Snow-kissed weeds and low, ground-covering vines crunched under the soon-to-be-worn boots of the party. Night had fallen, and the warm, inviting light of hearths and torches beckoned the group toward the village nestled in the thick evergreen forest. The air was calm and quiet, yet bit with the chill of late autumn, leaving the young man to wonder how cold winter would get in the region. From their vantage point on the rocky crest a half hour earlier, Ben had taken in the cozy village amidst the trees and, due to the lack of roads, wondered how anyone found the place. Skalt sat at the foot of a mountain, and around its perimeter, a shoulder-height encirclement of rough-hewn stone marked the boundary —or defenses— of the community.

Kieran had disposed of the undead steed, stating that ‘the tribal people don’t take well to the fine arts.’ The party had distributed their supplies among themselves —Ben laden with the heaviest cargo— and carried them for the remainder of the deceptively long walk to the village. Ben regretted not asking his mentor more about the northern tribes and their customs. He hadn’t considered the fact that their overnight stop at the secluded village would mean that they’d need to interact with the people there, and the mention of the new Warlord seemed to… annoy the old woman.

“Hey, Ainsle,” he said with white puffs of condensation, to which the old woman raised a brow. “Is there anything I should know before we get there? I mean, besides the people not being too warm toward Kieran’s magic.”

The Berserker grunted and glanced back at the three magic users who trudged silently a few paces behind them. The ‘bruisers,’ who Ainsle so fondly referred to herself and Ben as, walked at the front of the group. “The folk are simple people. Now, don’t mistake that for lack of smarts-” She nudged him with an elbow. “Simple needs. Simple wants. Stubborn as all fuck and prickly when forced to change.”

The stone walls drew closer, and the torches atop the barrier near what Ben assumed to be a gate illuminated the scarred woman —the pure white basilisk armor would’ve made her stand out if not for the thick black cloak she wore. Ben noticed the usually ever-present grin was missing from his mentor’s face.

She continued. “Haven’t been up here in a couple of decades, so I can’t say for sure. But what I can say is this: The old magic is still strong here. So, don’t you go bloody picking a fight.”

Ben frowned at the thought of his mentor reducing him to a battle junkie in her eyes. He opened his mouth to speak before she clicked her tongue.

“You probably thinking, ‘But Your Majesty, I don’t have a hard-on for throwing fists whenever I get the chance,’” she mocked with a nasally-sounding impression of him, which only caused his expression to contort further. “Whatever. Just keep it in your pants, okay, lover boy?”

Ben coughed and silently nodded. Do I really sound like that? He asked himself before a high-pitched whistle drew his attention to a figure atop the wall. The party had arrived.

“Don’t recognize you lot,” said a man garbed in thick furs, holding a loaded crossbow casually resting on his shoulder. He thought the man’s rough tone had an accent similar to Bertram’s. “Folk armed to the tits, at night of all times. State ya business,” he drawled.

Kieran stepped forward, raised a hand in greeting, and began to speak before the man sighed and visibly relaxed.

“Ah. The devil boy. Who’s ya mates?” he asked, seemingly disinterested after spotting the Apprentice Necromancer.

“These are my companions. Their names are their own,” Kieran said, tone oddly cold.

The rough man regarded the Caster with drawn eyes and, after a beat, spat before waving the party in. “In ya go, then.”

The handsome man sniffed and gestured for the group to enter the village through the ‘gate’ —essentially a gap in the wall. “Follow me,” he spoke softly to the group. “My Father should be at his usual haunt.”

Ben regarded his usually talkative companion and nodded before gesturing for Ann and June to walk before him. Not that the women couldn’t take care of themselves, he thought, just that he’d prefer to have the pair in sight, given the less-than-warm welcome they’d received from the sentry. The Keeper blushed and complied with a soft smile, yet the Magus’s daughter stuck a tongue out at him before linking arms with the blonde-haired woman. Ainsle and Kieran, with Issa —whose head was on a swivel, eyes wide— led the group through the muddy, snow-touched streets of the cozy village. Ben, who stood at the back of the party, took the time to drink in his surroundings.

They passed a Smith who clanged his hammer against a red-hot piece of steel atop his anvil, seemingly making an effort to ignore the group of strangers. The dwellings were all made in the same log house style, similar to what he’d seen in Shalebeak village, yet their eaves and doors were decorated with intricate carvings of interlocking links and patterns. Tall pine and fir trees dotted the village between houses and, often, the middle of the street. There was very little activity outside, yet the muffled sounds of conversation and the smells of home-cooked dinner filled the air. Ben’s stomach grumbled. He was concerned about his newly found appetite and decided to ask Ainsle whether it had something to do with his Avatar.

Stolen story; please report.

Kieran stopped in front of a large, two-storey structure and gestured to the front door at the top of a small flight of wooden stairs. “This is the only tavern in the village, and unless my dear Father has found another widow to keep company tonight, he should be here.” He paused and muttered something to Ainsle, who grinned at the whispered comment. “We’ll be spending the night here, too. So, please allow me to arrange the rooms.”

“Ooh, are we gonna get some whiskey? I read that the tribes make the best stuff!” June squealed to Ann, who glanced questioningly at Ben.

He grinned at his Keeper, hoping she’d have fun with the young woman without any input or ‘permission’ from him. Ben wasn’t in the mood to drink, although he could use something to eat, he thought.

