Three friends sat at the tavern. The first was talking, the second was listening, and the third was hard at work assembling an argument to eviscerate the nonsense of the first. The fourth person in the tavern, the barkeep, was not considered a friend by the three. If asked, they would have described him as a friendly acquaintance, and perhaps acknowledged that he deserved such a status after decades of reliable acquaintancehood.

At the current conversational moment, the barkeep was neither listening nor preparing to talk. Instead, he was using all of his hard-earned mental fortitude—the kind normally reserved for monks on the tallest mountains—to sink his entire attention into the polishing of his favorite glass.

The first friend, named Barrow, was making an important point. To emphasize the importance, he had placed his hands on the bar and used the leverage to straighten his normally hunched spine, which resulted in him looking down on the other two with proper authority. Barrow was a man of proportions. Not good proportions, but ones which over the years had achieved a type of inverse perfection. He was as skinny as he was tall, the amount of hair in his massive gray beard was balanced by the lack of it on his scalp, and the number of teeth that remained in his mouth seemed to exactly match the number of scars on his face.

Currently, he was in the process of defending his integrity from unjust besmirchment, an exercise in which he’d had extensive practice. “And that,” said Barrow, “is why I couldn’t possibly have nicked Gill’s stupid little hat. No time at all to swing by his farm.”

The second friend, named Fats, let out a vaguely affirmative grunt. While Fats was indeed listening to Barrow’s words, he was not actually paying attention. He had heard this conversation in many forms throughout the years. Topics changed and so did the intensity, but the rhythm never wavered.

The third friend, named Gill, remained silent. His eyes had taken on a furious and feverish gleam, the full searing antipathy of which focused directly on Barrow’s face. This had mostly to do with Gill’s former rightful ownership of the missing goods in question, along with his chronic deep-seated skepticism of anything Barrow said.

“So now,” continued Barrow, “hopefully, we can put this unfortunate misunderstanding behind us. I’m insulted of course, but I think I can find it in my heart to forgive you.”

Gill decided to start slow, to lure Barrow in before engaging in a full verbal assault. “So you were busy renovating your hut?”

“Exactly,” said Barrow.

“And that same afternoon you were also busy wooing Lady Mills?”

“That’s right!” said Barrow, smiling wistfully. “Sweet old widow.”

“Her husband’s not dead.”

“Dead where it counts, eh?”

“And while you were busy with all this renovating and wooing, you had time to go by the pond and catch nine juicy fish?”

“Sure enough! Though now that you mention it, I believe it was ten.”

Fats stared into his drink. His always seemed to empty faster than the others. He looked up at the barkeep with an expression that resembled a pleading dog, and the barkeep poured him another. ‘Fats,’ in truth, was not his real name. It had been given to him many years prior as an ironic nickname, back when he’d been the strongest and fittest in the village. Over time, however, he had managed to grow into it. Age and alcohol had swollen his belly and bestowed a respectable sheath of jowls, leaving no trace of former fitness besides his enduringly powerful arms. Truthfully, he did not mind the nickname. It was what it was, as were most things in his life. Fats took a swig.

Gill, meanwhile, was calculating his next move. Gill was neither tall like Barrow nor large like Fats. If you had asked his wife to describe him, she would have shrugged. His one distinguishing feature was his propensity to wear a jaunty angular cap, one which practically shouted at bystanders that he knew a thing or two about archery, though at the moment the cap in question was conspicuously missing from his head. His one other noticeable trait was the tendency for his eyes to bulge whenever he used Facts and Logic to dress down his intellectual inferiors, a category which by his estimation included everyone he knew. His eyes were especially bulbous at the moment, because the inferior in question had almost certainly committed theft at his expense.

“Barrow, you’re an idiot!” The time for Tact was over.

“What’d you call me?”

“You’re a slimy thieving idiot!” yelled Gill. “You clearly stole from me and you’re too thick to come up with a proper excuse.”

“You better watch your—”

“You expect me to believe, truly, that you didn’t have time to steal my cap because you were installing a whole new floor plan, successfully wooing and breaking the heart of that dear woman all in one go, and catching more fish in that pond than we’ve seen in years?”

