The Hamlet

OOC: An in game book of short stories which detail the lives and struggles of people in Darkshire. It will be updated for more, though I won't promise anything. At the moment I have two stories planned, but I'm working on more.
I wanted to capture some of the feelings I first got from reading James Joyce, and translate them in to World of Warcraft. I felt that Darkshire shared some similarities between the dark and paralytic worlds which Joyce portrays in his writings. Darkshire, for me, is very interesting. In spite of the fact that it is surrounded by the frightening Duskwood, many of the locals have chosen to remain in the town. Perhaps it is loyalty? Family? Maybe it's just because Darkshire is home. That said, I assume there are many people who want to leave but are trapped, victims of paralysis. I feel there are a lot of emotions to explore within the population of Darkshire.
I chose my character Richard to write this because, as he is a knight of Stormwind and a well-read and travelled man, he is capable and appropriate to produce a book. Furthermore, Richard has spent large amounts of time in Duskwood and is a man who often engages the peasantry and lower-classes in order to fully understand them.
=='The Hamlet' - by Richard Ashcroft==
The book's plain cover reveals a title page followed by credits to various citizens and story-tellers in Darkshire, followed by:
===Foreword===
In my time as a knight of the King, I spent a lot of time in the lower realms of Elwynn, now known as the Duskwood. It is there I fought with the undead, and there I grappled with the many social issues of the common people. I came to the understanding that the life of the Duskfolk is very different from the lives of the merchants and comfortable peasants of Elwynn. The insight allowed me to experience various friendships and relationships within the townspeople, and I learned of many stories told and repeated within the confines of their small world. Everyone knows each other in Darkshire, and a story spreads more quickly than the Plague of Lordaeron. It was not long before I became embroiled in the gloom of their twilit dwelling, both emotionally and physically; I could recite their stories word for word shortly after I was stationed there.
The relationship with the Light which the Duskfolk held intuigued me. Some within their shady populace were drawn closer to its power, longing for the salvation which it brought to help face hardship, whereas others believed it had abandoned them. I even came across those who believed that the Light simply did not extend its vision to the Duskwood, for the canopy provided a screen. This, they believed, allowed them to do whatever they wished without divine consequence.
Alas, their feelings of abandonment mainly arise from the Kingdom of Stormwind. Darkshire is a territory of the King on maps, and indeed, it is within the Church's diocese, however the map holds the lie which the courts of Stormwind have manufactured. The reality is that the Duskfolk feel abandoned by the King and Stormwind, and it reflects in their laws and practices. Dark magic is practiced, not openly, but discreetly, provided that it works against the creatures that threaten the borders of their microcosmic state. The Night Watch acts as the only pillar to this society, and brief checks by the token Stormwind army ensure that the Mayor keeps his oaths to the Crown. As for the nobles? Most did not return from Karazhan, while the others have fled into their city homes within the white walls of Stormwind.
I now wish to publicise the stories which I listened to for several years, and have remained with me forevermore.
===Index & Preambles===
Here you can find the titles of the various stories this book holds as well as a brief introduction into their contents.
#Cradle to Grave - The story of an intelligent and youthful priest who has just delivered a prostitute's baby.
#Write Back - The story of a young lady who, working for a postal and courier service, engages in a relationship with a traveller.
#A Canopy Breached - The story of a girl who has lost her uncle and now learns who he was.
#Two Riders - The story of an elderly man who recieves a letter, and then a visit, from his wartime comrade.
#Small Difference - The story of a dwarf who wishes to become a travelling writer but is trapped in Darkshire.
#-
#-
#-
#-
==Cradle to Grave==
Father Hodge was a young priest but skilled nonetheless. He had been to the great colleges and cloisters of the Cathedral of the Light, and there, he rose quickly to the lofty heights of academic and spiritual success. Hodge was popular among the old scholars for his premature wisdom and intense conservatism while popular among the priestesses for his natural charm and dark eyes. It was for these reasons that the bishops, who viewed this child-prodigy as no more a gift from the Light than a kick in their withering, jealous old testicles, saw fit to move him to the most dangerous of places within their reach: Duskwood. There, they were sure, the young priest would be shrouded by the nebulous twilight of the forest and eventually forgotten or forced out of peoples' minds for fear of discomfort, like all things in Duskwood. Correct in their thinking, the bright flame of Hodge's fame was choked by Darkshire's grim, dead hands. Father Hodge applied himself, at least, and among the human population of Duskwood he was popular. A man of many talents who would help the Night Watch as well as provide healing and benediction to the residents of Darkshire. Yet, two days before he was due to return to the Cathedral he was called upon in the early evening to visit the local brothel. Such was their trust in him that it was only appropriate that Hodge should be chosen to deliver the first baby that had come in over half a year... even if it was birthed by a whore.
