When Zenos left his room, he saw there were many other doors along the adjoining hallway, each pinned with a brass placard and an identifying number. The exit was to his right, where the hall ended in a set of wide, curving stairs. He moved quickly, his hand on the banister as the stairwell creaked beneath his steps.

I should try to avoid NPCs for now, he thought. It would be better if I didn’t get shot again.

The ground level was one open room, with flagstone floors and a bar laid with lacquered wood that reached from the stairwell to the end of the building. Many round tables, wide enough to seat four, were arrayed ahead of the bar. It was silent, there wasn’t a soul around. Zenos made for the double doors near the stairs, but as he reached for the handle of one, the other door opened.

A brown-skinned man stepped through and Zenos froze in place. His black eyes looked sharp, but his face was tired, and his boots were heavy with mud. His thick, neatly-buttoned jacket was torn with holes, and his pants were certainly mended by an amateur, where crude sewing had knit cuts with different colored threads. He carried a backpack on his shoulder that was so large it nearly hit the floor, and barely fit through the doorway. As the stranger continued inside, Zenos heard the clap of pans, cup tins, and other living ornaments that were tied to the back of his bag.

Despite their close encounter, the man hadn’t noticed Zenos at all. He carried on, removing his backpack and setting it by the door. “I’m back,” he said to no one at all.

Zenos moved for the door, but his own boot fell hard on the flagstone. The man whipped around and their eyes met. “You!” the man exclaimed. “You stayed!”

Zenos blinked and held still. He could tell, as part of his proficiency, that the man spoke Bastilhasian, although with a slight accent. A health bar appeared over the man, but his name was shrouded by question marks. That was all the system provided.

“Endelhar, Madilhero Endelhar,” the man said. “You can call me Mad.”

“Zenos,” he answered, “now, I’ll be on my way.”

The man parted his lips. There was a peculiar confusion in his eyes, like Zenos was a celebrity, or a ghost. “W-Wait,” Mad said. He stumbled toward his backpack and fiddled with the pouches. He retrieved a white rag blotched brown with mud and wiped his face. “Zenos? It’s Zenos, right? Where are you going?”

What’s a plausible destination? Zenos thought. A castle, a barracks? I don’t even know where I am.

“Uh,” he uttered and searched the door for answers.

“Come, come on,” Mad said with a smile, encouraged him with a beckoning hand. “I’ll make us some food. We’ll talk over that, alright? I want to hear about you. What would you like? A sandwich? Some ale? I think there’s still something to drink. They didn’t take all of it.”

Food?

“I thought everyone had left,” Mad said loudly as he walked toward the bar. His voice resonated in the large room. “But I’m glad you’re here! Take a seat, anywhere. Make yourself at home, please. I’ll be right back.”

Zenos felt disarmed by Mad’s enthusiasm. Maybe I was wrong, he began thinking, maybe I shouldn’t leave just yet. This man could be a good source of information, and food. The last point made him salivate. It had been by various estimates either several hours or millennia since his last meal.

That was roast drake from the north-most mountains. He had it on a bed of greens, with sides of quality vegetables delivered from his own gardens, and an array of dips and sauces made to his exacting taste. Zenos washed that meal down with wine, aged one-hundred years from grapes taken from elven vineyards. It was 105 Ver’lesayah, in fact, and an excellent year. It was bottled the day he conquered the dwarfen empire of Golud Baradash.

It was a feast for two at the Darigon Palace. Apart from his polite, well-mannered servants, he was accompanied by one woman he considered an equal. Dezarosa, the Demon Lord cursed with the Eyes of the Sorcerer. Although she nearly matched the Demon Emperor in power, her youth made her hesitant to speak. She didn’t have the confidence of Evylence or Balagrim, his oldest allies. Zenos remembered thinking that if the six of them had been there, together, then that last meal would have been something to cherish. He wished he could have seated seven.

Presently, Zenos had taken a seat at a table in the empty room. His eyes wandered the walls, across furnishings of bestial heads and shields painted with colorful crests. He inferred that he was at a meeting house, what the dwarfs would call a meadhall, or perhaps an inn, but an inn built for peasants didn’t hang heads of a chimera. They weren’t real heads, he could tell as much with his bestial eyes, but they were very convincing fakes.

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While Zenos waited, he heard calamity in the walls behind the bar. The shelves juddered and knocked around empty bottles. He heard pans drop on the floor and glass shatter when it was thrown, then precious silence, followed by another raucous crash that shook the doors.

Minutes later Mad finally returned, and in his hands were two plates. For a moment that weariness Zenos first noticed was apparent on Mad’s face, but when their eyes connected, he made a bright smile, as if he was surprised Zenos hadn’t run off. That relief filled him with energy.

“Here you are,” Mad said and slid a porcelain plate in front of the Zenos.

For all that noise, what Mad presented was, unless Zenos was misunderstanding, the very picture of a sandwich. Zenos looked up at him, visible confusion in his round, reptilian eyes.

“Ah, of course!” Mad laughed as he set his own plate down. “I didn’t forget, one moment, friend.”

