The Wayward Inn

Sunset was soon approaching, and a preternaturally heavy fog rolling into the valley had made an already fruitless hunt feel even more futile. Barely able to see more than a few paces in any direction, Amavi was ready to unstring her bow and start the trek back to town.

With a dispirited sigh, she dropped her pack on a patch of thick grass and plopped herself next to it. It had been weeks since any hunter in Silvest had brought back game from the valley. To have such a dry spell at the height of hunting season was unheard of, and many thought it was a bad omen.

Before his death, Amavi’s father had been one of the greatest trackers to hunt the Hanto Valley. In the time they had together, he endeavoured to teach Amavi every secret of his craft. How to orient oneself in the wilderness, to navigate, to spot tracks, and to identify calls. She hoped now to carry on his legacy, to live up to his name, and to turn the tide of the season, bringing some hope back to the town. But she had seen little besides birds and rodents all day, and this cursed fog made it impossible to see just about anything.

She opened her pack and pulled out a dry cloth to wipe her bow when a young boy laughed beside her. Startled, she jumped to her feet and turned to face the sound. But there was no one there. Since leaving town before first light, she had not seen another person in the valley. And peering into the fog around her now, she still saw no one. She pivoted and swept the surrounding mists in a slow circle. Nothing. Just as she came around again, her heart skipped. Not a stone’s throw from her, stood the silhouette of a buck obscured in heavy fog. As quietly as possible, she reached for her quiver and drew an arrow, nocked it, and drew for a shot.

Bow strung taught, her fingers trembled. The deer’s silhouette wavered in the heavy mist and waning light, making it difficult to be sure where it stood. Shooting blindly would be foolish. Even if she could be sure she’d hit the buck, anything less than a lethal shot would lead to a chase. Which, in these conditions, would likely end in a lost arrow and a bear somewhere having a free meal delivered. But she couldn’t afford to miss this opportunity. So she exhaled slowly, relaxed her fingers,

and a rush of air struck her cheek as the string twanged and the arrow flew toward its target.

The buck rushed forward in a mad dash. For a moment, it was clearly visible, then it disappeared into the heavy fog. The sound of crashing branches followed by an abrupt silence told Amavi that her shot was true. She shouldered her pack and bow and, with her knife out, she headed in after her prize. Clear tracks and disturbed foliage revealed the buck’s escape route. With a determined look and a satisfied smile, Amavi hurried after it. The path the buck took in his death throes was clear but surprisingly long. Maybe too long. Amavi wondered if perhaps she’d veered onto another animal’s trail, then the tracks stopped. Unless the deer had made a great leap, there should have been more prints here. The brush ahead seemed undisturbed as well. But there was no deer.

Low to the ground, Amavi swept the damp grass around her for any kind of track or sign. Perhaps of a predator or another hunter. But there was nothing. Then, a glint of light caught her eye. With a crouched step, she moved to investigate, and her brows furrowed in a worried expression. There in the grass lay her arrow. It was unmistakably hers as it bore her colours and her custom fletching. But it was clean. The shaft and the feathers showed signs of wear one would expect on an arrow fired from a bow and subsequently dragged through a forest by a hysterical boy deer. But there was no blood. She made a distinct mark on the arrow with her knife, thinking to examine it again in better light, then slid it back into her quiver.

As Amavi stood again, a boy’s laugh broke the silence. Heart pounding, she searched the fog again for any sign of the child. There in the fog before her, was the shape of a young boy. But, unlike a boy, its proportions are off, its arms a little too long, head a little too large. But more unusual than that were his glowing yellow eyes.

The boy-shaped creature stepped toward Amavi, and in a blink it stood immediately before her. Amavi gasped and flinched, then realized she had already planted her knife in one of its yellow eyes. The creature let out a scream like a boiling kettle and vanished into mist, leaving Amavi standing with her knife hand still extended in a thrust. Quivering with adrenaline, her eyes darted, searching.

That was certainly no child. But what was it? Perhaps the deer she shot had not been a deer either. Amavi’s father had told her once of the ijirak, the spirits of children who had become lost in the wilderness and died of exposure. Legend said the spirits used mind tricks to lead hunters into the deeper wilds, where they might experience the same fate. Was that what was tormenting her now? Was that what was driving the game out of the valley?