Hodge arrived promptly and voiced his disgust for the tavern as he waited outside for the landlady to open the bolted door. He had a few companions as an audience originally, but more and more people began to join this curious throng. The birth of a child is an important event in Darkshire, and naturally attracts the attention of the whole village. Not everyone would come out immediately, for fear that the pained shrieks were not of a woman who is currently giving birth but instead a banshee feasting on the soul of an unwary traveller. Hodge knew better. Brushing a lock of curly black hair from his face, Hodge knocked hard at the door again. The excited crowd began to shout, and the more nervous and concerned of the village began to demand Hodge's immediate entry. However it wasn't long before the deadbolt slid back and Hodge was greeted by a small eye peering through a hole in the wooden door (it is common practice to check who or what you were about to open the door to in Darkshire). The colour was a dirty grey, a trodden gravel or a glass pane beset by decades of dust. It was the eye of one of the many whores of the tavern. "'An unholy profession," Hodge would preach of the prostitutes, "one which substitutes the Light for earthly pleasure and carnal activity; lust is a sin!" In spite of his words, the peasants still visited this sordid hive of heinous 'humping'. He would have shut this whole establishment down if it was not for its popularity.
The eye slipped away quickly as it recognised who the dark eyes staring back at it belonged to, as a mouse does when it recognises a cat's claw. An argument between what Hodge identified as the landlady and the whore proceeded, although it was muffled mostly by the door. Hodge managed to pick up on an utterance which made him uncomfortable "we don't name who we fuck"  before the door opened to reveal the saggy-breasted and toothless landlady, who he had met on a number of occasions. "This way, Your Holiness," the landlady smiled wryly, but Hodge ignored it and proceeded past her and her rotten gums and yellowing skin. He passed the prostitute who had seen him at the door and made for the staircase. An entourage of nosey towns folk gathered in his wake and spilled into the tavern in order to follow the priest. Hodge stopped at the fourth step of the staircase and turned to face the dozen new patrons of the whore house and told them to wait as a parent does to constantly misbehaving children. Hodge was interrupted by another wail which reminded him that a woman needed his attention upstairs. He skipped steps as to make his ascension quicker. After a few close misses of catching his foot on his robe, Hodge was outside the door.
Entering, Hodge saw the pregnant whore grasping the hand of a Night Watchman firmly while breathing heavily. She lay on a bed, legs wide and stiff with a face contorted into a shade of raspberry which Hodge hadn't thought possible. An occasional moan would build up into a scream, rattling in the throat of the woman who was on the cusp of child birth. Hodge recognised her as the most beautiful of the whores, Evelyn and the Night Watchman was a man who Hodge often saw at the funerals of other Watchers, Allister. Hodge rolled up the sleeves of his robe and motioned Allister away from Evelyn. Allister did so, though gave the priest a stare which spoke of reservations. In contrast, Evelyn calmed at the sight of the priest and she managed to return the priest's smile for a few fleeting moments before the baby began to heave within her chest. Hodge saw that the baby was ready to approach an exit, and quickly set about ensuring a healthy birth. The aura of the room was hot, not from a physical source of heat, but a panic which causes the over-exertion of sweat glands. Childbirth was an occurence which put the life of the mother at great risk, and, if it is not executed well, then the baby would die also.
Luckily, Hodge was an experienced healer and managed to deliver a baby boy from the womb and into his bloodied arms with little incident. Allister approached him soon after the birth, and for a while Hodge allowed him to hold the babe. Hodge knew he would be heralded as a hero for this, though he had more concerns beyond his status. The boy. Hodge had looked into the dark eyed innocence of the child he had delivered and had been given a vision of its ruination; Darkshire was no place for a childhood. He would play his part for now, he decided, and on the morrow the babe would be delivered back into his arms - the arms of the Light. With no comfort or further talk to share between his current company, Hodge departed from the tavern room and descended the stairs to the crowd of anxious folk. He comforted them with the news that the babe had been delivered to Darkshire safely, and that the incident had left him tired. He waded through the praise and cheer before leaving the stench of the place. No doubt, he wagered, some of the peasants will want whores to celebrate this event. He wanted to be as far away from it as he could.
