Unsettle

[Venessian]

The hamlet of Dokshire was a collection of yellow straw roofed farmholds, loosely strewn about a mile-wide expanse of greenish-brown pasture, situated around a lonely building crafted of stone; a single story tavern aptly titled "the Only Pub".

The proprietor of the Only Pub was a grim, pudgy, loner of a man named Eisert Bukley. A truly miserable soul, Eisert tended bar every day, rising from his bed several hours after the hard-working, good souls of the surrounding farmlands. Each afternoon he would don the same faded red wool jerkin that he had worn for as long as anyone in Dokshire could remember. He would pull up his only pair of brown, burlap leggings, yanking at the waist seams to coax them over his rump which grew fatter every passing season. He had his choice of two pairs of unwashed, dingy grey wool socks - their original color long forgotten. Two fat, red toes poked through the fabric, swathing a path with sharp, yellow toenails.

Every inch of the salty old booze-jockey was covered in a carpet of curly black hair, from his ankles, all the way up his back and neck. His face was all nose, and his mouth was naught but gums, save a single, rotting brown tooth which grew outwards from the front of his bottom, beard covered jaw.

On a particularly routine afternoon, Eisert lazily clothed himself, and made his way into the common room to dump a pint of room-temperature grog into a filthy mug. The fat bartender slurped down the muddy-brown mead noisily, ignoring a pair of farmers who had stopped in for lunch, having already helped themselves. Eisert always left the door open so he didn't have to be bothered with hungry townsfolk until he was good and ready. Travellers never came to Dokshire outside the odd trader - why would they? - and the tightly knit community made theft or crime impossible without prying eyes and ears taking note. Hearsay and mob rule were the only forms of trial and justice in the village. Until the evening crowd arrived, which was no more than five or six people on a busy night, Eisert Bukley really didn't do much of anything.

Spitting on a dry cloth, stained yellow and a few other more questionable colors, the grotesque owner of the Only Pub smeared around the grime on the inside of a pair of clay mugs, turning them topside-down and setting them on the slick oaken bar. One of the two farmers, a skinny, elderly man with extremely weathered and wrinkled skin, approached the bar tentatively. He dropped a handful of bent copper coins on the wood, averting his gaze from the pink, stretch-marked, hairy belly that spilled out from underneath Eisert's sloven, rust-colored shirt.

"Keep the change Eisert," the farmer said, never making eye-contact.

The pair left, as the stumpy bartender turned his back to them, snorting obnoxiously and spitting a wad of yellow phlegm onto his own floor. He heard the farmers whispering to each other as they left. He knew what they were saying.

The screen-covered door slammed shut, as it always did, threatening to take the rusty hinges from the wall. Eisert looked to the entrance of his establishment for a moment, a softness washing over his face as he imagined the pair of old friends heading back to work in the fields. But it was gone as suddenly as it came.

"Hhhooock!"

He went back to cleaning his mugs, waiting for the dinner crowd.

[Venessian]

"Ya was not!"

"Swear on mah May-Ma!"

"Yer May-Ma ben dead since 'afer mah boy could piss standin' up!"

Bill Constance and Old Man Palmer were not the most elderly men in Dokshire, but they were close contenders. The population of the farming colony held steadily at around forty people for the last half a century, most of them now well into old age. They worked on the same pasture, keeping close watch over a small herd of skinny sheep with their families. The two followed the dirt road that led away from the Only Pub, passing nothing but waist high grass and weeds for nearly a quarter-mile.

"Its true. I saw the whole dang thing, front row seat. You was off buggerin' that chubby she-bear Erma Cubbert while yer wife was fat with yer 'tarded firstborn."

"He ain't 'tarded. Boy's just a bit slow is all."

"Boy's 'tarded Bill, no two-ways 'bout it."

"Yer may-ma's 'tarded."

"Quit flappin' yer face an' listen, gummer-head. Ahm tryin' ta tell ye a story. Anyhoo. I was there when we stretched 'im up t'a pair o' trees."

