A spider crawls across your boot and you violently shake it off. It scurries under a floorboard as a shiver runs up your spine.

The group gave a small cheer to the storyteller who gave a slight bow and smiled.

“No more goblins or spiders,” another friend shook their head. It was clear he was unsettled by the stories.

“What sort of tale would you tell then?” the last storyteller crossed their arms and sat down.

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The man was stumped as he sat back in his seat and took a long sip of his ale.

“How about the story of the Lost Army of Gold?” a voice comes out from the back of the group. “Do you know how those passes in the White Mountains became haunted?”

An old man who overheard the group came over. His back was bent as he slowly shuffles over to you. He grunts as he puts down his mug of ale and sits back into a chair.

He strokes his short, grey beard as he says, “I know of that tale. It was a terrible tragedy and nightmare for those Vaelorans, but a great victory for the northfolk.”

You and the others lean in close to hear the old man’s voice as he begins his story.