The next day came and Hodge dressed in his finery. Allister arrived first, fresh from his watch and still in his tattered leather and chain. It was only after a small amount of encouragement that he was persuaded to leave his weapons at the door; Allister wished to attend this blessing. Many people wondered if he was actually the child's father, but it would never come to light so most folk thought it was best to allow him to take the position on. Later, blind to irony, Evelyn arrived and took Allister in her free hand while the other carried the babe in its swaddling clothes towards the altar where Hodge was waiting. The turnout for this event was considerably less. Many people were disillusioned with the Light in Darkshire, although the true reason was that this was only a day after the child's birth and many people were recovering from their "celebrations". Such an early date was chosen because of Hodge's imminent departure, and the 'couple' would be unable to obtain a blessing for two months otherwise. 
They approached the altar and Evelyn smiled as she passed the babe into Hodge's arms. However Hodge did not notice. He stared at the babe and was reminded of his worries the night before when he had delivered the kicking and crawling creature into the great darkness of the Duskwood. A curse nearly rose to his lips, but before it could manifest itself in speech Allister coughed; it appeared that Hodge had been taking some time in delivering his blessing to the child. Sharply reminded, the priest carried out the expected ritual and placed the babe on the altar. Announcing to the half-empty chapel that the babe should strive to live by the Three Tenants by which humanity is bound and by that philosophy the child shall be gifted with a long and bountiful life, he looked over the tired faces of his audience and was reminded of what the forest had done to them. Their eyes were ringed by heavy black cellarage which gave evidence to their sleepless nights, their brows weighted down with the resignation of an early or gruesome death and the pallid complexion of their skin which lamented the lack of light in their lives. What holy man would he be to abandon a soul to this torment. Then came the final words which pricked his throat like a poisonous barb, "May the Light carry his being from Cradle to Grave."
Thus was the benediction delivered. It was only until later that day did Hodge escape with the babe in arm. He had been due to leave, and Stormwind would at least give the babe comfort. He did not have any illusions that he could keep the baby. No, he would leave the boy to the monks so that he could become a novice. Hodge was sure of it. Perhaps it was rash of him, yet news often circulates and dies in Darkshire. The Arm of Law in Darkshire did not often reach past its dark trees, and there was safety in that. He reviewed his experience of Duskwood, of the news he would travel there, his original experiences with the Night Watch and the secrets which underlined every man and woman's humanity inside the woods. His predecessor was killed by her secrets. She was a priestess, Hodge had been told, who had an affair with one of her underlings. However her subordinate was more attracted by his ambition and attempted to black mail the priestess into resigning. Heartbroken and threatened, the priestess attempted to strangle the adept in his sleep. He awoke and overpowered the priestess, and in the ensuing violence she was killed. The adept was hanged not long after, yet the story lived on from his trial. Hodge learned of this in his second day in Darkshire.
They fled in a wagon pulled by two cart mares. It was slow, and for that reason Hodge was on edge, and it was not just because they were deep into the forest path. Allister was known to be impulsive among the Night Watch and Hodge feared a swift retribution. He was right to fear, as ahead the wagon was stopped by three Night Watchmen of which one already wielded a weapon, Allister. They beckoned for the driver to step aside and depart, which he did obediently. Hodge had not hidden the babe; it was still wrapped tightly in his arms and fast asleep. Hodge dismounted the wagon and waited for the Watchmen to approach him. Allister was the first, and pointed his loaded crossbow towards the priest's head while the other two Watchmen looked at each other uneasily in the dim flickering light of their torches. "Allister," Hodge began calmly.
"Give the child back Father and I will let you go t'Stormwind." Allister said shakily. He was no fool and was not devoid of respect for the Church and its agents; he realised that he walked a dangerous line threatening a priest. Hodge admired his courage.
"I cannot. What life do I doom this child to if I allow it to remain here? It is a land paralysed in twilight, stung with the venom of evil!" Rhetoric, Hodge realised, would only go so far in convincing those of low birth. Allister was not convinced and kept his albeit shaky stance intact. 
