few drops of the liquid splash onto his tongue. The three men are silent a moment, until the imbiber howls fiercely, bubbles of thin sweat exploding across his face. He pushes away from the table, rushing to the washroom, while his friends laugh uncontrollably.
En route to relief, he awakens the interest of a lone diner. Dressed in soiled fineries not commonly seen in the Fort, his gaze follows the fleeing figure for a long moment. Then he shakes his head, and returns his interest to a smeared ledger wedged under his left arm. He lowers the ink-stained tip of a quill above one of its lines, but hesitates. He sighs, sets the quill down, and reaching toward the plate of lukewarm mutton pushed into the center of the table, takes a slow, contemplative bite. As he chews, he considers the room around him, scowling. After a sip of too-sweet wine, he scoops the quill back up and repeats the process once more.
There are others, friends and relatives enjoying recreational commotion all about the jovial hall, but none of these does the door-framed traveler seek. His eyes turn toward the hearth as he notices its blanket-swaddled guardian for the first time. Seated upon a lopsided stool, the old man stares back at the traveler, and the two exchange a polite, if awkward, nod.
As their gazes break, the old man reaches toward a dwindling pile of kindling, collects a gnarled twig, and flings it into the fire beside him. Just as the flames begin to cautiously approach the newly-sacrificed branch, the tender casually flicks several granule of fine powder into the blaze. The dust ignites, crackling and popping, and sends the flames raging toward the chimney like grasping tendrils. The old man grins wanly at the tavern’s sudden silence as all present regard the conflagration with stunned appreciation.
The display lasts only a few seconds before the rage simmers back to an unassuming smolder and the patronage return to their conversations.
“Impressive ruse,” the traveler concedes quietly. But, this, too, is not what he is seeking.
He watches as a tavern girl weaves between tables, deftly collecting depleted mugs while answering overlapping, shouted requests with an all-encompassing, “Will do!” As she angles away, toward the kitchen door at the back of the hall, the traveler strides forward, meaning to intercept her. But he pauses, turning his head, as a stray silver glint from the corner of the room distracts his attention. He squints against the shadows that obscure the region, finding the source of the flicker : an odd coin flashes as its owner bends it to focus a thin beam of light in his direction.
The traveler smiles as he moves toward the glimmer. This, then, is EXACTLY what he was looking for.