Found in Volume 6 of F.M-P’s folklore anthologies. The author’s footnotes have been preserved.

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I learned this story from a dwarven tavern keeper I met by chance on my travels, whilst seeking shelter on one of those nights where wild, wind-swept rain blinds all who dare to travel. He was pale and lanky from age, his eyes faintly defined. I asked about strange events he’d seen (so I could add to my chronicles), and he obliged. Of the week I spent in his company, being regaled with tales he’d heard in his youth and treated like the guest of honor¹, I am obligated to state that this was one of the last ones he told me.

“She ran a caravan back then, one that went from the frosty peaks in the north to the swamplands in the south, carting around silks and spices worth twice their weight in gold… at least until the bridge broke beneath them, sending it all down to the rocks below. Pretty sure something broke when she saw her whole life plummet into that abyss: her work, her children, her savings, and almost everyone she knew, devoured in an instant by the cruel whims of fate. I knew something had happened when she checked in that night — her caravan ran like clockwork — so I offered her a free room until the solstice so she didn’t have to worry about getting a roof over her head. Wasn’t long before she decided to try and salvage what she could from the wreckage, deep beneath the mountain’s shadow. I’d tried to talk her out of it, or at least out of going alone, but she was persistent; said that it was best to air out those bad memories before they started to stink, and that was before I made the mistake of telling her to sleep on it. She was long gone before I made it downstairs.

When she returned after dusk, she was looking worse than when she’d come in, shaking from fear and the frigid air, carrying only one small thing that she neither spoke of nor let me examine. Other than those facts… all I have is what she told me.”

With this, he passed me a drink with “some of the strong stuff”. Said I’d need it. He clearly did, given how quickly he downed it.

“In the brush, she met a man. Didn’t speak much of him, but told me his skin was darker than ebony, his smile had far too many teeth, and the ways in which he twitched made clear his inhuman² nature. Calling himself ‘The Storyteller’, he offered her a deal: If she, within 3 stories, could entertain him, he’d give her something she could rebuild her life around. I don’t know what he threatened should she fail — she’d shuddered and refused to speak of it. Now, she’d thought it would be easy: as a traveling merchant, she’s heard stories throughout the known world. Thus, she told him this:”

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The Saint and the Goat #

Once in the town of Maston-Eerie, a missionary who believed with all her heart that the sun shone out her ass came a’preaching up the great green hill, demanding respect and reverence. Now, one thing you should know about Maston-Eerie is that they get their money from the goats. Goat milk, goat cheese, goat hair carpets, they sell every part of those goats an’ they treat them like royalty. Now, this self-proclaimed saint didn’t really like that — what good is attention if it isn’t hers, that’s how I’d put that — so when she saw them goats she couldn’t exactly stop herself. Nay, she puffed right up on seeing that Alpine goat before hollering:

”I am here to save your souls, you godless imbeciles! Listen here and —“

Now, Berta (for that was the brave Alpine’s name) wasn’t exactly tolerant of cocky travelers, especially the loud ones. Thus, it was no surprise to the folks of Maston-Eerie when she went for her classic move: taking a bite out of the offender’s clothing. Naturally, the unsuspecting missionary began shrieking once Berta did that, trying to pull her various veils and tassels away, but that goat was quite persistent.

Eventually the missionary decided to go on the offense, but Berta had always loved rough play, and although the missionary was built like a farm girl she certainly wasn’t one; once you accounted for her rather silly choice of footwear, her tumble down the muddy cobblestones was basically inevitable.

Now, if the people of Maston-Eerie thought that prideful preacher was loud enough before, her ghastly shrieking and sailing words³ certainly corrected them. By this point everyone was watching the showdown between the saint and the goat; Old Man Everclear was peerin’ out the window, the spinsters were walking as they worked, and every window in the inn was full of faces following the duo as they rolled down Main Street over the far side of that great green hill. The children bolted after that hollering pair as the adults tried to find a balance between responsibility and their own curiosity (and trust me, more than a few deemed curiosity superior). It was only natural that Berta’s mates formed a great caprine fighting circle, ready for the duo once they made it downhill.

By this point that foolish foreigner had been darn near bashed into submission between Berta and the brickwork, but she wasn’t quite there yet and I’ll admit there’s a small part of me that respects her for it. That woman started weaving hexes under her breath as her eyes glowed and her fingers twitched, but that clever Alpine didn’t give a flying fuck whether that woman was weavin’ a death hex or merely indigestion for she knew exactly what to do.