A ripping in the canopy caught the attention of the other two Watchers, and they drew their swords. The driver ran from the road and the horses became spooked and restless. Out from the silent darkness came a howl which rent the tense air and caused the baby to awake and scream. The Watchers darted into the bush, leaving Allister with Hodge. The light of the torches was doused by the thick black air, as if heavy with tar, which seemed to make Hodge's breathing harder. He was afraid for the babe which he cradled in his arms and whispered what he hoped were comforting noises to the child. He could see Allister's outline in the twilight which hardly pervaded the canopy. Hodge tried to back away from the figure, and for a moment the priest believed he had duped the Watchman until he tripped on the wheel of the wagon. Hodge stumbled directly into Allister. "Don't try anything, Father!" Allister growled with the intensity of a paniced man. Hodge, in desperation, pushed past the Watchman and made for the forest. Unfortunately he had run in the direction by which the two absent Watchmen had just returned, illuminating his position once more.
Hodge turned when the bolt was loosed from the spring, and the propulsion carried it through the air and deep into the child's small body. The two Watchmen moved back, stunned, and Allister dropped his crossbow. The three of them ran away from the scene, back towards Darkshire. Hodge was left bloody and aghast. A sweet, ironic memory passed through Hodge's mind as he saw his bloodied arms and thought of the delivery of the child. There was no screaming now. A death in the woods is often silent. Hodge turned his head away from the corpse of the child now, and up towards the canopy. It was black and grey and brown, the colours of death, dust and rot. He realised his vanity, his futility and the sting of his own religion's condemnation. He had carried the babe from cradle to grave indeed, and such a life between was no more than a housefly's. Spawned and swatted from the realm of life so quickly that a grave to remember the child would be a mockery of the memory of life. For this child had none. 
Two months passed in Darkshire, and what happened in the forest had mostly been forgotten. In Darkshire a life lost is not startling and is something personal. It was unusual that a priest should run off with a baby, although many wiser people knew what the priest intended. As for its death? The Watchmen that witnessed it spoke of a worgen attack, and they had hacked their blades against trees to prove that this skirmish happened. The baby, they said, was dropped by the priest when he ran away and a faster worgen took it in its hands and took off into the shrub. The Watchmen lied for Allister because they knew that a man on the Watch who was indebted to you meant that you might just survive longer. Allister took on many of his accomplices' watches and was able to eventually distance himself from the event completely. That said, his prospective relationship with Evelyn broke down. Most folk assumed it was the baby that put them together, and in its absence, they had no true love for each other. However it was a surprise when Allister was found dead on his watch, for he was sleeping in camp and he had been strangled to death in his sleep - by a human.
 The Night Watch investigated his death apathetically, but after some time a whore came forward, Evelyn. She told the Night Watch that it was Allister who had killed her baby two months ago, as two other Night Watchmen will confirm, and that it was the baby's father who had strangled Allister. 
==Write Back==
The Post Pavilion operates daily, apart from Sundays when it is closed, from five in the morning until eight at night. These long hours are divided by six clerks, all “literate, punctual, discreet”. This is one of the triplets, tediously constructed by the Postmaster, which describes the attributes of a minority in Darkshire. Few are literate, fewer punctual and fewer still discreet. Everything is shared in Darkshire, but the Pavilion manages to keep its service “silent, professional, efficient”. In order for this efficiency to happen six clerks are needed every day, and, as the Postmaster claims, their “perseverance, industriousness, sedulousness” has kept the prestigious and proficient pavilion the last fully functional institution of Darkshire. However much the clerks dislike these hours, they come every morning and leave every night, and every letter, package and message is filed and delivered accordingly. They make sure no letter is read and no message is repeated (for illiterate people, spoken message is codified and then sent), and the folk of Darkshire appreciate their service. Consistency matters in a town where change has wrought pure misery. 
Alica, a clerk at the Pavilion, would not mind change. Every week, when shifts blur together, she thinks of change. She lives in the darkness of Duskwood’s cemented cycle of twilight. The intervening period in between Alica’s arrival at and departure from work is when this darkness lifts to accommodate a depressed, tinted sunlight. To see the sun in its full glory would be change. Although she desires change, she fears it, and thus, cannot have it. A break in her routine could mean adventure, but it could also mean danger. Would she like danger if it came? She knew that if she left the huddled houses and dour dwellings of Darkshire and approached the forest she would certainly meet it. Somehow that was not so attractive. Yet she had never been in a situation, even during the Exodus and Second War, which placed her in direct mortal peril. By default, living in the Duskwood was the most threatening experience. 