"Where at?"

"Yonder,"

Old Man Palmer gestured across the grassy hillside, where a shallow stream cut through the ocean of green, swaying in the warm afternoon breeze.

"Tied 'im up good, so he can't get loose. Threw rocks at 'im. I hit him right square in 'is stupid evil face."

"Oh, ye did not."

"Stop in'eruptin' me dang it! It was ten of us I reckon. Janson was there too. An' Shorty. Stoned 'im till 'e died, sure as horse shit."

"You really think him was a devil wershipper?"

"Oh yea. Had all manner of folk comin' out at weird hours. Little Carly-Kay said he worked some awful majicks on 'er. Made 'er do all sort'a spooky crap. Then told'er ta git, an iffin she told a soul, he'd put a baby in'er while she was sleepin'. Some sorta, devil-baby, I bet."

Bill made a low whistle, wiping his dirt-covered brow and adjusting the straw hat on his head. The rest of the journey was a silent one, the two two elderly farmers content to gaze about the Coronian country. Hills, trees, and farmland for as far as the eye could see. The poor village was alone on the Island frontier, several days travel from the closest city or neighbouring community.

[Venessian]

For five years, with the help of the rest of her family, she had provided two families with a means to survive. Nearing the end of her usefulness, she did have a few final gifts to give.

Her assailant tightened his grip on the jagged flint knife, and plunged it into her prostrate body, cutting from ribcage to hindquarters, and removing her insides with one swift jerk inside the belly. The spark of life diminished from her eyes, and with a few final defiant kicks and ghastly howls, she laid herself to rest, motionless.

"You idgit gorilla! Yer appost ta kill it first! Cut its neck fer gudness sake! You know yer May-ma can't stand the sound those things make when they're dyin'."

Bill Constance had returned home to find his only son, Femper, hard at work "retiring" one of the older sheep in the flock. None of her would go to waste. They would eat her meat, and trade her horns and hooves for grain. Her bones would be used to fashion tools. In a most efficient way, she would be completely harvested, as all her ancestors had been before her.

Even the dull brown coveralls that Femper wore were crafted - shabbily - of sheepskin. The man was already as bald as a crystal ball well before his time. A two-inch long, wart-like protrusion emerged from the crown of his head like a tiny caricature cap. His eyes were small and too close together, on either side of a long, thin nose, but not symmetrically. His dimpled chin curved upwards towards his prominent forehead, causing his silhouette to roughly resemble a hideous man-in-the-moon. Femper was as slow as he was big, with a barrel chest and two gangly, thin, but extremely powerful arms that were obviously too long for his body. None of the hand-me-down boots that most of the farmers wore in Dokshire would fit his enormous feet, so instead he moved about in the muck of the farmstead on the front and back of an old book cover that Old Man Palmer had come across, lashed on with twine like makeshift sandals. Giant rectangles patterned the earth in trails, leading from the road, to the farmhouse, to the small shed around back that doubled as storage and the misshapen man's sleeping quarters.

The afternoon waged on. There was always work to be done on a farm. The families of Constance and Palmer lived under the same roof in cramped conditions, making the fresh air of the outdoors preferable to the stink of nine people living in a single room farmhouse. The women ambled about the dwelling cooking, cleaning, and doing chores, the youngest usually in some stage of pregnancy. The men minded the herd and took care of whatever repairs that needed to be done around the home front. It was a simple life for a simple culture of people, and everyone knew their place. Even the dim-witted Femper.

Afternoon turned into evening and Bill returned home from the nearby hillside, locking up the majority of the herd in the wooden pen, in sight of the cottage's only window. Bill was beginning to look the part of the frail old man, and in truth, most of the harder work around the farm was done by Palmer's children, and children's children - the ones that hadn't moved away to Radasanth or another city on the island in search of a more comfortable life-style.