Berta climbed right on top of that wanna be saint, looked her dead in the eyes, and shat on her.

---

“With a grin on her face and look of great contemplation on his, that traveler swore there was a solid minute before the Storyteller spoke, but speak he did, slower and deeper than anything that belongs here.

‘A rather excellent exhibition of Schadenfreude, I must admit’ (and with this he gave a malignant, hollow grin), ‘but I prefer darker fare.’”

At this, the innkeeper stood from where he was seated. He asked me if I was getting hungry, eyes darting and voice quaking. I humored him by requesting a cheese board.

“With one of her three chances lost, the trader knew the Storyteller wouldn’t be satisfied with mere tavern fare. Dredging up the strangest stories from her travels, the most unnerving of unsolved mysteries, she eventually decided on this:”

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The Fall of the Castle at Yenszev #

A few things are known about this odd event. First, that whatever happened there, happened within the span of a week. Second, that the only known survivor was found on the other side of the great green forest that neighbored the town⁴; She was half mad, pale as a ghost and shaking like she’d seen one, feet rotting off her as she puked up blood. Lastly, by the time people were able to investigate, naught but corpses remained. This is the story told to them by the girl.

“It had been raining throughout the whole of our lordship’s expedition into the old wood, a fact I now know as the first of many bad omens. T’was the midst of the harvest when he went out, and its end once he returned, newly burdened with some treasure the nature of which we were never told. By the morning after he’d brought that accursed thing into the keep, a swarm of rats had broken in, eating through his prized cheese collection and much of our cured meats, only barely stopped by the rat catchers before they would have reached the grain silos. Naturally, the rumors followed the rats; that the gods were angry at our lords for his theft of the artifact; that the artifact itself was what the rats were seeking; and even that our lord had traded our good fortune for temporary gold. There is no way for us to know now.

By noontime the whole town was shaking, puking, and speaking of strange lights in the wilderness. One brave knight by the name of Sir Wilcomb went to investigate, and we watched as he was swallowed up by the forest⁵, never to return. Between that and the flood, none dared leave afterward. The clerics helped as best they could, but relief was limited and fleeting. Dusk came with new signs: few could remain upright, and many spoke of hellhounds biting off their fingers, toes, noses and ears. What I heard from the forest-witches among my ancestors was that it was the devil taking bites out of their souls, and as it was devoured the empty flesh would wither away. They told me not to bother with prayers, for it would infuriate the one who caused this – they gave no answer when I asked them who. The other townsfolk spoke of invisible spiders binding the town within a vast web which we could not see, demonic wolves wearing the skins of our neighbors, and how the blood of the earth wept from the cracks in the walls and from beneath the cobblestones. I watched as the stars stared down at us, hateful and condemning. I watched as our cows grew so weak they couldn’t even stand, and as my neighbors desperately hunted for witches, throwing anyone with a clear head upon the pyre. The days passed in a blur of panic and delirium, as everyone grew sicker by the hour.

The hearth kept me company. My ancestors asked for bread and left me with milk and the eggs from the hen we’d kept hidden. At some point where the earth was kissing the sun in her violet robes, they told me that I had to run. That Fire was coming and if I didn’t start running right then, I’d never leave Yenszev’s keep again. I listened, bringing the hearthfire on a torch to guide me, running as fast as I could and never looking back, no matter what my burning feet conspired to trip me upon, no matter what thorny path I had naught but my cloak to protect me from. The forest was filled with malicious laughter from hundreds of hidden hunters, but my ancestors guided me to safety within the walls of Caesvilt, where I slept like the corpse I should have been for three days, by my caretaker’s reckoning.

Once I did wake up, the people of Caesvilt begged me for answers: about where I’d come from, what had sent me running, about my wounds. I told them everything I knew, but even before they told me what had happened I knew that I was the only one who’d left.

They told me that Yenszev was gone: our thick stone walls had been reduced to powder, and raiders had stolen everything else. Many of the townsfolk had been burned in the strange inferno that had arrived in spite of the relentless rain. The fire was the first sign that something was amiss for Caesvilt, and they had sent aid immediately, but it was a walk of several days and by the time they’d arrived, all that remained were the corpses — no artifacts, no survivors, nothing but my memories to explain what had happened there. Even the last flame of my hearth, cradled by the torch, had perished; The healers knew not what it was, and understandably prioritized my life over it.