The knife in her hand was clean, as the arrow had been. Whatever she stabbed was likely not dead — if it had been any more than an illusion to begin with. She sheathed the knife and readied her bow with an arrow knocked. Her weapons might be useless against an ijirak, but if she could help it, she would not let the spirit get that close again.

The night air touched Amavi’s skin, and she shivered. The fog had lifted, but in its place the fullness of night had fallen, and she was left standing in the dark in the deep wilds, alone. No camp or fire and no idea where she was. An amateur mistake — losing track of time, getting caught in the dark. She knew she should have been better than this, smarter than this.

Panic brushed against Amavi’s nerves, but she fought it back. It was time to get out of there. To get anywhere else in the valley, anywhere she had been before. She had a warm cloak in her pack, as well as a fire steel, but she wouldn’t risk letting her guard down to retrieve it — not until she was far from this place.

Using the moon and stars as reference, Amavi oriented herself, set her shoulders and started west into the dense forest. The night was bitterly cold — too cold for late spring. Before long, Amavi shivered, and her breath cast vapour in the air. She could not continue like this much longer, but she kept catching glimpses of yellow eyes in her peripheral vision. Though when she turned, there was nothing but trees and empty darkness. Her fingers cramped around her bow, and she struggled merely to hold on to it. It would do her little good while she froze to death.

A fresh pang shot up Amavi’s arm as her hand seized. She dropped her bow and cursed under her breath. Resigning, she let her pack slide from her shoulders, fumbled the straps open and pulled out her cloak. Shr threw the cloak over her shoulders and wrapped it tightly around herself, curled into a tight ball on the ground, knees hugged tightly. With the hood pulled low over her head, she cut herself off from the world, just a ball of wool cloth on the forest floor.

Hidden beneath her soft green shell, she trembled, and tears flooded her eyes. She tried so hard to be like her father, to live up to his legacy, to be respected by her people. But that night she was just a terrified girl, lost and alone in the woods of the Hanto Valley. But she was still Hanto.

Amavi steeled herself, wiped her tears, and emerged from her cocoon to delve back into her bag to find her flint and steel. She hastily collected branches and tree litter from the forest floor and set to work building a fire. It didn’t take long before she had a modest flame, illuminating the forest and radiating warmth. In the new light, she retrieved her dropped bow and sat as close to the flames as bearable.

Feeling returned to Amavi’s fingers, and the embers of hope rekindled within her. She fashioned a wilderness torch out of a strip of wool cloth and resin from her pack and began resetting her kit for travel. As she worked, she glanced at her bedroll. It called to her like a deer in rut. She could just curl up in the relative warmth of the wool and fur and let the problems of this night drift away. It would be much easier to find her way in the morning light, after all. But she would not sleep - though her eyes were heavy and her limbs tired. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw those glowing yellow orbs and heard the shrill cry of the spirit. No, she would not be sleeping here.

As she finished her work, Amavi stood and dipped her new torch in the fire to catch light. A strange feeling turned in her stomach. Torch held high, she turned outward and surveyed the darkness. Yellow eyes shone back at her. She dropped her torch and un-shouldered her bow with a hunter’s swiftness, and loosed an arrow into the dark. With an unnerving scream, the yellow eyes vanished. Before she drew a second arrow, two more sets of glowing eyes appeared, and dread washed over her. She stumbled backwards, nearly falling into her own fire before scrambling upright again and sprinting into the forest.

With her eyes still adjusted to the brightness of the fire, Amavi’s run was clumsy. Her steps landed poorly on tree roots and uneven ground, and unseen branches cut at her face. Behind her, she heard the laughter of twisted children and the sounds of many small feet pattering along the forest floor. Finally, her eyes dilated, and seeing more clearly in the light of the full moon, she found her second wind. Her reckless retreat transformed into the deft run of a huntress from the Hanto. The sounds of her pursuers faded into the distance, and the spark of hope within her returned.

When she had run like this for some time, Amavi slowed her pace and listened. The sounds of the ijirak were far off behind her but already gaining fast. She wanted to scream but restrained herself. She clenched her eyes tight, and tears pooled in them. This was a nightmare!

