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In many respects, it was an evening not unlike most others, but Salmus, portly Innkeeper of the Speared Hag and respected denizen of Farforest Town, served his ale under a concerned brow. Farforest was not in itself a town of any real importance. It was, however, a waypoint between the city of Kasten and Waynesmeet Town. Both produced goods upon which the other relied, and so passing traders were not uncommon in Farforest, and traders needed a dry roof and a good mug of ale. Such was the way of things, and such was the source of Salmus’ living. The Speared Hag was the only Inn in Farforest, which made it the focal point of its small community and the point of exchange of all news and tales from those passing through.
But tonight, passing traders and the inhabitants of Farforest were not the only company enjoying the Inn’s hospitality. Folk with an air of danger about them had been arriving all evening: The kind that had not been seen in Farforest for a score or more years. The kind that Salmus had hoped he would never again encounter. Although they announced neither their profession nor their purpose, as much was plain by the manner of their arrival. Adventurers unwittingly shared an uncanny sense of timing. That they arrived separately announced that they were travelling alone to their purpose. That they arrived within hours of each other announced that their purpose was close. More than close, it was almost beyond doubt that they had arrived for some purpose within Farforest itself.
After passing two frothy mugs of ale to Cerin, the barmaid, Salmus resisted the urge to scowl as he began scanning the ale hall. The heavy-set man jovially gossiping with a small group of townsmen was the least alarming of the adventurers. He had been the first to arrive, and had been singing songs and exchanging stories ever since. His short beard held a tinge of grey that gave his appearance a hint of wisdom. But Salmus knew enough to dislike his presence. The hide clothing he wore was a stark contrast to the plate armour Salmus had seen bulging from the sack the man had carried in with him. A sack he had immediately carried to the room he rented for the night before returning to enjoy his ale. This, combined with his confidence and ability to extract information from the townsfolk without seeming to ask for it implied that this man was a sellsword by trade. And any sellsword that lived to this man’s wizened age was clearly able, and certainly dangerous.
The slight, hooded figure seated alone in the corner hunched over his ale as though he expected that it might at any moment attempt to flee was another matter altogether. To a less observant eye, he might have looked a mere pauper, some cowardly miscreant or a cursed leper. But Salmus’ eye had caught a glimpse of the bracers the man hid on his wrists beneath his black cloak. The markings were unmistakable. This man was either a part of, or had dealings with, the Black Fang Guild. As such, he must be either a thief or an assassin. Either way, his presence caused a large part of the consternation Salmus currently felt weighing on his mind.
The rest of his concern was reserved for the abomination that had thankfully chosen to spend the entire evening in its room. When the creature had entered the Speared Hag, little had seemed amiss bar the obvious effort it had taken to cover its skin with cloth and gloves, and hide its face behind a hood and a scarf. That the creature spoke with a lisp and in a strange accent did not cause Salmus alarm, and it was not until the creature had accepted the key to a room and turned to gain its room that its eyes caught reflection from one of the lamps. The thought of those snake-eyes made Salmus’ blood run cold. Memories of forgotten wars and parents lost tore through him like fire.
Salmus swore under his breath and began wiping spilt ale from the sides of his bar. Doing so, he didn’t notice the Inn’s door swing open. He didn’t feel the autumn evening breeze sweep in, much less the person it carried in with it. With his attention deliberately turned away from the unsavoury types filling his Inn, the noise of the evening’s drinking fell to the back of his mind, or so he thought. It was only when the noise fell so far back as to become silent that Salmus realised that the Inn had indeed ceased making any noise. Every mouth had fallen quiet; even the jovial song of the sellsword and his table had ceased abruptly. A sensation not unlike fear ran down Salmus’ spine as his mind raced through the possibilities. What now? What manner of hell-swine had found its way to his doorstep looking to ply some unwanted trade in Farforest?