“Careful there, girl. That stuff will see you wake up in a strange bed, wearing a woodcutter's shirt, whose mum will yell you awake for stealing her son’s virtue —hangover be damned!” Ainsle said with a grin and a wink.

“I feel like there’s a story behind that!” June exclaimed excitedly.

Ben chuckled and followed the party indoors.

The soft orange glow of a central fire pit illuminated the large room, and several small tables occupied most of the open space. An old man, tall with a long braided beard and shaved head, sat behind a counter on the far side of the room, next to a flight of stairs. He regarded the group with what Ben interpreted as apprehension before his eyes fell on Kieran. The man smiled and beckoned the approaching party closer.

“Look at you, lad,” the man said pleasantly as he scrutinized the Apprentice with sharp blue eyes. “Three summers and ya come back a man. Matty would be… What happened to ya horns?” he rubbed his bald head in the spots Ben had seen Kieran’s filed down stumps. “Did ya get a cure?”

The Apprentice winced. “Hello, Jan. No, I didn’t get a ‘cure,’” he parted tangled locks of his red hair to expose the nobs before sighing. “Is my Father staying here?”

The old Innkeeper leaned forward and whispered almost conspiratorially. “Lad, I think the eyes and the teeth still give it away. Good disguise, though.”

Ben could almost taste the Apprentice’s frustration as he sighed once more. “Jan. My Father?” he asked, a hint of a plea in his voice.

The old man straightened and smiled to expose a missing tooth. “Ya Dads out on a delve with the youngins. Left yesterday.”

Kieran frowned, and Ainsle cleared her throat. “Ol’ Bertie gone on a delve? Where?” she said in a low rasp.

“Say,” the Innkeeper met the Berserker’s gaze intently. “Ya looking mighty familiar-”

Ainsle grinned. “Me? I get that a lot. A common face, I always say.”

Jan, the Innkeeper, turned to face an old faded painting on the wall beside the counter before regarding the scarred woman with suspicion. He lifted a gnarled finger and ran the tip down his cheek, mirroring the scar on Ainsle’s face. Ben leaned over to get a better look at the painting. He saw a beautiful woman posing with a spear, nude, atop a small mountain of monster corpses. The faded paint made the scar on the woman’s face subtle, yet there was no doubt whose likeness it was.

The old man’s eyes went wide, and he gasped. “It can’t be. In my humble inn…”

“Sorry, Jan,” Kieran interjected. “I need to know where my Father went, why, and when he’ll return.”

Jan flinched as if he had been awoken from a dream. His gaze drifted between the Apprentice and the old Berserker before settling on Kieran. “The old boy went to the mausoleum. We been havin’ some trouble with walkers these past few months. New Chief set up a team to figure out what’s woken the bastards up.”

The bronze-skinned man exhaled in relief. “Okay. If it’s the mausoleum, then he’ll be fine. When will they be back?”

“Hmm,” Jan paused. “I’m guessin’ a couple more days. It’s a good trek from here, ya know.”

Kieran nodded and turned to the party. “I’ll leave him a letter with the Innkeeper. We should get settled in and stock up on provisions tomorrow morning. Is that agreeable?”

There were nods all around, and the Apprentice addressed the old man. “We need to rent a few rooms for the evening if you have any available?” He paused and glanced at Ben. “And dinner. For ten.”

“Ya lot expecting more to join ya?” the old man asked as he counted and then re-counted the party members.

“Let’s just say we have a healthy appetite,” June added helpfully, eliciting a bashful shrug from Ben.

Jan led the party to their pair of rooms on the second floor. Apparently, the Inn only had three rooms, one of which was occupied by the burly shopkeeper from Honeydew. June, Kieran, and Issa shared a room, and Ainsle, Ben, and Ann settled in the other. The Magus’s daughter and the Keeper went downstairs to try some infamous whiskey while the old Berserker tucked a sleeping Issa into bed.

Ben and Kieran stood in the hallway outside their rooms that overlooked the main floor. They leaned against a wooden railing, and the conversation of the pair of women and the old Innkeeper wafted up from below. Ben smiled as the trio appeared to be having a good time. He glanced at his bronze-skinned companion and found that he seemed more exhausted than he should have been.

“So, what’s this delve business about?” Ben asked to distract his friend from what he guessed to be the beginning of a morbid spiral.

“Delving…” he began before running a tired hand through his messy red hair. “It’s the act of exploring a monster, or undead in this case, infested ruin or labyrinth. The people of the tribes do it as a rite of passage or in the hopes of finding a treasure or artifacts that could change their lives for the better.”

Ben nodded. “I see. So, why would your Father go on a delve then? I don’t think he needs the money, and besides, he’s missing a… uh, you know.”

“He’s probably going to oversee the rite for the young men and women. I don’t know too much about it, to be honest. My Father was born here, yet I mostly grew up in the port city.” He paused and turned to face Ben. “He’ll be fine, I think. The mausoleum Jan spoke of doesn’t have anything that would threaten him or eager young people for that matter.”

“Got it,” Ben began before a clicking of a tongue drew their attention to the room where they’d be sleeping.

“You handsome boys wanna see something good?” Ainsle said in a husky whisper.

Ben and Kieran met each other’s gaze before facing the old Berserker.

“Look what Ol’ Ain found.”

The scarred woman held up a dirty golden pendant on a delicate chain. Ben narrowed his eyes and saw that the dirt was, in fact, dried blood. And the pendant was an open palm.