Wiping her tears, Amavi tensed and readied to sprint again, but exhaustion hit her like a rogue wind. Her muscles ached and burned, and her legs nearly gave out beneath her. She looked around desperately for a path, a sign, anything. In the distance, a light flickered into being. It was blue, like one of the artificer’s lamps from home.

She didn’t know what it meant, but she fixed her gaze on that glow and stumbled forward as if it were a beacon of everything she’d ever hoped for. Despite her protesting muscles, she broke into a slow jog. Her breath ragged and her heart pounding, she begged her body to hold out just a little longer. Then she missed a step. Her foot landed on a root and rolled hard to one side. Pain shot up her calf, and time slowed as her legs gave out beneath her. She reached her hand out toward the blue light, as if begging it to catch her. As she did, the soft glow surged to fill her vision.

A rush of wind struck her in the back, pushing her forward in her fall. The world reeled. Her bow slipped out of her limp hand, and her face met a cushion of soft grass. Was this the end? Was this how she would die? Alone in the woods, an embarrassment to her father’s legacy? Resigning in defeat, she closed her eyes and, as her heart quieted, she listened. No more children laughing or the pattering of little feet. She heard an owl announcing its territory. Leaves gently rustled in the wind. A door creaked open on old hinges.

Footsteps approached, and from their weight and the sound of his breath, she knew it was a man. Was he a friend? Or had she stumbled from one kind of nightmare into another? Or perhaps this was all a trick of her mind in the last moments of her death. She willed herself to move. To stand up. To fight on. But her body no longer listened to her.

“You’re alright, you’re safe,” he said. With a muffled thud, the man dropped to his knees beside her. He pulled back her hood, brushed her hair aside, and placed two fingers firmly against her neck. Feeling for a pulse? She could feel it beating against his touch. Maybe she wasn’t dead after all. The pressure on her neck released, and his hands began gently pressing down the length of her spine and patting up and down each of her limbs, searching for something. Apparently satisfied, he gently rolled her onto her back. Amavi forced her heavy eyes open and looked at the man through tear-blurred vision. He had short hair and a close-trimmed beard. His face looked hard, but his grey eyes had a kindness to them.

“There you are,” he said as he brushed a strand of hair from her face as he spoke. Another set of heavy footsteps approached, and she tried to turn her head, but her body still refused her demands.

“Find yourself a new friend, Amos?” the newcomer asked as he approached.

“She’s alive. I can’t find any injuries, but she’s unresponsive. Seems like she’s been ghost-touched. Let’s get her inside, warm her up and get some hope back in her.”

Without a word, the other man bent down and scooped her off the ground easily, as if picking up a child. As he stood, he held her close to his chest, and her head lolled onto his shoulder. Her eyes fell closed again, but she fought back sleep.

The Forsaken Forest

Amos shivered as he pulled his cloak tighter around himself. After several years on the road, the garment looked as tattered as he felt. His steps were heavy, and he walked with hunched shoulders like a man twice his age. Beneath his cloak, his left hand rested on the hilt of his sword, while the right touched anxiously at a stone hung around his neck. His wife’s soul-stone amulet; a constant reminder of what he had lost, and why he pressed on.

The strangeness of this forest unnerved Amos. He could have sworn that with each step he took the trees drew closer in, as if moving to bar his path. Further, he was certain it could not have been more than a few hours since he entered the woods, yet already the sky was dark and the temperature was dropping rapidly. It was far too cold for autumn in The Heart. The frigid air bit harshly at the exposed skin of his face and hands.

Nevertheless, he continued, choosing his steps carefully in the scant moonlight that pierced the forest canopy. He thought of the torch in his heavy canvas pack, but he dared not light it. The forest was aggravated enough at his presence without introducing fire to the situation. It already felt as if every tree had eyes and each was fixed on him. Surely, most sane men would have turned and run by now. Or perhaps most sane men would never have entered the Forsaken Woods to begin with. According to the histories, these woods were not named for nothing.