It was Saturday morning. Alica woke herself from an uneasy sleep. She would not be able to tell that it was morning had it not been for the dimly light grand clock in Darkshire and the soliloquizing sounds of surviving birds in nearby looming trees. With difficulty she moved her limbs from the comfortable hardness of her mother’s bed which she slept in every night. She and her mother had not been able to afford much more after Alica’s father had not returned from Karazhan and the Stormwind Courts refused to grant them their lands again after the resettlement of Azeroth. In spite of their ordeals, they shared a bed and mutual resentment but nothing else. As Alica pulled on a grey linen uniform she was reminded that she only worked at the Pavilion to pay for her mother’s accommodation and treatment. Fully clothed Alica headed for the Pavilion, she would breakfast on a hunk of bread on the way. 
The Postmaster was, as always, waiting for the clerks to assemble at the steps up to the office. He came earlier than all of them, and remained when they left. It is believed that he has a bed somewhere inside the Pavilion, or that he finds repose in a pile of letters. The Pavilion is a round, squat and grey building marked by large red letters spelling “POST”. Originally the building was used for the Grand Hamlet Faire which would happen every month, but it was converted by the Postal Service after the resettlement; the original post office was in Raven Hill. Inside the pavilion there are two rooms, the main one is the octagonal office which has six desks occupying six of its corners facing inwards. The other two corners are the public entrance and the entrance to the store room in which the post is made ready to be taken by the courier. The Postmaster is the only one with access to this room. 
The couriers come every two days, and in Darkshire they come on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday to take the mail from the pavilion and distribute it around the kingdom. Often they have an entourage or a group of guards with them when they come here, as they have to go deep into the Duskwood to reach Darkshire. Not that the guards always help. Sometimes the Postmaster will appear before his workers to tell them of the death of a courier, while trying to hide his morbid grin if it was a courier he dislikes. There is a rotation of about eight couriers who make the journey from Lakeshire to Darkshire to Sentinel Hill. For example, they might leave Lakeshire early Monday morning, arrive at Darkshire that night and then spend a day in Darkshire exchanging post and collecting it before they leave for Sentinel Hill on Wednesday morning. 
This Saturday, Alica had arrived at work before her colleagues. The Postmaster approached her on the steps: “Bert died yesterday,” he said with a blank expression. There was something not quite right about him, Alica thought. The death of a courier was not rare but that did not diminish the tragedy. 
“Hello.” Alica said with a faked smile, but the irony was lost on the Postmaster, who continued his train of thought obsessively. 
“His Kul Tiran guard told me that he was slain by an undead; a blade split his skull in two and his cerebellum was devoured not long after. Thankfully the post was recovered by the guard. But so was the cloven head! Terrifying, repulsive, nauseating.” He reeled off the triplet unwittingly, like a dog slobbers while it sticks its tongue out. The Postmaster espoused a romance with words, or words said in a reverential manner. He often, when his wits were dampened by alcohol, spoke of his ‘deposit in the bank of literature’. To some this was impressive, to Alica this relegated him to the status of an “ugly, walking, pretentious” thesaurus. 
“Bert?” She asked with a hint of wistful sadness on her tone. 
“Indeed, Bert. You liked him didn’t you?” The Postmaster licked his lips and grinned. However the conversation could not be continued, for the other clerks began to arrive. For some reason Kul Tiran stuck in Alica’s mind. 
The long hours of work ate away Alica’s Saturday slowly, as if intimidated by the largeness of their meal. Yet the Postmaster allowed them to leave finally and only kept Alica a little longer to talk to her about the book he had just read. She, the other clerks noticed, was his favourite. The reasons why he liked her were the exact reasons they disliked her: She was the daughter of a noble, and therefore her writing was more organised and her lexis, grammar and syntax were more sophisticated. She had a particular discernment in books which would further reinforce her class. Finally, she was attractive in ways that were not plainly obvious but her generous figure and slender waist alienated her from the two other women clerks. The men did not like her because she refused all of their advances. So it was that she was confined to the Postmaster’s monotonous flirting and futile courtship, and a rather lonely existence in terms of friendship. 
