It burns still, the cursed one. Come sit with us, we have plenty of warmth and soup, and stories to pass on before we die. Hesitating for only one more moment, the stranger came and sat by the fire. The light revealed his handsome face, framed by long auburn hair, his wise brown eyes and his tattered wear. He smiled gratefully, reaching his hands forward to warm them.
Journeymen are rare here.
He winced as his companion glared at him. We are storytelling monks, of the monastery at the mountaintop. We have hoped for someone to pass us by, so we'd have company at our time of death. The stranger nodded, though he did not seem much surprised, and the older monk continued. And so to assure her deal was respected, she commanded us to light a fire each night and tell the stories until it burns out.