Shortly after his return, Bill was rejoined by the venerable Old Man Palmer, and the two sighed in tandem. Palmer broke the silence.

"Pub?"

[Venessian]

In a small village, far removed from the bards and artisans of a big city, gossip was the primary means of entertainment. That evening was particularly busy at the Only Pub. Several farmhands and their womenfolk had settled in when Bill, Palmer, and Palmer's oldest son Gerret arrived, the screen-door flapping shut behind them with a sharp bang. Conversation halted and picked up again immediately as everyone recognized the regulars for who they were, returning to their cups and back-fence talk.

"What's the word, Lydia?"

Gerret addressed a middle-aged woman, Lydia Fengrow, baker and notorious town gossip, as the trio took their seats at the table. Two poorly bussed, long tables were lined parallel in the common room, so parties had to merge to find sitting in the cramped, dirty bar. Eisert was absent as usual, making himself scarce whenever there was real work to be done. No one complained, though, as everyone found the atmosphere more comfortable when the bitter, ugly man was not around.

"Heyum Gerret. Bill. Heyum Palmer."

"Heyum."

Lydia was a heavy-set woman with a heaping bosom that spilled forth around the neckline of her flower-printed dress. Another reason most of the men around town came to her for the latest news.

"I was jus' sayin' to this lot that... You know that funny lil' feller that comes to town once in a while with the pretty glass bottles? The one wut buys up trinkets and necklaces and such? Tiny lil' fey fella?"

"The gnome? Barly or some-such?"

"Bartly, yessum, that's the one. Well, my sister in the city, knows a man who knows a man, who knows that he was a'posta come down this way a few weeks ago with a big sack fulla shiny rocks. Well don't you know, that nice little gnomey lad never even got this far. Problai done got snatched up by bandits on the road."

"Shame."

"Damn shame. Good gnome."

"Never harmed a soul."

"Boy, howdy."

"Yessir."

The table lifted their mugs in a sloppy toast to the unfortunate creature that none of them really understood, as if they needed an excuse to take a long, slurping pull from their mugs.

"This beer tastes worse'n usual."

"Yeah, mugs look cleaner though."

"Boy. howdy."

[Venessian]

The reek emerging from the cesspool several feet below would have crippled even the most battle hardened dwarven warrior, but Eisert Buckley seemed unphased as he struggled to regain his pants. The fat bartender made his way from the outhouse back to his bar, snorting and spitting a gob of green goo on the front stoop of the one story stone bar as he entered. Unlike most of his patrons, Bukley took care to ease the door shut into its jam quietly.

The stone structure was not very large. A small room in the back held all of Eisert's personal belongs, beside the slightly larger kitchen, covered in dirt and grime, with cloudy preserve jars lining rickety wooden shelving units, their contents better left unknown. A small, visible trap door beside the stove led down a few yards into a cold storage cellar, lined with stone and smelling of old cheeses and spice.

The rest of the tavern made up the common room with its two long banquet tables stretching its length. Eisert made his way around the tables, taking a moment to take a long, not-too-subtle bird's-eye view of Lydia Fengrow's obvious attributes. Snorting loudly as he walked away, the lecherous barman returned to his post behind the long, oaken, grease-covered counter, taking a survey of the newcomers. No one looked at the ugly man, almost intentionally so. He liked it that way, feeling no connection to any of them. They were like actors, boasting obnoxiously, stumbling and making fools of themselves while he watched. He took a long, slurping sip from a mug he had poured for... somebody. He couldn't remember who ordered it. He didn't much care either.

One benefits to being a bartender, no matter how uncharismatic, was that taverns tended to be a hub of information, especially in small villages like Dokshire. The mention of the absent gnome trinket salesman did not escape Eisert's ears. He had met the small fey creature before. It was a chatty creature with a particular interest in gems. During particularly cold winters, he would arrive in town when the snow on the roads permitted. He purchased jewelery and other fineries at reasonable prices, giving the farmers a bit more money to survive the harsh winters in the hills. The people liked him well enough, including Eisert to some extent - he was a good tipper too - and his disappearance understandably unsettled more than a few people. Over the last twenty years or so, Dokshire was largely unmolested by the creatures that roamed the hill side. A good thing too, for it took a contingent of knights several days to organize and make their way to the far removed community.