Barely able to summon the courage to keep his hands from covering his eyes, he turned to face the new entrant, and what he saw stood before him, stroking down her robes as though the wind had inconvenienced her appearance was a creature he had never imagined he would set eyes upon. With chalky grey-purple skin, bright white eyes and an air of natural superiority, she was doubtless of Drow origin. The Dark Elves who had been the cause of more death than any war with snake-men. Bile filled Salmus’ throat, and he considered for a moment to cast her away in the sternest voice he could command. But before he had chance to speak, the Drow female placed a hand on the bar.
“Barkeep” she said, her voice at once commanding and elegant. Every word seemed to echo slightly as though some invisible person stood beside her speaking her words in unison. “I require a room.”
To his surprise, Salmus found that he could do nothing but hand over a key. With this in hand, the Drow disappeared to her room. Quickly, the room burst into quiet whispers. Tales exchanged of Drow magic and treachery. Rumours of the quick deaths dealt out at their hands. A hooded thief lowered his head back to his mug, and an ageing sellsword began to sing a song. The traders and townsfolk were quickly back to their ales, and before long, it was as though nothing had happened.
But Salmus found a quiet corner away from his bar and his patrons, and wept. He wept because too much was happening in one night for him to digest, but also because he knew that on this night, a whole world of danger slept in his Inn, and he was utterly powerless.
But tonight, passing traders and the inhabitants of Farforest were not the only company enjoying the Inn’s hospitality. Folk with an air of danger about them had been arriving all evening: The kind that had not been seen in Farforest for a score or more years. The kind that Salmus had hoped he would never again encounter. Although they announced neither their profession nor their purpose, as much was plain by the manner of their arrival. Adventurers unwittingly shared an uncanny sense of timing. That they arrived separately announced that they were travelling alone to their purpose. That they arrived within hours of each other announced that their purpose was close. More than close, it was almost beyond doubt that they had arrived for some purpose within Farforest itself.
After passing two frothy mugs of ale to Cerin, the barmaid, Salmus resisted the urge to scowl as he began scanning the ale hall. The heavy-set man jovially gossiping with a small group of townsmen was the least alarming of the adventurers. He had been the first to arrive, and had been singing songs and exchanging stories ever since. His short beard held a tinge of grey that gave his appearance a hint of wisdom. But Salmus knew enough to dislike his presence. The hide clothing he wore was a stark contrast to the plate armour Salmus had seen bulging from the sack the man had carried in with him. A sack he had immediately carried to the room he rented for the night before returning to enjoy his ale. This, combined with his confidence and ability to extract information from the townsfolk without seeming to ask for it implied that this man was a sellsword by trade. And any sellsword that lived to this man’s wizened age was clearly able, and certainly dangerous.
The slight, hooded figure seated alone in the corner hunched over his ale as though he expected that it might at any moment attempt to flee was another matter altogether. To a less observant eye, he might have looked a mere pauper, some cowardly miscreant or a cursed leper. But Salmus’ eye had caught a glimpse of the bracers the man hid on his wrists beneath his black cloak. The markings were unmistakable. This man was either a part of, or had dealings with, the Black Fang Guild. As such, he must be either a thief or an assassin. Either way, his presence caused a large part of the consternation Salmus currently felt weighing on his mind.
The rest of his concern was reserved for the abomination that had thankfully chosen to spend the entire evening in its room. When the creature had entered the Speared Hag, little had seemed amiss bar the obvious effort it had taken to cover its skin with cloth and gloves, and hide its face behind a hood and a scarf. That the creature spoke with a lisp and in a strange accent did not cause Salmus alarm, and it was not until the creature had accepted the key to a room and turned to gain its room that its eyes caught reflection from one of the lamps. The thought of those snake-eyes made Salmus’ blood run cold. Memories of forgotten wars and parents lost tore through him like fire.
