On the Trail...

Chapter 1: The Tale of Old Hickory

Chapter 1: The Tale of Old Hickory

Ken this: there was a man who made it his business to figure things out that most others were too frightened or lazy to ever take the time to give a hoot about beyond their own gossiping. But this one man never shied away because of fear, no he didn't, and he definitely wasn't the type who'd rather sit on his arse all day than make a few coins by dirtying them dexterous hands of his.

He fancied himself the inquisitive type, see, and even termed himself an inquisitor. No one gave him this title - he just preferred it over investigator or researcher; thought it sounded more respectable.

Being respectable was a thing that Mr. Jack Willows just couldn't do without. He always said there were only three things he enjoyed almost as much as being respectable, and them three things were "mounting steeds, mounting trophies, and mounting - "; well, maybe mentioning the last of this list wouldn't be very respectful of such a respectable fella as me, but I'd wager you get the point? Let me clarify, here. Mr. Jack Willows lived in a different time - one might say even a different place - than that which you are for knowing. It wasn't disrespectful to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. I will tell you this, though: Mr. Jack Willows was a good-looking, wide-travelled, well-spoken, and mysterious man. As such, he found plenty of opportunities to relax in the arms of those asking it of him, and he held no shame in his own heart for being freely romantic. He was always respectful, that he was, which is why he became known as the respectable sort, but being respectable isn't something you can mount, by my reckoning. It had to be discovered by action, and distributed by word of mouth, which made it a challenge above most any other. I suppose that's why Mr. Willows fancied being recognized as such more than anything else.

Understand that Mr. Willows often enjoyed taking a rest in the taverns of the world, see, because it was in those places that one might hear the most interesting tales. Being the inquisitive type, it made near-perfect sense for a man such as Mr. Jack Willows to frequent such places. There was something the inquisitor must have liked about listening to the tales of travelling bards, beleaguered travelers, haunted elderly folk, and adventurers of the Westerlands. Unless he listened only to catch a hint of his next job, which, being as determined a man as he, I'd wager that was it. On this particular night, rumors of a haunted house in a town called Rat's Nest had reached the ears of some folk east a-ways in the port town of Runner's Rest, so named because it sat on the river most any outlaw who had ever escaped from the Devil's Pen had used to get away. See, the Devil's Pen was a mountainside prison built a long time ago, even before the time of this tale of mine, by those who walked before mankind, and the fanged maw of its carved devil's face spewed forth the Runhern River like a boy throwing up too much whiskey after a night's drinking. But I digress; indeed, mayhaps I should set the scene before I go about explaining the whole Old World to you? Aye, more of that to come, once we've moved a little farther down the trail.

Now, Runner's Rest marked the meeting of the Runhern River and the Frothing Sea, and Mr. Willows had been sitting in what was once - aptly - named the Frothed Tankard Tavern, with back against the wall, dusted boots atop the table, wine in hand, and a tobacco roll between yellowed teeth, when he dropped the eaves on a few travelers who were playing a game of dice, and sharing their stories as freely as their coin.

For a time, without interruption, he listened to the tale, spoken by a haggard looking fella who fancied himself a fine storyteller, and, by my understanding, we're all about one-and-the-same.

As such, I'll tell the tale as he would have, albeit with less frothing of ale upon the beard, and none-too-many lapses into drunken incoherency...

***

The cellar of the debilitated house had kept an obfuscous lull for a near decade; black as pitch, silent as moonlight, and untouched since the day Old Hickory had tossed the jars down the stairs, shut the door, bolted the locks, and rushed off as far away as his aged, frail, bow-shaped legs would tote him along.