I could not bear to be the solitary flame from Yenszev; the people of Caesvilt could not bear to see me without family or lineage. Thus, when the caravaneers arrived that year, they introduced me to the man who would become my husband.”

---

“The Storyteller’s face did not change when the story concluded. He merely stated, as if to a child: ‘Unusual as this story may appear, there is but a simple explanation: An infestation within the grain that went to infest the town. The rats and the flood and the ravagers were unlucky, sure; but there is no worse luck than the will of the gods.’

My companion… sorry, the Traveler, said she was desperate to find words to speak with, something else she could use to stave off her doom, but fortunately, that condemning silence was merely a pause in the Storyteller’s reply.

‘I must ask you to tell anyone else who hears that story this: that if such poor conditions should convene again, one must be sure to wash all grain in a mix of 3 parts salt to 20 parts water, mix it vigorously, and be sure to discard and destroy anything that floats to the top before grinding up or eating it;’ he said innocuously, ‘although this is merely a stopgap, and leaving should be one’s first priority. I’m sure the stiff horn structures laced up tight within your boots would attest to this.’

At this, the Traveler finally decided to ask what the Storyteller found entertaining; his response of ‘only the emotional nature of the people found here’ gave her an idea; it was an old story, well known around those parts, but it was one her children had enjoyed, and she could spin that yarn quite well indeed.”

The tavern keeper told me that he couldn’t hope to match the way his regular had told the following story, so I have added my own flair to what follows in an attempt to do her talents justice.

---

Pam Lenora #

Long ago when the world was young, there was a village filled with all sorts of people. They didn’t distinguish between the great races back then, and those people were not familiar with Death as we are today. Within that village lived a weaver known as Pam Lenora, who was rather small, very clever, and industrious like few others. Many bachelors waxed poetic of her lovely face and kind nature, yet the one thing Pam Lenora sought was another of her kind, whatever kind that was. Most of her courtiers admitted defeat after learning this, with a few especially strong souls even promising to watch for others who looked like her during their travels, but as all fair maidens know every rule has its exceptions.

Pam Lenora was used to observers on the mornings where she harvested and rippled the flax, as well as the ones where it was scutched and hackled; this new arrival peered from where the forest met the fields, almost (but not quite) mistakable for an unusual part of the brush. Near the end of the harvest Pam Lenora grew tired of this silent watcher; it was a fine autumn morning indeed when she called out:

“Come out, you ‘fine fellow’ who has been watching me like a thief watches a treasury; I have seen you in your hiding place, and would rather you introduce yourself properly, whomever you may be.” At this, her observer stepped forward: every inch of skin was covered in gemstones, every strand of hair was positioned as if by a sculptor, and every part of Pam Lerora was thankful she had learned good manners as he approached, for he was one of the Fair Folk, and it is quite bad to make them angry even when they aren’t zealously smitten. He continued his approach to the edge of the field, almost growing as he approached until even the trees could barely cover him, and began his attempts to woo her.

”Pam Lenora, how I love you so! One could hardly believe what beauty lies within such a humble frame, the beauty of your kind and diligent soul! If you would walk with me for but a moment, I would grant you beauty outside to match what’s within. Your eyes would sparkle with every color of the rainbow, your hair would make the queen’s look like it had been styled by children, and your lovely smile would never leave you, oh lovely Pam Lenora! Let these gifts be my dowry, for you and your kin as well!”

Horrified by the prospect of being wed to one of the fey lords? Absolutely, but Pam Lenora still had her wits about her. After a moment to consider how to free herself from the waiting snare, she told him plainly “Am I no more than a pretty object in your sight, the likes of flowers in the meadow or birds in the air? What use are gemstone eyes if they make me blind? I could do that to myself! What use is peerless hair if I must sit for a year and a day as it’s being prepared, before having to cut it all off at dawn? A wig would last longer! What use is a smile if it cannot be hung to dry? Are you blind to the beauty in all my faces, or do you think of me as a fool! If this ‘beauty outside’ which belongs to a statue is all you have on offer, then take back your insult of a ‘dowry’ and do not return!”

