Elderlore, Times of Rea; Vol. I

Chapter I: A night of outre

Late in the night, in a tavern warm with candlelight, commoners and travelors gather alike. They drink, they dine, they sing songs and hymns; no worry of when the day will rise. Coin being laid upon a table of cards, and mead being sold to guards at the bar.

All is traditional this night in Mirkshire; all but one oddity. In the far corner of the man-filled room, two kin light pipes in the shadows. No kin of any man here certainly, I observe, as I make out their figures. With a keen sight one would make sure of themselves that these two herb-burners, hidden within the far corner, are not men but dwarves. The rest of the room spared no attention to them. Perhaps they never noticed the dwarven figures, or maybe they had no interest in them. Whatever the reason, it is not traditional to see dwarven kin this far from the coast within the lands of Fallor, unless they be requested of; but by whom I wonder.

I subtly observe them, interpreting their movement, yet, I come to notice there is none. Not one quirk nor twitch, nor sniffs or an itch; no not even a word amongst themselves. They just sit there cloaked in darkness, their eyes faintly visable as they inhale the herb which feeds the light from their pipes; and then dims back on their exhale. Long and slow-pulsed is the lighting and dimming of their embers. I ponder on why they have come. Why in Mirkshire, and why in this tavern.

Then comes a voice, "Here's your mead love," says Miss Taeley, the barkeep's house hand. A lovely brod she is, still in her youth as a woman. Yet, in the midst of her bridal years she settles not for a husband. Keeping her heart open and her eyes peeled, for what I'll guess, a man of adventure and humility; whom be willing to carry her to lands afar and away from this traditionaly bore of a town. "Thank you dear. So, any man lucky enough to win you over yet?" I ask her. "None yet love," she answers with a smile. "Well how sounds you bet yourself this round of cards, and we'll see if I can win you?" says Oller, one of the men I am gambling cards with at our table. "Oh I dont think you have the right cards to be that lucky Oller," says Miss Taeley as she walks back behind the bar. The other men around the table burst out with low laughter as Oller seems short of a reply and a tad embarassed by it. All while tales and common word fill the air of the tavern, I take a sip of the fresh cool pint.

Then suddenly, the front door barges open, sounding a smack and then a thud against the wall, it was heard across the room. Everyone in the tavern fell to silence as their heads turn towards the ruckas. Someone standing just outside the doorway; hidden beneath the night sky. All that can be seen of the being is it's arm, lit by the candles as it stretches inward holding the door at its place. Slowly the shadow walks through the doorway and into the light. A man, followed by another wearing common cloths. The tavern folk turn back to their tables as their eyes saw nothing more of interest. All eyes in the tavern laid off the two men, all but mine.

The dwarves, still in their corner, inspect them from afar as the two men make their way to the bar. They sit down and after a short moment the first man subtly gazes over his shoulder directly at the dwarves, and cautiously gives them a slow methautical nod. I rest my hand on my dagger, expecting some kind of brawl or mischievous murder to take place. However, not even a ruchas occured, but instead the dwarves stood from their booth and made their way out the side door of the tavern; without causing any attention to themselves. The two men shortly after followed them doing the same.

Oller begins to utter, "It is your bet mongre-." but abruptly he cuts to silence as he finds the end of my dagger now resting on his throat. "If I were you...," I turn to him bringing weight to my words "I would not use that slight so; indiscreetly." I glance back at the side door where the few have disapeared through. "With that said gentlemen, I'll have to relieve myself from this round," I say as I sheath my dagger and make way for the front door.

Once outside, the air of the night lays as a heavy blanket. Thick with the moisture of the fog from the nearby Mirkwood, yet still brisk with winds from the north. Thus is the early spring, where the passing of a chill breeze and the forecoming of a scorching blaze quietly conflict one another. Taking notice of these elements I view the evidence of their existance upon the ground. Elusive, yet visible to a sharp eye, a plethora of commoners tracks.