From beneath the bar Eisert produced a finished ash snuff box, perhaps the only item of any value in the entire establishment. He opened it to reveal a bunch of greasy leaves covered in rendered fat to keep them from crumbling, a pouch of flavoured snuff, and an old ivory pipe covered in dust that the man ignored. He dropped a generous amount onto the greased leaf and rolled it into shape, tossing the box back under the bar without care. Lighting the stinking pipe-weed off an oil lantern, puffing and sending plumes of smoke out into the bar.

Eisert puffed his smelly stogie and slurped his swill, waiting for the gaggle of customers to finish their booze and leave so he could go to sleep. It was the only thing that the gross man really enjoyed doing.

[Venessian]

Gerret Palmer, eldest son of Old Man Palmer, drew the short straw for the third night in a row. His younger brother Ernest had avoided taking the midnight watch so many times that Gerret was starting to suspecting him of cheating. Bill Constance retired his crossbow when his eye sight started fading, leaving Ernest and Gerret as the only decent shots on the farm.

Gerret was stocky, even though his age clearly showed on his face, his temples and the creases of his mouth zig-zagged with wrinkles. He was still as able as any of the younger farmhands, and although he was as lazy as he was a drunkard, his pride pushed him to take on jobs that he could have excused himself from as an older man.

So Gerret lugged his kit up the steep hillside, loaded crossbow in one hand, and an unmarked clay jug in the other. He chewed lazily on a piece of yellow straw as he walked, complaining of his bad luck for the entire trip.

He found a comfortable knoll to set up camp on and adjusted his straw hat and overalls. He dug his clunky work boots into the side of the hill, propping himself up and looked longingly at the jug he held. Old Man Palmer's arthritis kept him from a lot of the chores about the farm, but the one thing he still knew how to do better than any other, was brew up a draught of the shine. Palmer Moonshine was illegal in many cities for its tendency to cause blindness, but the good-ol-boy pish-poshed any such rumors away, and took a hearty swig.

The straggler sheep were left on the hillside on nice evenings. It kept them relaxed and compliant, but in danger of the scavenging predators that stalked the night on the hill side. Even drunk, Gerret Palmer took great pride in being able to hit a coyote in the left eye at one-hundred feet - or at least, so he claimed. But in the star and moonlit countryside, with vast rolling plains of green, he always spotted the carnivores long before his sheep were ever in any danger.

Gerret looked across the village, being able to see almost the entire hamlet from his hilltop vantage point. Most of them had long ago doused the last candles and lanterns. The thirty year-old farmer was the only person awake for miles in all directions. Inevitably, he drifted into a moonshine induced slumber.

It was still the dead of night when he awoke. He knew not what had spurred him awake, but he was relieved as he took a quick count of the countryside to find all his flock accounted for.

"Phew! Welp, a hard night's work well done, I reckon."

A quick patrol of the lands and the half-drunk, half-exhausted farmer would be able to get home to his warm bed and wife. But as he was making his circuit, he noticed something stirring down in the village. Something drifted lazily in the wind, illuminated by the bright moonlight around a particular household.

"Is'at... Smoke!?"

Thick plumes of what looked like heavy smoke almost engulfed a small wooden ranch on the eastern side of town. Gerret hastily picked up his crossbow and bolted down the hillside, shouting the moment he came within earshot of the closest dwelling.

"FIRE! There's a fire over at the Fengrow Ranch! Everyone wake up, there's a fire!"

[Venessian]

A proceeding of hastily dressed farmers formed a train behind Gerret Palmer, all tearing down the old dirt path to the home of David and Lydia Fengrow. Bill Constance arrived in little other than his nightshirt and untied boots, followed by his misshapen son Femper who toted a small pig-trough now half-full of water, most of it spilling out along the way.

