The Shrew of Silvermount

Prologue - The Shrew of Silvermount

Windows and shutters clashed at their threshold, wrestling against the relentless winds that dared to intrude. Not a single soul lingered in the hall of that tavern except for those two men. The old innkeeper, because that was his dwelling, and the stranger, because he had inquiries to make.

"I need you to tell me more about that knight who came to your place yesterday."

The stranger in the overcoat demanded, his face adorned with a sparse beard and a rather dull expression. Those were some of the more memorable features of his countenance, aside from the shallow scar etched on the bridge of his nose. Seated alone on a barstool, he sipped at a glass of tepid water.

"It was a lass," the old innkeeper revealed, his voice textured with the weight of years. "But not the kind who weds and becomes a housewife in a cottage with three children. Those thousand-yard eyes, sharp as a waning crescent, seemed to have witnessed a hell my imagination could never conceive."

"A woman?"

The stranger had a broad two-handed sword resting inclined on the tavern counter-a formidable greatsword. The hilt covered in crinkled leather, black as jet. A blade too long to fit into a sheath.

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued, waiting for the old man to continue the story:

"The others refused to believe the Knight of Silvermount was a lady, but I swear on my only good eye, I saw it clear as day when she removed that helmet."

"I'm not questioning your honesty, old man."

The innkeeper covered his lips with a fist, clearing his throat before continuing, "But that wasn't even the weirdest part of it all."

The stranger leaned in, anticipation in his gaze, "And what was?"

"Some kind of monster. I'd never seen anything even remotely like it in all my years. A woman with ears and a tail of an animal. Her canines were as sharp as a wolf's fangs."

"A werewolf?" inquired the stranger, intrigued.

"No, nothing of the sort," the old man countered. "Aside from those three features, she was normal, just like us. Black hair, pale skin, and dark blue eyes. She even had a few freckles on her young face."

"The memory seems to be etched quite vividly in your mind, huh?"

"How do you think I would forget? She didn't talk much, but it's not like she needed words to make an impression."

"Did you at least try talking to her?"

"A bit, but she didn't seem very interested in what I had to say." The innkeeper scratched the back of his head. "She spent the whole night with a stern face, just like the grumpy old men in the square."

"Do you know her name?"

"I didn't ask; every word seemed to bring that shrew closer to ripping out my tongue. I'm not afraid of much, but she sent shivers down my spine."

The stranger in the overcoat had been persistent since he settled on the stool. The innkeeper sighed, fatigued by the probing questions from the lone customer on that snowy night.

The fireplace crackled, and a posthumous silence of a dead conversation filled the room. Breaking the ice, the innkeeper asked.

"So, outlander... what's your name?"

"Kinley," came the curt reply. "Luci Kinley."

"And what brings you to the forgotten realms of the world? We don't see many travelers here; you're the first in years. Not even the Knight seems to be a foreigner."

Kinley turned to the innkeeper, his gaze marked by the dark circles of sleepless nights. As if debating whether to reveal his motives, he responded with the dry indifference of his voice, "I'm looking for her."

The innkeeper widened his eyes, surprised. "The shrew? Why in the world would you get involved with a woman like that? There's plenty of fish in the sea, you know?"

Kinley remained stoic, his voice deep and unwavering. "I have my reasons. All I want from you is just to point me in the right direction."

"Some people really do have a death wish, it seems."

The innkeeper sighed, hesitating. "But if you're serious about going after that woman, rumor has it she took the northern route. It's a long road of snow and gravel. Maybe she'll stop by some of the nameless villages of the way. You may still catch her, if you're lucky."

Upon hearing the old man's brief words, Kinley rose from the stool, tossed a silver coin on the counter, and turned his back. The innkeeper asked, "Leaving? In this snowstorm?"

Kinley didn't answer, didn't nod. He didn't look back, didn't hesitate. The stranger walked silently toward the door's threshold. A fragment of the icy breeze entered the tavern, and the brass bells jingled as he closed the door.

The wind howled, and silence returned. That was the last time they saw that man around.