“Yes?” ventured Barrow.

“At least have the decency to settle on a single lie!” said Gill, banging his fist on the bar. “Which was it, remodeling or wooing or fishing?”

“All of them? I’m a busy man.”

Gill glared at him.

“Or maybe just one?”

“Give it back, Barrow!”

“First off, I can’t give it back because I didn’t steal it. Second off, it’s a measly little cap. Just buy a new one!”

Gill shook his head sadly. “They don’t make hats of that caliber anymore. It had the nice leather and perfect jaunty slope. Plus it was lucky. Seen me through more adventures than I can count.”

Barrow narrowed his eyes. “You don’t even believe in luck!”

“I don’t believe in your luck. I obviously believe in mine.”

“That’s a real shame then,” said Barrow, folding his arms. “I guess we’ll never know what happened.”

“And the night before, when you told me you’d get your hands on it so as to wipe the smug look off my face?”

“I don’t think I—”

“And you swore on your honor that you’d nab it so you could refashion and repurpose it for some hilarious and disrespectful end?”

“That’s just good banter, Gill. Shouldn’t take things so literally. Besides, wouldn’t your wife have been home? I mean, for her not to care if you were robbed … boggles the mind, doesn’t it?”

Gill coughed. “Don’t see how that’s relevant. And besides, she thinks you’re a scoundrel.”

Barrow chuckled. “I’m not saying she likes me. Just maybe more than you.” He winked.

Gill’s eyes had achieved full inflation. “At least I’ve got a wife!”

“Yeah,” said Barrow, rising to his full height, light glinting off his scalp. “And she loves you very much.”

Gill stood and stepped towards Barrow. He barely reached the other man’s shoulders, but his eyes made up the difference. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

As the argument transitioned into background noise for Fats, the large man realized that his drink had somehow, once again, become empty. He sighed, preparing to make some more miserable eye contact with the barkeep, when he noticed something had changed.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

First, he noticed the sound of the rain. What not long ago had been a respectable countryside drizzle had transitioned into something very different. Not a storm. No, this was something far more specialized. People who were less practical than Fats might have felt the need to introduce words like nimbus, or ethereal, or cacophony. Fats needed only two: boom and howl. Really it was the howling that gave it away, and by the time Fats had stood and burped and walked to the window, he was sure of what he would see. Yes, there it was. Cascading sheets of rain, constant flashes of lightning, and, most importantly, a fundamental darkness to it all. Only one thing could happen on a night like this.

Fats walked over to his friends. “I think one is coming tonight.”

“What!” said Barrow, who had been concocting a clever insult about how closely Gill tended to his livestock. “But last time the little spit—”

“Sprite,” muttered Fats.

“—said we’d conquered the evil forever!”

“Well,” said Gill, relishing the opportunity to correct, “the little spritz—”

“Sprite.”

“—actually said that we’d conquered the evil of the Warmore forever.”

Barrow frowned. “Well how many evils can there be?”

After a quick mental calculation, Gill said, “Based on previous experience, at least—”

“Anyway!” said Barrow. “Just seems like another is a bit excessive.”

Bang! Bang! Bang! The violent knocking on the door caused Barrow and Gill to flinch, Fats to sigh, and the barkeep to smile. There were few things that brought the barkeep joy, and this was one of them.

Fats moved to open the door.

“No!” shouted Barrow. “Don’t open it!”

“It’s a tavern and we’re open,” said the barkeep. “They can just come in.”

“Then why are they knocking like that?” It was a rhetorical question. They all knew why.

Bang! Bang! A cloaked figure burst through the doorway, propelled by a mass of wind and rain, and proceeded to collapse on the floor. Fats closed the door behind them.

“Hueeeeeecchh,” said the cloaked figure, followed by: “Ack. Ack. Ack.” While Barrow and Gill stood watching the newcomer, Fats went to the bar and gave a pleading look that was promptly fulfilled.

“Hueeh. Ack. Hueeh. Ack.”

“You alright there, friend?” asked Gill.