Bill looked about frantically as he joined Gerret on the last hill before the Fengrow ranch. Soon after, three more villagers arrived, similarly dressed and distressed.

They all looked upon the very quiet and seemingly intact wooden ranch. A mere ten minutes or so had passed, but not even the punget smell of smoke could be detected in the air.

"You played us fer fools Palmer!"

"Nuh-uh, it was blazin', sure as shit. I seen it, and I ain't ben drinkin' or nothin'."

"You're a liar Palmer. A dang fool liar. And a drunk. You woke up half the bleedin' town and their ain't even no fire what needs puttin' out."

"Played us for chumps."

"Powerful chumps."

"Boy, howdy."

"I swear i seen it!"

Bill looked long and hard at his best friend's son. Gerret usually only lied when there was work that needed doing. He wasn't the type to play practical jokes, but the fact that he was holding a jug of Old Man Palmer's most potent, didn't help his cause much.

"Alright. Gerret, you come with me an' Femper. If David don't back up yer tall-tale though, mark my words, ye'll be on night-watch till harvest."

The crowd of people dispersed uttering curses aimed in the direction of Gerret Palmer, who was flushed beet-red and avoiding the gazes of the angry townsfolk. The trio made their way down the hill at a leisurely pace, the night air unusually crisp. Femper kicked at the grass around the house with his bare feet, laughing inappropriately. His booming mirth carried through the hilly pasture, and although the citizens of Dokshire were not famous for their intellect, Gerret and Bill almost instantly knew something was amiss.

"I dun hear no horses Bill. There's no sheep. No pigs. Not even crickets. What's everythin' so quiet fer Bill?"

"I dunno. Boy, you go around the side with Gerry and check out back."

Gerret moved to join the lumbering giant Femper, but paused, turning to Bill excitedly once more.

"There! In the windas! Smoke! I told'ya I seen smoke Bill!"

Femper's book-covered feet made short work of the front door and Bill rushed into the two-story ranch, his shirt covering his face. Gerret watch the man disappear into the darkness of the dwelling, not even a candle to be seen flickering within. Bill cried out in pain but he was out of sight. Femper whimpered at the front door, useless, and Gerret's blood began to run cold.

"Its dark. That ain't no fire..."

[Venessian]

It was not smoke that billowed out the open portal from the cold, dark, wooden ranch. Rather, a thick mist that clung to the ground. It crawled along the earth slowly, expanding, and losing its form as it encountered the open air, much less intense than it had been when Gerret had spotted it.

Bill called out in pain once more, which sent the simple Femper into another fit, pounding his temples with his open palms and rocking on the front stoop. His whimpering was high-pitched and was beginning to escalate in volume.

"Shhh, shut up ya dang 'tard! I'm trying to think."

Gerret was not a brave man, and even to his untrained senses, the occurrence stunk of the unnatural. In an instance of uncharacteristic courage, Gerret cast aside rational thought and ran into the cottage, ordering Femper to retreat up the dirt road and await his return on the hill. The place was familiar - there wasn't a man in Dokshire that didn't know his neighbour's lands inside and out - and Gerret knew the kitchen fire was to the immediate left. He took a few paces into the front hall, but a few paces was all he could muster. The thick roiling mist seemed to gather around his ankles and radiated the faintest blue hue, visible when all else in the place was not. It was cold. Not just uncomfortable, but rather, as the icy winter winds of northern lands that lick the face black with frostbite. It was all he could do to keep his footing as every second drained him of his will to stand. He knew then that it would be his doom, and all he wanted to do was give up his rescue attempt and lie down, succumbing to the mist. Letting it take him.

"No! G-g-gotta keep moving..."

He stumbled and almost lost it all, but his momentum pushed him forwards.

