Loreweaver's Alehouse

There is a place

Where monsters stalk the darkness

Where chaos corrupts the weakened soul

Where crowns are born of blood

And heroes are born from the whispers of the stars

Beware, adventurers

For in Archaea destinies are written in stone

And Fate is a cruel mistress

…but even stones must crumble…

·⚔︎·

There are those who wish to rewrite their destinies, to carve from stone their own tales.  Those patrons of Lore, outcast by Archaea, who scorn Fate and tempt Death.  Those too corrupt for good, and too good for darkness.

They call themselves The Fractured Fate.

·⚔︎·

We begin as all stories should: on a dark and stormy night.

The clouds – a swirling mosaic of greys and purples – blotted away the stars high above the city of Golton.  Rain thundered against the cobbled streets, fizzing against slat roofs, drip drip dripping into the rain channels along each side of the road.

Thunder rolled over the rooftops and every window in the city seemed to shudder.  In the streets, not a living soul moved.

On nights like this, when the winds and waters raged, only the stupid and desperate walked the dark streets of Golton.  The gods were angry enough as it was, elders whispered to their families, it was foolish to poke the slumbering divine.  To say nothing of The Creatures – abominations, corruptions that surfaced at night, waiting to prey on the unsuspecting citizens of the Blessed Sword City.

A singular ray of moonlight pierced through the darkness, slicing down at the cobblestones, casting a column of silver-grey down upon what looked to be an ordinary patch of cobblestone.  A figure slipped into the light, then disappeared, cloak swishing soundlessly beneath the roar of the rain.

This was, in fact, an ordinary patch of cobblestone, which sat at the mouth of an ordinary-looking alleyway.

And, at the end of the alleyway, nestled into the sooty brick alcove, weathered wooden sign swinging – creak, creak, creak – in time with the angry winds, was a very un-ordinary ale house.

Loreweaver’s Alehouse, the sign read.

The air inside Loreweaver’s Alehouse was warm.  Softly-flickering yellow lanterns adorned the walls and several of the cracked tables and benches.  The hearty smell of roasted meat intermingled with wood smoke and honey-mead.  Jovial music drifted through the air from a corner pedestal, where three figures plucked or drummed (or both) at their instruments, paying no attention to the midnight horse looming not far away.  Along one wall was a bar, behind which worked a tired-looking young man.  Several patrons dotted the room – some at the bar, some sprawled across benches, some engrossed in card games or private conversations or simply a quiet drink.

With a DING! from the bell overhead and a well-timed CLAP! of thunder, the door swung open.  A hooded figure stepped inside.  The door thudded shut behind them.

Two slim, delicate hands slipped out from under the cloak.  They grasped the edge of the hood and slipped it off their shoulders.  Water dribbled down to the floor.  With deft movements, they shed the cloak.

The heavy black folds of the cloak had hidden a wiry, almost gaunt-looking frame, ruddy brown hair pulled into two long, thin braids, tassled at the ends with frayed purple ribbons.  Piercing magenta eyes in a young face surveyed the room, then moved to the bar.

“Who is that?” whispered one patron – a weathered man with tangled black locks and an eye patch hanging around his neck – his cards forgotten in his hand.  His fellow players shook their heads.  They watched her slow, almost uncertain steps across the room.

Another patron, this one tucked into a dark corner of the room just behind the beast of a horse, face hidden by a heavy cloth across the mouth, eyes glowing yellow, thought, whoever she is, she’s stupid to be wandering about on a night like this.

The horse snorted and tossed its head, as if in agreement.

And yet another pair, at a table in the center of the room, watched with open curiosity.  Their faces, bruised and battered and obviously related, turned to follow the newcomer.  The one on the right had close-cropped black hair and enough muscle in his little finger to core an apple.  He jutted his chin, “think she’s got a job?”

The other one was a lean-muscled, shoulder-length haired copy of his brother.  He narrowed his eyes.  “She must be desperate, if she’s coming here.”

His brother grunted in agreement.

The “she” in question reached the bar.  She pretended not to notice the many eyes following her movements.  It felt like she had just entered a drungel’s den – one wrong move and the pack pounced.

Good thing she’d been extracting venomous drungel spines since before she could talk.

She took a breath and opened her mouth to catch the attention of the bartender.

He was already wiping a wet rag over the rim of a glass, watching her with unsettling, unblinking eyes.  Her words caught in her throat.  She cleared it.

And here comes the quintessential moment of every tale – when our characters must make a choice: to claim their story…or leave and allow chaos to swallow them whole.

“I need to speak with the Keeper of the Fractured Fate.”

Claimed.

The barkeep raised an eyebrow.  Many knew the name The Fractured Fate.  It was commonly followed by a laugh, or a punchline of a joke.  The Fractured Fate was the black mark on Adventurers’ Guilds, home to failures at best, and at worst…

…those who rejected the path written in their stars.

The girl shifted again.  Perhaps he hadn’t heard her.  “I need-”

“I know what ye think ye need, girl,” the barkeep rumbled, still wiping that same glass, wipe, twist, wipe, twist, wipe-  “Are ye sure-”

“Yes.”  Though her hands shook, her magenta eyes shimmered and her voice only trembled ever-so-slightly.

“Right then.”  The barkeep jutted his chin to the other side of the counter, where a tall figure worked, her long silver hair twisted behind her, dirty rag swiping crumbs and water rings off the counter.  “Yeh’ll want to speak with The Loreweaver.”  Her olive weathered skin was wrinkled and her eyes bore the soft lines of a smile, and yet her face somehow appeared impossibly young.

The Loreweaver.

Yes, she very much wanted to speak with The Loreweaver.

She moved to the other side of the counter, where the figure worked diligently.  “Are-are you the Lorewaver?”

Not looking up, the other bartender went to work on a particularly dark stain across the countertop.  “‘Round here, people call me Lore.”  Her voice was warm and rich, like sweet milk before bed, and sent tingles over the girl’s arms.  “What can I do for you?”

“I’m Amaryll,” she said.

The Loreweaver hand paused, mid-wipe.  Slowly, she met the girl’s gaze, her own earthy gaze sharpening.  It roamed across her features – her nose, face, eyes.

Amaryll cleared her throat.  “I’m looking for The Fractured Fate.”

·⚔︎·