Although she had hoped he would leave, the fey lord merely winced at the prospect of insulting her. “Your points are fair, fine Pam Lenora, and I will make the following clear. For you and your kin, your bright eyes would never fail to see things, no matter how dark things became or how rugged you ran them, unlike those of the other races; your hair would obey your whims such that your descendants could go from the bloodiest of battles to the finest of ballrooms with naught but five minutes and a bowl of water, to say nothing of what could be achieved with effort; and your smiles, although free to come and go, would always find reason to return, no matter how bleak the circumstances. Furthermore, as apology for my insult, allow me to add this: you and your kin will always make a useful first impression with the people for whom it will matter. This beauty will be a blessing to you and your kin forever, if you would travel by my side.”

”Even if you have corrected your insult, you have still misunderstood my point. Beauty is worth little on its own; I have seen vapid men and women as ‘beautiful’ as they come starve, for their beauty was of no inherent use to them. I will not formally deny your offer before the coming dawn, but know that I would require more from you before I would consider accepting it.” Of course, she had no intent to agree, but this was as bold of a refusal as she dared. Her hope was for the fey lord to reach a point where he could no longer add to his offer, and would admit defeat — remember, the world was young back then, and blind to the reach of fey magics.

The bejeweled fey lord paused for but a moment, eyes flickering with contemplation, before he continued in his attempt to woo her. “Pam Lenora, how I love you so! You’ve always been the first person up in the mornings, but the last one to finish. If you would walk with me for but a moment, I would grant you and your kin talent such that they could be the last ones up and the first to finish! Your hands would be nimble and steady, never dropping needles or misaligning the weft; your skin would be tough enough that you would never be bothered by splinters again; and your tools would sing as they served you, oh lovely Pam Lenora! Let these gifts and the ones before be my dowry, for you and your kin as well!”

Pam Lenora was barely able to avoid spitting out the mead she had been drinking⁶ — she had needed him to take longer to reply than this, if only to get some time to soothe herself. Thankfully, she had the ripple in front of her, so she was at least able to disguise wiping mead-flavored snot away with her sleeve as simply another part of the harvest. After funneling the flax seeds into her apron pocket, Pam Lenora responded. “Do you think me a fool? You would keep me as a slave, not a companion: me and my people besides! Are my hands only worth what they can do with the shuttle? Is my skin not allowed to be soft for friends and lovers? Am I to go deaf listening to the racket that would come from a singing loom, let alone a singing everything? I am worth more than the things that I do, and if you cannot see this, then take back your insult of a ‘dowry’ and never return!”

He winced again, although this time she couldn’t keep herself from seeing hints of irritation in his expression. “Your points are fair, fine Pam Lenora, and I will make the following clear. For you and your kin, your hands would be as nimble as the rest of you, ready to do whatever it takes to make your dreams and daydreams reality; your skin would possess a gentle strength, giving when it ought whilst preventing the scrapes and bruises so many others are resigned to; and your tools would speak only as loudly as you wished, and only in the natural ways, acting as extensions of your own limbs. Furthermore, as apology for my insult, allow me to add this: you and your kin will learn quickly and easily, a living blessing for students and teachers. These physical gifts will be a blessing to you and your kin forever, if you would travel by my side.”

By this point, Pam Lenora knew that the only way out of this was going to be through, and the only way she’d make it through was if the fey lord made a mistake; in pursuit of this perfect mistake, Pam Lenora crafted her response. “Even if you have corrected your insult, you have still misunderstood my point. I love my freedom, and am loathe to relinquish it; I have seen princesses trapped in gilded cages and slaves bound by their master’s chains, and from them know that neither beauty nor talent is enough to find true happiness. I will not formally deny your offer before the coming dawn, but know that I would require more from you before I would consider accepting it.”

The massive fey lord, whose arms had folded like the wings of a bird so that he could sit down, thankfully took the bait. With hopeful eyes familiar to anyone who’s fed a hungry dog, he continued his attempt to woo her. “Pam Lenora, how I love you so! You know what you seek, and will accept nothing less than what you are worth! If you would walk with me for but a moment, I would grant you and your kin minds that would free you from any snare that would keep you from walking the road to your dreams! Your logical reasoning would be unmatched, the envy of scholars the world around; your inquisitive nature would make the world’s greatest minds resemble foolish children whenever you spoke, noticing the simple things they had overlooked; and your unparalleled wit would find solutions to all your problems, and the will to see them through, oh lovely Pam Lenora! Let these gifts and the ones before be my dowry, for you and your kin as well!”