Salmus swore under his breath and began wiping spilt ale from the sides of his bar. Doing so, he didn’t notice the Inn’s door swing open. He didn’t feel the autumn evening breeze sweep in, much less the person it carried in with it. With his attention deliberately turned away from the unsavoury types filling his Inn, the noise of the evening’s drinking fell to the back of his mind, or so he thought. It was only when the noise fell so far back as to become silent that Salmus realised that the Inn had indeed ceased making any noise. Every mouth had fallen quiet; even the jovial song of the sellsword and his table had ceased abruptly. A sensation not unlike fear ran down Salmus’ spine as his mind raced through the possibilities. What now? What manner of hell-swine had found its way to his doorstep looking to ply some unwanted trade in Farforest?
Barely able to summon the courage to keep his hands from covering his eyes, he turned to face the new entrant, and what he saw stood before him, stroking down her robes as though the wind had inconvenienced her appearance was a creature he had never imagined he would set eyes upon. With chalky grey-purple skin, bright white eyes and an air of natural superiority, she was doubtless of Drow origin. The Dark Elves who had been the cause of more death than any war with snake-men. Bile filled Salmus’ throat, and he considered for a moment to cast her away in the sternest voice he could command. But before he had chance to speak, the Drow female placed a hand on the bar.
“Barkeep” she said, her voice at once commanding and elegant. Every word seemed to echo slightly as though some invisible person stood beside her speaking her words in unison. “I require a room.”
To his surprise, Salmus found that he could do nothing but hand over a key. With this in hand, the Drow disappeared to her room. Quickly, the room burst into quiet whispers. Tales exchanged of Drow magic and treachery. Rumours of the quick deaths dealt out at their hands. A hooded thief lowered his head back to his mug, and an ageing sellsword began to sing a song. The traders and townsfolk were quickly back to their ales, and before long, it was as though nothing had happened.
But Salmus found a quiet corner away from his bar and his patrons, and wept. He wept because too much was happening in one night for him to digest, but also because he knew that on this night, a whole world of danger slept in his Inn, and he was utterly powerless.
An excellent intro to a longer story... is there more to come?
Magnificent.
Nicely familiar in style, but still fresh and clean, with lots of them nice wordy-stringy things.
Nicely familiar in style, but still fresh and clean, with lots of them nice wordy-stringy things.
In many respects, it was an evening not unlike most others, but Salmus, portly Innkeeper of the Speared Hag and respected denizen of Farforest Town, served his ale under a concerned brow. Farforest was not in itself a town of any real importance. It was, however, a waypoint between the city of Kasten and Waynesmeet Town. Both produced goods upon which the other relied, and so passing traders were not uncommon in Farforest, and traders needed a dry roof and a good mug of ale. Such was the way of things, and such was the source of Salmus’ living. The Speared Hag was the only Inn in Farforest, which made it the focal point of its small community and the point of exchange of all news and tales from those passing through.
But tonight, passing traders and the inhabitants of Farforest were not the only company enjoying the Inn’s hospitality. Folk with an air of danger about them had been arriving all evening: The kind that had not been seen in Farforest for a score or more years. The kind that Salmus had hoped he would never again encounter. Although they announced neither their profession nor their purpose, as much was plain by the manner of their arrival. Adventurers unwittingly shared an uncanny sense of timing. That they arrived separately announced that they were travelling alone to their purpose. That they arrived within hours of each other announced that their purpose was close. More than close, it was almost beyond doubt that they had arrived for some purpose within Farforest itself.
After passing two frothy mugs of ale to Cerin, the barmaid, Salmus resisted the urge to scowl as he began scanning the ale hall. The heavy-set man jovially gossiping with a small group of townsmen was the least alarming of the adventurers. He had been the first to arrive, and had been singing songs and exchanging stories ever since. His short beard held a tinge of grey that gave his appearance a hint of wisdom. But Salmus knew enough to dislike his presence. The hide clothing he wore was a stark contrast to the plate armour Salmus had seen bulging from the sack the man had carried in with him. A sack he had immediately carried to the room he rented for the night before returning to enjoy his ale. This, combined with his confidence and ability to extract information from the townsfolk without seeming to ask for it implied that this man was a sellsword by trade. And any sellsword that lived to this man’s wizened age was clearly able, and certainly dangerous.