Yet Amos ventured where few others dared because somewhere in these woods he would find an inn. It might seem an unusual place to seek an inn, but it was an unusual inn that he sought. This inn, so the stories told, had a rather frustrating habit of never being where you expected it to be. Yet it often was exactly where it needed to be. Tales perpetuated over pints by second- and third-hand accounts spoke of lone travellers, lost beyond hope, following a strange light in the deepest reaches of the wilderness and coming upon a peculiar yet welcoming inn.

From Amos’ research, he believed stories of the inn had begun circulating around the same time as the sudden influx of high strangeness - malevolent spirits, twisted creatures, and supernatural occurrences - across Satchea. Not long before his family were taken from him.

It had been nearly two years since that day. Returning home from a job as a sell-sword - taking innocent lives for coin - he found frost forming around the edges of the front door. When he stepped inside his breath cast a coiling mist. It was as if winter had come but had been constrained to those walls. When he found his family, they were sat up, rigid, lifeless, cold. Wearing empty expressions and distant stares. The air smelled of burning flesh, but there were no marks on their bodies — no sign of sickness or injury. As if they had simply decided to die where they sat.

Amos had barely rested since that day. He sought this inn now, in the Forsaken Wood in the dead of night, not merely out of curiosity, but to find answers, to find hope. Perhaps a promise of vengeance for his family. Or the strength and understanding to protect others from their fate. He would not be caught absent and unawares again. He could not.

A deep groaning and creaking of timber pulled Amos from his thoughts and stopped him dead in his tracks. All around him, the forest came to life, swelling into an uproar of rumbling, groaning, and cracking wood under a chorus of shaking leaves. The ground trembled and swelled, the last bit of moonlight faded and then blotted out. Just as quickly, the forest fell silent again.

In complete darkness, Amos stood still as stone. His heart pounded in his chest as he tried to quiet his breathing. His hand fixed on the hilt of his sword ready to draw, he listened. The woods were still. Beyond quiet, utterly devoid of sound. No gentle murmur of nocturnal birds or even the rustle of the wind through branches. If not for the cold biting at his skin and the soreness of his feet beneath him, Amos might have assumed he was dead.

His eyes darted in vain, looking for anything to orient himself. He noticed a faint glow of light. Soft purple emanated from under his own cloak. Curious, he unwrapped himself, and purple light spilled out, illuminating the forest floor ahead of him. The soul-stone around his neck was glowing bright - as if some latent magic had newly awoken. What sorcery was this? Amos touched the stone with his hand — it was warm, and the warmth permeated his hand and into his arm. He could almost feel her now. Almost hear her voice… Amos shook himself and pushed back the feeling. This was no place for sentiment.

By the light of his wife’s soul-stone Amos chose his next step, and another. He pressed into the dark with newfound determination. Then a different sound broke the silence — a creaking like a heavy door on old iron hinges. He slowed and peered into the darkness. In the distance, another source of light flickered to life. A soft blue glow. Amos’ heart beat with anticipation and he couldn’t help but smile. There you are.

Quickly as he dared, Amos moved towards the light. Crouching low and stepping lightly as if fearing to frighten off his quarry. But his stealth was foiled as the trees began shouting their threats again — groaning and rumbling as he passed them. He ignored them, shutting them out of his mind. Focused on the warm presence pressed to his chest and the hopeful beacon of light ahead of him. The blue light suddenly surged to flood his vision, the trees ahead of him peeled back like a curtain, and a strong wind struck his back, causing him to stumble forward. The world reeled; he lost his footing and crashed forward onto a bed of soft grass.

An owl hooted in protest at this new intruder. Amos blinked as his mind oriented itself, then he scrambled to his feet. Unsure of what had just transpired, or where he now was, he turned a quick circle, taking in his surroundings. It was still night, but the sky was open, and the moon and stars were bright. He stood in a large clearing surrounded by a dense forest. In the centre of the clearing loomed a three-story building of weathered timbers. Its windows illuminated with the same blue light he had followed. Next to the door hung a lantern, also blue.

Was this it? The mysterious inn? Amos stepped cautiously toward the building, squinting to make out the sign that hung above its door: The Wayward Inn. It felt somehow familiar and foreign at the same time. The door swung open, and warm fire light poured out of the building. A figure stepped into the frame. Small, slender, like a young woman, but her silhouette was… an elf?