"Bill! Bill! Where'd ya go!? Bill, I can't see ya!"

Only the chattering of teeth led Gerret to the practically unconscious man. His heavy work boots came down on something that sounded like icy-snow, crunching under one's step. Gerret looked down, unable to see Bill, but knew he was somewhere at his feet. He took a deep breath and leaned forward, his hands disappearing into the dense fog. It was like no pain he had ever felt. Had he not acted so quickly, he swore his hands would have been too numb to know Bill from the floor. He grabbed the lapel of the elderly man's nightshirt and heaved. It was a mere four yards back to the entrance, but it seemed more like four-hundred, as every inch of Gerret Palmer's legs felt as if they were frozen solid. He walked mechanically, unable to bend his knees. Bill's teeth had stopped chattering and he didn't know if the old farmer was alive or dead, but he kept moving.

"Just... A little further..."

Five feet from the front door, Gerret's legs finally gave out, and he fell forward, releasing Bill as he fell. The venerable old-timer bounced out the doorway, rolling down the front stoop and as if shocked back into consciousness, gasped, crawling frantically, before falling limp into the grass of the front lawn.

Gerret was not so lucky.

He felt the numbing cold wash over him in waves as the fog crept out the front door, rolling over his back. He knew it was the end. That no amount of struggling would force his body to move under his power. A nightmarish darkness was beginning to set in, as a massive, mutant hand grasped the only wrist that made it out the front door, and tugged. Gerret's body slid roughly across the wooden front step, down the porch's stairs, and into the grass to rest silently beside his best friend.

[Venessian]

Dawn crested over the nearby mountains and almost the entire population of Dokshire gathered around the old Fengrow ranch. Women pulled small children under their aprons, barring their eyes from the macabre scene that was unfolding.

Old Man Palmer did his best to choke back his tears as he bent down, knees cracking, to draw back the blanket covering the husk of what he prayed was not his dear old friend. The linen slid back slowly, revealing the bearded face of Bill Constance, one of the elders of Dokshire hamlet.

Dear, departed friend.

Palmer recoiled, hand over his mouth as he gazed upon the haunting visage of Bill, still covered in a thick frost, despite the warmth of morning. His eyes were hallow and his skin had a bluish tinge that superseded even the pallor of death. His face was twisted in his final moments of agony, frozen in fear. Beside his body were two other similar forms, their blackened feet poking out from underneath the sheets that spared the children and womenfolk the horror of their bizarre deaths. They had been frozen to death, but what was more shocking to the elderly old farmer, was the way their frost-bitten skin clung to their bones. Even the meaty Lydia seemed as though her last few moments were instead months spent in starvation. The frost had to be scraped off their skin, which came off in long peels, as if the ice had become part of their beings. Palmer ran two hands over his balding head, unable to solve the ghastly scene.

Femper moved about the scene, poking at his fallen father. He grabbed Bill's hand, tugging on it, as if coaxing the man to rise. "SNAP!" Bill's hand broke clean off at the wrist and mighty Femper fell back, screaming, which in turn caused a chain reaction of screams from the gathered crowd.

"You idgit boy! What've ye done!?"

Palmer swept in and grabbed the hand from Femper's grasp. It was partially caved in with a boot print embedded in the back of it and two fingers broken off during Gerret's rescue attempt. Palmer dropped it immediately and jumped back, drawing more gasps and shrill screams from the gathered community.

"Alright, looky-loos! Show's over. Git back to yer farms. Its mornin' and there's work to do."

It took time to disperse the crowd. In some sick fashion, each of the on-lookers wanted a glimpse of their fallen friends. Not to pay their last respects, but to sate their human need to gaze upon the horror with their own eyes.

"I says git! Go on, all o' y'all! Town meeting at the Only Pub tonight at sun down. Lock up yer farms before ye come!"

It took time, but eventually only Old Man Palmer, his sons, and Femper remained, the latter of whom seemed lost and confused.