She expelled her stress with the breath she’d held before calling the air back for what was to come. “For the sake of my kin in race and blood, I am willing to accept all the gifts presented to me. I, Pam Lenora, will humor your desire to walk with me by your side for the moment, in exchange for your proposed gifts of beauty, talent, and clever minds to maintain the freedom of me and my kin forever.”

And, with a nod punctuated by his greedy smile, it was so.

Clever Pam Lenora walked toward the fey lord, hands sneaking into her apron pocket, blessed wit and will slowing panicked breathing and hiding her intentions. She didn’t hold his hand, but he smiled and turned as she counted their steps together. [one] She gathered the flax seeds in her hand, making sure that none would spill at her feet as [two] she started to pull her blessedly steady hand out of her apron’s pocket [three] and she threw those seeds with all her might. The fey lord launched himself like a musket ball after the flax seeds, cheerfully shouting “I’ll get that for yoooou!” as Pam Lenora turned to run like the wind itself was chasing her.

Blessedly sharp eyes and blessedly nimble feet kept her from tripping on hidden roots and slipping on wet rocks; blessedly sturdy skin and loyal hair kept her free from the thorny vines and ensnaring branches that sought to keep her in those woods; and blessed reason allowed her to use the sun as a guide to keep moving north until she reached the traveler’s road, then onward farther until the sun began to set and she found shelter for the night at a tavern. She would never return to her village, but that was not to say she would never retrieve her things.

In the meantime, the fey lord, obligated by the fey laws to pick up every single flax seed Pam Lenora threw, found her long gone by the time he finished. Screaming in rage at her trickery, he grabbed hold of the recently woven magic to curse her and her kin.

He couldn’t curse them through their beauty, for he had promised it a blessing.
He couldn’t curse them through their talent, for he had promised it a blessing.
But as for their minds… those were promised merely as gifts.

”You have betrayed me and broken my heart, Pam Lenora, and for that I will curse you and your kin forever! Although I cannot rescind my gifts to you and your kin, know that your logic will tantalize you with visions of things reality will not permit; your inquisitive curiosity will sing to you like sirens, calling you to your doom time and time again; and your witty solutions will be like those of drunkards, never working in the ways you think they will! Furthermore, as recompense for your betrayal, I will add this: you and your kin will never know serenity again, as your own minds will never be quiet, traitorous Pam Lenora! These things will be a curse to you and your kin forever!” And thus with his great bellow that shook the trees and was heard from coast to coast, it was so.

Ever since that day, Pam Lenora and her kin have had bright eyes that can be any color of the rainbow (although only one color at a time: they never have heterochromia), incomparably fabulous hair, irresistible smiles that bring levity in the darkest of times, exceptional nimbleness, skin that is not easily scraped or bruised, and talent with any tools they wish to use, but also bizarrely tempting ideas, irresistible curiosity, and terrible (but effective) solutions to any problem they might encounter; today, we call them Gnomes.

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“With the conclusion of her final story, the traveler was left waiting for the judgement of the Storyteller, and he certainly made her wait. She told me the dread was worse than that time she had been trapped in a crate that had slid off the back of one of the wagons, tumbling down a slope with no clue whether she would find the cliff, the river, or a sturdy tree first. But continue he eventually did, and this is what he said:

’I must admit that I’ve been having you on,’ he said regally, ‘for although your tales were well crafted, what I was really seeking was to be entertained by your reactions, and I certainly was. For among all the stars in your sky I have visited and all the things I have seen in the winding rivers of time, the people on this little blue sphere with dollops of green are unique in that they are totally and utterly convinced of meaning! You will make bad choices in the name of “luck”, you will gamble everything on losing bets and be surprised when you lose, and you will dig your heels into the side of a cliff instead of accepting correction; you do all this, and call those who don’t insane! Oh the irony!’

‘You have indeed earned what I have to offer you, and more besides. Thus, allow me to pay your dues, starting with this story. I believe its name should be…’”

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Gaia’s Broken Pride⁷ #

‘Now, as preface to my story, know this: every world I have travelled to, every speck in the sky seen or unseen, has governing entities whom we will call the Titans. Like the Titans of Greek myth, they came before those pale echoes you call gods; unlike those titans, their domains were aspects of reality, such as Order, Chaos, and Transmutation. The eldest among them, whom we will call Gaia, created the planet we stand upon, as well as all its life and all its laws. She was also a major control freak, demanding the other Titans follow seemingly arbitrary rulings; this would soon result in a rebellion where she quickly found herself outmatched and overpowered by her many siblings.