As it was the night before Sunday, the rest of the clerks headed down to the Scarlet Raven. No post on Sundays. Alica returned to her house before she followed them, for she liked a drink as much as any of them, to give her mother the medicine which the local apothecary had given her. She and her mother did not often speak, but when they did they were often terse exchanges of venom rather than love or compassion. So it was rare when Alica’s mother then told her that she “shouldn’t have paid for the medicine,” and that she’s “too kind.” Alica didn’t pay much attention to it. Her mother’s fever had probably given her a fit of madness. Alica got dressed into something more casual and then left for the Raven. 
On her way there she pondered why that distinct nationality had moved her so. Images of thundering seas and leviathan waves crashed around her mind and flooded her thoughts. She was taken with the notion of the exotic seascape. The traders, the sailors, the pirates… it was so far away from the dark forests which harboured ghouls and wolves. If she had not been so tied down to Darkshire, by family, then maybe she could leave and see these sights. The idea was escaping her as she took the same alleys to the Raven. A grinding sense of reality whittled away the clay of imagination by which she had created a superficial dream. Resolving to keep her adventures and holidays to books, she entered the Scarlet Raven. 
The smells of a tavern are somewhat appealing to travellers, but to women who think of themselves as a ‘high caste’ they are repugnant. Straw which has been made damp and turgid by stale ale and vomit tends to concoct a particular unpleasant aroma. Harsher than the smell of a barn, but less potent than that of a cesspit. A homely combination to those whose nostrils have been polluted by blood and rent flesh. Indeed, the members of the Night Watch would often piss away the hours off duty within the confines of the tavern. Sorrows diluted by the murky ale and forgotten about, for a while. Yet the whole of Darkshire seemed to congregate in the Scarlet Raven anyway. Even the lower members of the gentry. The Duskfolk didn’t often like to be alone at night. 
Alica entered and placed her overcoat upon the hangers at the entrance of the tavern. Her colleagues were already drunk and singing ‘merry’ songs of the Hamlet times, which sounded at once both hopeful and sorrowful. Alica did not wish to partake, and did not think that she would be able to anyway. She made her way for the window where, she knew, a seat would wait for her. The window seat was where it smelt less offensive, and it was more out of the way. Alica considered this in the light of her desire to be in company. At such a distance from undesired isolation, she chose to isolate herself. Perhaps this was a contradiction, but Alica would not challenge it today. 
However when Alica approached her routine roost, a man in fine leathers was already seated there. She examined him more closely, but knew by virtue of the fact he sat at her seat he was not from Darkshire. Bottling her frustration, Alica began to turn and find another seat before she was interrupted by a voice which had the alarming feature of a strange accent. She didn’t quite hear what the man had said, but she assumed it was something polite. She turned and smiled warmly, as girls of the nobility are taught to do, albeit to other lords and ladies. The man was out of his seat and was offering it to her by way of pulling the chair back. He was most certainly foreign, Alica ascertained. 
“I did not mean to take your seat m’lady,” he said, smiling wryly. Perhaps someone had told him of Alica’s past. In response, Alica merely bowed her head and tried to smile back. He was handsome, in that he was peculiar. He did not look like the other men of Darkshire, or of Stormwind for that matter. His skinned was tanned bronze by direct contact with the Sun and yet he had striking deep blue eyes. Before Alica could observe his strange countenance further, he turned and set off in the direction of the bar. Puzzled, Alica remained in her seat awkwardly, was that the end of the encounter? She could see him across the huddled masses of swaying drunks and easy women. A bronze monolith topped by sandy blonde hair that appeared to have the texture of washed up seaweed. 
Before Alica knew it he was back with her, two flagons in hand. He set them down upon the table and, without a word, pulled up another chair. When he was settled, he regarded her with his blue alien stare and imposing demeanour. As if interrogating her wordlessly, he gestured for her to speak. Alica blushed, she was enjoying this perhaps more than she ought to. Taking a swig of the deep brown liquid which he had bought for her to calm her nerves, she introduced herself. 
“I am Alica, it’s a pleasure,” she tried to give her best show smile to ease the somehow pleasing tension he put on her. 
“My name will not matter in a few hours,” the strange man said. Alica could tell he was attempting to attract her by pseudo-mysticism, but it was working all the same. Pondering the statement, Alica looked over at the rest of the tavern. How busy they all were, not knowing that a foreigner was among them as they sang, drank, vomiting and humped their way into the next morning.  
IN CONSTRUCTION
==A Canopy Breached==
==Two Riders==
==Small Difference==
Category:Story
Category:Duskwood
Category:Literature
Category:Human