“We don’t know it’s a friend,” spat Barrow.

“Eh. Usually the one that stumbles in wounded is.”

“ACK! Ack. Danger.”

“What’s it say?”

“DANGER!” The figure threw back its hood to reveal an angular face of shimmering turquoise, with ears whose points stretched far past normalcy to form delicate, intricate spirals.

“Ah,” said Gill knowingly. “A spirelf.”

“You’re making that up.”

“Am not! I read about them once. They call them that cause of—well you’ve got eyes. Maybe if you cracked a book for once …”

“How about I crack a book over your—”

“Danger!” repeated the newcomer. “Heading this way.”

“It always does,” Fats said into his drink.

“The forest … dying.”

“Yep,” agreed Fats.

“Your village … next.”

Fats drained his ale.

“Hold on, hold on!” said Barrow, extending his gangly arms for emphasis. “I know where this is headed. I’ve seen it all before.”

“Not. Like. This.” The beautiful, shimmering being proceeded to spit up a torrent of blood.

“Yeah, I’ve seen that before too. You boys remember that prixie fellow—”

“Pixie,” said Fats.

“—who stumbled in with the hole in his—”

“You must take …” gasped the alleged spirelf. “This map.” The creature grabbed onto Gill’s shirt—an easier reach than Barrow’s—and pulled him closer, thrusting a scroll into his hand. “This map … will show the path … to defeating … the Tricker.”

“You mean trickster?”

“No!” The magical being began to cough in a most unmagical way, with red liquid and black liquid forming an impressive circumference on the wooden floor. “The TRICKER! You must hurry. There is not much time.” The wondrous specimen collapsed and went into a coughing fit so severe that Gill and Barrow had to retreat to the bar to avoid its range.

“You’d think the stuff would be … blue or something,” mused Gill.

Barrow nodded solemnly. “You’d think.”

With a final gasp, the spirelf died, leaving the tavern silent except for the sounds of the storm. Gill looked at the map in his hand. “So.”

“So,” agreed Barrow.

Fats said nothing. He gripped his empty mug while he watched the retreating form of the barkeep, who was retrieving the kit he kept for when such things occurred on his floor. Fats knew he could probably get away with going behind the bar himself, but there were certain rules he held sacred.

“Seemed nice enough,” said Gill, looking down at the body. “Must be a pretty serious evil to harm a spirelf like that.”

Barrow turned. “How many have we done, Gill?”

“Well if you include the—”

“A lot! We’ve done a lot. The village needed a lot of saving, and we’ve done more than our share. Let the kids do it! What’s the point of having the little bastards if they can’t pull their weight?”

Gill’s eyes started to bulge ever so slightly. “Really?”

“What?”

“You’re asking why the kids can’t do it?”

“Well … yeah.”

“Again?”

“I don’t see what the big—”

“Because there are none you idiot! You know that! They all left!”

“Can’t see why …”

“Each of my kids went through one of these and decided there were better prospects elsewhere. And that one time they brought the grandkids to visit, they got roped in, so now no more visits.”

Barrow scoffed. “That’s a lack of moral fortitude, that is. How are you supposed to properly appreciate a place if you don’t have to save it now and then?”

“Plus,” continued Gill, “I hear there’s a lot of growing industry at the Port.”

Barrow’s mouth twisted. “Probably full of crime too. Anyway, all I’m saying is why’s it got to be us again?”

Gill shrugged. “We’re the youngest.”

Barrow ran through his mental archive of people he had recently walked past. It did not take long. “Oh.”

“That’s right, and honestly I’m getting a bit tired of reminding you. We keep having the same conversation! You going senile on me, Barrow?”

“No …” Barrow frowned. “No,” he repeated with much more certainty. He looked over at the barkeep, who was cleaning up the magical death-bile. “What about you? You’re around our age, and I don’t remember you ever helping out.”

The barkeep looked up and shrugged. “I’m the barkeep,” he said, before returning to his task.

Barrow circled the tavern. “Honestly, it’s ridiculous, asking a man of my years to go down another treacherous road. I mean, I don’t know how I’d even begin getting ready.”