The slight, hooded figure seated alone in the corner hunched over his ale as though he expected that it might at any moment attempt to flee was another matter altogether. To a less observant eye, he might have looked a mere pauper, some cowardly miscreant or a cursed leper. But Salmus’ eye had caught a glimpse of the bracers the man hid on his wrists beneath his black cloak. The markings were unmistakable. This man was either a part of, or had dealings with, the Black Fang Guild. As such, he must be either a thief or an assassin. Either way, his presence caused a large part of the consternation Salmus currently felt weighing on his mind.
The rest of his concern was reserved for the abomination that had thankfully chosen to spend the entire evening in its room. When the creature had entered the Speared Hag, little had seemed amiss bar the obvious effort it had taken to cover its skin with cloth and gloves, and hide its face behind a hood and a scarf. That the creature spoke with a lisp and in a strange accent did not cause Salmus alarm, and it was not until the creature had accepted the key to a room and turned to gain its room that its eyes caught reflection from one of the lamps. The thought of those snake-eyes made Salmus’ blood run cold. Memories of forgotten wars and parents lost tore through him like fire.
Salmus swore under his breath and began wiping spilt ale from the sides of his bar. Doing so, he didn’t notice the Inn’s door swing open. He didn’t feel the autumn evening breeze sweep in, much less the person it carried in with it. With his attention deliberately turned away from the unsavoury types filling his Inn, the noise of the evening’s drinking fell to the back of his mind, or so he thought. It was only when the noise fell so far back as to become silent that Salmus realised that the Inn had indeed ceased making any noise. Every mouth had fallen quiet; even the jovial song of the sellsword and his table had ceased abruptly. A sensation not unlike fear ran down Salmus’ spine as his mind raced through the possibilities. What now? What manner of hell-swine had found its way to his doorstep looking to ply some unwanted trade in Farforest?
Barely able to summon the courage to keep his hands from covering his eyes, he turned to face the new entrant, and what he saw stood before him, stroking down her robes as though the wind had inconvenienced her appearance was a creature he had never imagined he would set eyes upon. With chalky grey-purple skin, bright white eyes and an air of natural superiority, she was doubtless of Drow origin. The Dark Elves who had been the cause of more death than any war with snake-men. Bile filled Salmus’ throat, and he considered for a moment to cast her away in the sternest voice he could command. But before he had chance to speak, the Drow female placed a hand on the bar.
“Barkeep” she said, her voice at once commanding and elegant. Every word seemed to echo slightly as though some invisible person stood beside her speaking her words in unison. “I require a room.”
To his surprise, Salmus found that he could do nothing but hand over a key. With this in hand, the Drow disappeared to her room. Quickly, the room burst into quiet whispers. Tales exchanged of Drow magic and treachery. Rumours of the quick deaths dealt out at their hands. A hooded thief lowered his head back to his mug, and an ageing sellsword began to sing a song. The traders and townsfolk were quickly back to their ales, and before long, it was as though nothing had happened.
But Salmus found a quiet corner away from his bar and his patrons, and wept. He wept because too much was happening in one night for him to digest, but also because he knew that on this night, a whole world of danger slept in his Inn, and he was utterly powerless.
But tonight, passing traders and the inhabitants of Farforest were not the only company enjoying the Inn’s hospitality. Folk with an air of danger about them had been arriving all evening: The kind that had not been seen in Farforest for a score or more years. The kind that Salmus had hoped he would never again encounter. Although they announced neither their profession nor their purpose, as much was plain by the manner of their arrival. Adventurers unwittingly shared an uncanny sense of timing. That they arrived separately announced that they were travelling alone to their purpose. That they arrived within hours of each other announced that their purpose was close. More than close, it was almost beyond doubt that they had arrived for some purpose within Farforest itself.
