The Barkeep

We are passing a cave in the gorge’s wall when a familiar sound strikes our ears; the mirthful echo of a bustling tavern calls to us from deep within the mountain. The din is intoxicating in itself, filled with promises of people, news — and, most importantly, a stiff drink.

Without stopping to think, we enter the cave. Ducking through winding tunnels, we follow the sounds to a wide, rough-hewn cavern filled with stone tables. But for all the sounds of raucous merrymaking, the place is complete empty.

Almost empty, that is. For in the cavern’s centre, at a stone bar, stands a barkeep made entirely of nothingness. His limbs are coils of shadow-stuff, his eyes coals of darkness in a face of horror. “Sit down,” he bids us. Helpless, we cannot resist his call. We sit to the bar and watch with horror as he pours us each a drink: a night-black ichor, which pools thickly in our tankards like oil.

"Let not your eyes nor ears deceive you,” he groans, his voice the stuff of nightmares." “Your comrades hate you; your loved ones have deserted you; and just beyond these mountains, the Lord of the Wood waits to claim His due. In such desperate times, the only truth is that which is found at the bottom of a bottle. So drink up.”