The barkeep, without raising his head, asked, “Why are your weapons by the door?”

Barrow whirled. “You know why! You said we couldn’t keep them on us inside. And then I said hey boys, how about we give him a close personal demonstration of how not dangerous they are.”

“And then I said,” Gill chimed in, “who would pour us drinks?”

“And I said, I can pour a drink at home well enough. Who needs some questless geriatric to do it for me?”

“Why do you come here?” asked the barkeep.

Barrow paused. “The atmosphere, I suppose. No thanks to you.”

“I think,” said Fats, still sitting at the bar, “that he’s asking why we bring the weapons here at all.”

Barrow and Gill turned and stared. “Cause there could be … bandits,” said Barrow.

“Unsavories,” added Gill.

“Have bandits ever come through here?” asked the barkeep.

“Sure they have. Remember the Root Riders?”

“Enchanted tree trunk bandits,” muttered Fats.

“And the Growup Gang.”

“Magical dream-stealing bandits …”

“Not to mention that cursed Pirate King, remember?” added Gill.

Barrow laughed. “That was a time, wasn’t it?”

“Sure was,” said Gill. “Sometimes I still wonder how he got so far inland.”

“Any normal bandits?” asked the barkeep.

“Well sure. I’m sure there were.”

“Must’ve been.”

The barkeep looked down and resumed scrubbing. Fats looked down and resumed staring at his drink.

“At least take a look at the map,” Gill said to Barrow.

“Fine! But not because I want to!”

“Then why’re you …”

“Just open it!”

Gill found space on the bar and unrolled the scroll. Barrow studied it as he stroked his beard and said, “Looks pretty standard to me.”

“Oh, you can read runes, can you?”

Barrow cleared his throat. “Bits and pieces. Anyway, look at the drawings. Right there, there’s the forest bit, there’s the monster bit, and there’s the swirly bit.”

“So we’re doing it?” asked Gill.

“Of course we’re not doing it! I’ve always answered the call, but there are only so many calls a man can answer.”

Fats, still depressingly out of ale and deciding to leave it be, looked towards the window. Strange. He could have sworn they’d come here in the evening. Yet now, clear as his impending hangover, the storm had given way to a sunny, dewy morning full of promise. Sighing, he placed some coins on the bar, walked to the doorway to pick up his axe and pack, and waited.

Barrow and Gill argued over the map.

“—just cause I’m the only one with better things to do with my time—”

“—cause you’re too senile to remember what time it is—”

“—just cause I’m not afraid to go home to my wife—”

“—cause you don’t have a wife—”

After a few more traded barbs over mental capacity and marital status, Barrow suddenly drew himself up and said, “I’ve decided!”

“Oh, you’ve decided then?” asked Gill.

“That’s right! I’ve decided we should help our twizzle-eared friend.” He glanced over to see a clean, disinfected floor where the spirelf had been. The barkeep had worked quickly.

“Oh. Well.” Gill glanced at the map before gathering it up. “Alright then.”

Barrow nodded. “Fats!” He turned to see Fats already armed and waiting at the door. “Oh. Right then. Good man.”

Gill joined Fats and strapped on his bow and quiver with quick efficiency. Barrow swaggered over and proceeded to take a bit longer with his sword. For one, getting the belt to stay on his barely existent hips took some finagling. More importantly, this was a sword, and an allegedly magical one at that, so it required ceremony. He drew it: a very long and very thin weapon that had a noticeable resemblance to Barrow himself. He kissed the blade and gave it a few sweeping flourishes.

“Not inside,” said the barkeep.

“Fine!” said Barrow. He sheathed his sword and pushed his way out the door, followed by Fats and Gill. “See, that’s the problem with our current economic system. Give one sweaty little barkeep a pissant bit of property, and he starts getting high and mighty, thinks he can tell people what to do when they’re in the place.”

Meanwhile, Fats was looking ahead. The village had a single proper road. One direction led to other, larger villages, and—if one went far enough—to the coast. The other direction led into the forest, and—if one went far enough—to some very strange places. That was the direction they were headed.