After passing two frothy mugs of ale to Cerin, the barmaid, Salmus resisted the urge to scowl as he began scanning the ale hall. The heavy-set man jovially gossiping with a small group of townsmen was the least alarming of the adventurers. He had been the first to arrive, and had been singing songs and exchanging stories ever since. His short beard held a tinge of grey that gave his appearance a hint of wisdom. But Salmus knew enough to dislike his presence. The hide clothing he wore was a stark contrast to the plate armour Salmus had seen bulging from the sack the man had carried in with him. A sack he had immediately carried to the room he rented for the night before returning to enjoy his ale. This, combined with his confidence and ability to extract information from the townsfolk without seeming to ask for it implied that this man was a sellsword by trade. And any sellsword that lived to this man’s wizened age was clearly able, and certainly dangerous.
The slight, hooded figure seated alone in the corner hunched over his ale as though he expected that it might at any moment attempt to flee was another matter altogether. To a less observant eye, he might have looked a mere pauper, some cowardly miscreant or a cursed leper. But Salmus’ eye had caught a glimpse of the bracers the man hid on his wrists beneath his black cloak. The markings were unmistakable. This man was either a part of, or had dealings with, the Black Fang Guild. As such, he must be either a thief or an assassin. Either way, his presence caused a large part of the consternation Salmus currently felt weighing on his mind.
The rest of his concern was reserved for the abomination that had thankfully chosen to spend the entire evening in its room. When the creature had entered the Speared Hag, little had seemed amiss bar the obvious effort it had taken to cover its skin with cloth and gloves, and hide its face behind a hood and a scarf. That the creature spoke with a lisp and in a strange accent did not cause Salmus alarm, and it was not until the creature had accepted the key to a room and turned to gain its room that its eyes caught reflection from one of the lamps. The thought of those snake-eyes made Salmus’ blood run cold. Memories of forgotten wars and parents lost tore through him like fire.
Salmus swore under his breath and began wiping spilt ale from the sides of his bar. Doing so, he didn’t notice the Inn’s door swing open. He didn’t feel the autumn evening breeze sweep in, much less the person it carried in with it. With his attention deliberately turned away from the unsavoury types filling his Inn, the noise of the evening’s drinking fell to the back of his mind, or so he thought. It was only when the noise fell so far back as to become silent that Salmus realised that the Inn had indeed ceased making any noise. Every mouth had fallen quiet; even the jovial song of the sellsword and his table had ceased abruptly. A sensation not unlike fear ran down Salmus’ spine as his mind raced through the possibilities. What now? What manner of hell-swine had found its way to his doorstep looking to ply some unwanted trade in Farforest?
Barely able to summon the courage to keep his hands from covering his eyes, he turned to face the new entrant, and what he saw stood before him, stroking down her robes as though the wind had inconvenienced her appearance was a creature he had never imagined he would set eyes upon. With chalky grey-purple skin, bright white eyes and an air of natural superiority, she was doubtless of Drow origin. The Dark Elves who had been the cause of more death than any war with snake-men. Bile filled Salmus’ throat, and he considered for a moment to cast her away in the sternest voice he could command. But before he had chance to speak, the Drow female placed a hand on the bar.
“Barkeep” she said, her voice at once commanding and elegant. Every word seemed to echo slightly as though some invisible person stood beside her speaking her words in unison. “I require a room.”
To his surprise, Salmus found that he could do nothing but hand over a key. With this in hand, the Drow disappeared to her room. Quickly, the room burst into quiet whispers. Tales exchanged of Drow magic and treachery. Rumours of the quick deaths dealt out at their hands. A hooded thief lowered his head back to his mug, and an ageing sellsword began to sing a song. The traders and townsfolk were quickly back to their ales, and before long, it was as though nothing had happened.
But Salmus found a quiet corner away from his bar and his patrons, and wept. He wept because too much was happening in one night for him to digest, but also because he knew that on this night, a whole world of danger slept in his Inn, and he was utterly powerless.