Before you come to the conclusion that one side was “good” and the other was “bad”, let me make cases for both. On the side of the rebels, Gaia’s choices had been building a stale, overly rigid world that lacked art, challenge, and free will; On the side of Gaia, she understood that if her siblings got everything they asked for, the planet would wilt and their creations would be destroyed by forces outside her control (for even the Titans had their marching orders). Compromise was required for the world to be, yet neither Gaia nor any other Titan had the humility to do so; without intervention, she would have been completely destroyed and your world would have gone with her.

This is where I got involved.

On the brink of her death, I explained to Gaia what her options were: she could either begin peace talks with her sisters to allow this world to survive, or she could let this world die with her. Petulant toddler that she was, she proposed a third option: ripping herself to shreds to allow some small parts of her to survive, crippling this world and its people in an attempt to have it both ways.

I doubt she expected me to help her with that, but what can I say; she made her choice. To play on a phrase from one of your futures… she fucked around, and I wanted to find out.

Her physical body, already on the brink of destruction, was the first to give way, becoming a vast forest; her arteries became malignant rivers, her wounds great chasms, and the organs within fertilized life unseen before that day, beginning something entirely new.

Her memories, knowing everything that could and could not be, were rebound into a great akashic record; they would eventually be zealously guarded by one of the few remaining allies she’d had. This was both to protect it from people and people from it, for what was on the pages could send anyone to madness.

Her desires, from her desire to live to her desire for north to remain north, lasted longer, but when they shattered they went everywhere, all across time! When they landed in the soil, they became the scourges of mankind; when they landed on things with the image of life, they became creatures that would enforce those whims; and on the rare occasions when they landed in people’s hearts, their very sense of self would be mangled until refusing to obey was inconceivable!

Finally, what little remained of Gaia after all this became her children, who hid in the forest that was her corpse and spoke only in whispers, for they knew what was watching.’

---

“‘Thus, my question to you is: do you know what I am?’`

My fr… sorry, the Traveler… spoke honestly, admitting that she did not know who or what the Storyteller was supposed to be: a prospect that brought him no small amount of glee as he began to explain.

’I am equally servant and served; Hermes Trismegistus, as well as Prometheus. I am the one who comes when called, sometimes to elevate and sometimes to humble. I am a connoisseur of your “human” condition, and I laugh off my ass as you natural-born comedians make your “human” mistakes. I obey the commands of the one above me both gladly and begrudgingly, I taunt the ones below me as their court jesters ought. I am the pick that breaks pride to pieces, I am the kiln that makes fools wise, and I,’ he said with a grin growing far too wide as it revealed far too many teeth, ‘am not to be trusted.’

With this, the tavernkeeper and I sat in silence. I knew better than to try and disturb it, so I let him lean on my shoulder as he cried into his drink — at least, until somebody knocked on the door. He immediately shoved his hand over my mouth, terror bursting from his face like cracks in a window as his shaking voice declared “Sorry, love; I’m just gettin’ some things cleaned up, an’ then I’ll let you in”. He started sliding our cups and plates around the table as he mouthed “[You need to hide. There’s a storeroom around that corner and down the steps; go quietly, and make sure the door latches behind you. Don’t let her hear you, don’t let her see you, and don’t come out until I tell you it’s safe.]”

Thankfully, my childhood in the monastery taught me how to be quiet, so I was able to sneak over as my host clanged about before putting a record on (I mean, wealth certainly has its perks). Another lesson from the monastery was how to listen, which allowed me to identify the following about the woman who entered:

Firstly, I can tell you with a high degree of confidence that the woman who entered was wearing rigid prosthetic feet from the way they moved across the ground; I have been forced to acquire experience in that field, and have become intimately familiar with those sounds as a result. Second, her accent (although faint) had the tell-tale signs of originating in the southern district of Cieszą: it’s a human-dominated country, home to the old towns of Kubłe, Istesz, and Caesvilt, as well as some newer ones. And third, the way she talked was especially antiquated, from at least 500 years prior.

These factors, along with the Tavernkeeper’s tale and the fact that I have actually been on the receiving end of divine retribution, implores me to keep what I overheard of their conversation a secret to my grave.