The strange man raced to the kitchen, then to the bar, before he was back again with a glass bottle and two tall cups hugged against his breast. “It took me a while to find this,” he said as he arranged the glasses. “This hall was basically dry. I guess the others had their fill. But I knew a secret.” He smiled as he took his seat, winked at Zenos. “The Adheimers bury things, lock things, make things fire-proof, right? I thought I’d break into the chef’s stash. It just took a little bit of elbow grease, and some good leverage with a trowel.”

“And, what is this?” Zenos asked, gestured at the sandwich.

“Oh—just some rye and some salted beef. A little bit of pickled cabbage—whatever I could find—whatever they didn’t eat,” Mad said. “But forget about that, marvel at this!” He picked up the bottle of dark-brown liquid. It was unmarked, with just a smudged yellow label on its face. “Cask whisky, I think. I’m sure of it, actually. It’s rare out here, and precious, because we don’t get it on the ships. The chef must have bought it himself on the mainland and hid it here before he left. Wouldn’t want the Atilonians catching it, right?”

Zenos nodded whenever Mad asked a question. He guessed that these things were common knowledge; of course, you wouldn’t want an Atilonian getting your whisky, and you’d always expect an Adheimer to secure their precious drinks in subterranean vaults.

“That makes sense,” Zenos said. “So, what’s special about this drink?”

“It’s strong.” Mad looked at him with wide eyes, made a shallow nod. “We need a strong drink.”

Zenos preferred sweeter alcohols, or bitter ones with good flavor. Generally, if a drink was strong enough to serve as alchemist’s ethanol, he wouldn’t drink it, but Mad was already pouring his glass.

“Just a bit,” Mad said. “It’ll taste great with the sandwich.”

That sandwich, which lay flat on Zenos’ plate, was entirely unappealing. It had no color, no style, or smell, except for a slight scent of salt. It was fit only for charity to the peasantry, and he wouldn’t feed it to his soldiers in the Demon Army, or even the pets of his menagerie. Even the most austere plates he ate on campaign were cooked by decorated chefs, proven on the battlefield and in the kitchen.

I’m far from that excellence, Zenos thought. But I shouldn’t look down on this hospitality. I am hungry. Thanks for the meal, Mad.

There was a little smile on Zenos’ face as he picked up the sandwich and dug in. [Adheimer’s Trawler] read a new notification. [Quality: 15. Lethality: 1] Zenos set the sandwich down in a hurry, but kept chewing his first bite. He pointed urgently at the bread.

“Oh, what’s wrong?” Mad asked, leaned over the table for a close look. “Ah, little bit of mold there,” he said sheepishly. “Don’t worry, we have just the thing.”

Mad opened the whisky once more and poured it over the spot of mold. “There,” he said with the firm countenance of a drake slayer. “Definitely dead.”

[Lethality 0] the notification read, then revised.

Zenos finished his bite and made a long look at Mad, but ultimately continued eating. It wasn’t delicious, and the tough bread, with its salted, and pickled fillings made for difficult eating, but it was satisfying. And, for his part, Mad wasn’t wrong about the drink. It was strong, it burned in his throat, but it warmed his chest, and reminded him of a certain drink-loving Demon Lord.

“How is it?” Mad asked.

Zenos sniffled. “It’s good.”

Mad squinted. “Have you been crying?”

“No,” Zenos said, shook his head. “No, it’s just the… the meal, it makes my nose a little runny.”

Mad smiled. “Well, a smile would look conspicuous these days wouldn’t it,” he said. “What with the fall of Bastilhas, the townies didn’t know where to turn. Adheim is closest to Edwindy and the Atilonian North Territory. Guess the dungeon break solved that problem for everyone, why appeal to a navy for protection when you’re abandoning the village and heading to the mainland? Now that the Adventurer’s Guild has pulled out, everyone is evacuating.”

“Why are you smiling then?” Zenos asked.

“Because I’m mad!” He laughed. “I’m a member of the Adventurer’s Guild, that’s why I can smile. Aren’t you?”

There was a pause between them, a moment between the end of Zenos sandwich and the beginning of Mad’s expectations. Zenos realized why Mad had been so generous, and Mad surely realized Zenos had no idea where he was.

“You’re not with the Adventurer’s Guild?” Mad tilted his head, studied Zenos.

“I am—” Zenos hesitated.

“What rank are you?”

“I don’t have one,” Zenos said.

Mad leaned back in his chair. “Then, what about your eyes?” he asked. “Aren’t those Wyrding Eyes?”

“No.”

“You’re not a druid,” Mad said.

“No, I’m not a druid.”

Mad brushed his hand through his hair. It was long, black, but tied in a long pony tail that nearly touched the floor. “How did you even get here if you’re not a novice?” he asked.

“That’s a tough question to answer,” Zenos said, glanced toward the floor. “I’d prefer not to say it.”

Silence passed between them. Mad poured himself extra whisky and downed it in on draught. “Fine, I understand,” Mad said. “If you’re a civilian, I need to get you off this island.”

“You said everyone was evacuating.” Zenos peered into Mad’s black eyes, searched him for truth. “Why is that?”

“Did you hit your head? A dungeon break, my strange and amnesiac friend,” Mad said, there was gravity in those words. “In one month, Adheim Village will be destroyed. Everything on this island will die.”