"Go on boy, this sight ain't for yer innocent eyes. Leave yer pa with me, I'll take care o' him, trust me lad."

"Buh! BUH!"

"Go on! Take the day and go fer a walk or sumthin."

"Buh!"

"Alright, but make yerself useful and go grab 'is fingers. They're in the front hall. Looks like someone trampled 'em off. You want him to be buried all together-like, don't ya?"

"Buh!"

Femper made for the house and Palmer rubbed his head again in frustration. He paused for only a moment, looking at the nearby corpses before turning to his two youngest sons. Gerret was bedridden and feverish, unable to tell the man what he had scene. His flesh was red and frost-burnt, and it was a miracle that he was alive at all. Old Man Palmer's expression sombered as he looked long and hard at his remaining sons, John and Ernest.

"Dig three graves, and dig'em deep boys. Then go home and git yer bow-guns. We're gonna find out what happened here, and mark my words, its gonna be someone swingin' from a tree by morn, rest assured."

"Yes sir!"

[Venessian]

The day was long and quiet, the only sounds present in the village were the chattering of oblivious livestock and hushed murmurs speaking of dark times and rumors that had not been spoken in years. As dusk approached, farmers locked up their herds and families in the safety of their properties before making their way to the Only Pub in the center of town.

Old Man Palmer was one of the last to arrive, slamming the rickety pub door behind him as he entered. Eisert kept to himself behind the bar, pouring drinks for the host of mourners, swapping stories of Bill Constance's glory days, and the legendary bosom of Lydia Ferngrow and her lucky husband David, no longer so lucky. Then, the tales took a darker turn, as those present at the scene of the ghoulish deaths told those who were absent what they had seen.

"It was liken they just shriveled up, like them scraps of sheep-meat lyin' around the cold storage. Covered in ice that didna melt in the sunlight. It was weird, I say. All unnatural-like."

"Gerry's laid out from it now too. Talkin' bout the devil in his sleep or some shit."

"Make sense it was the devil what done it! Didja see their faces? T'wasn't no clean, painless death."

"Maybe it was him..."

"Naw way. Him's dead. Has been for almost twenty years."

"Well, maybe it was his..."

The room came to a crashing silence as Eisert smashed one of his mugs against the counter top, splintering it to pieces and cutting his hand as sticky brew splashed onto the floor. If he felt any pain, he didn't show it. Instead he glared about the room, issuing a silent challenge for the patrons to continue their current train of thought. They knew better, and only Old Man Palmer spoke up.

"Hey now. The dead are dead. No sense bringin' retired names into it. And no pointing fingers at our own until we know just what's goin' on."

Even rational Palmer drew a sidelong glance at Eisert Buckley before continuing, shaking superstitious thoughts away with a toss of his head.

"Maybe it's got sumthin' to do with that gnomey fellow what gone and disappeared. All sortsa weird stuff's ben goin' round here lately. I got me own boys out there lookin now. So all y'all need to jus sit tight and go about your work durin' the day, and keep a bow-gun by the door at night. Watch yer own folks."

Eisert ignored the old man and continued filling mugs with a far-away expression on his face. It was only a matter of time until he was forced to take a good long look at his past, and as he considered the mob mentality of the farming village, he had to admit, he was a more than a little frightened.

[Venessian]

John and Ernest may as well have been twins, even though they were separated by almost ten years in age. They both had long brown hair and mustaches, and were muscular in physique. Their denim slacks and plaid farm shirts were a little tidier than some of the older farmers in Dokshire. Ernest was unmarried, and his penchant for loose women was common talk amongst the bar room when none of the Palmer's were present. Both John and Ernest had been to the larger cities such as Radasanth and on rare occasions, they had taken the ferry to Scara Brae. They knew that magic was common place in some regions of the world and were less superstitious than their kin.

Both toted crossbows, the signature weapon of hunters in the small village. Although neither of them had the same skill with the firearm that Gerret, their older brother, possessed, they were confident enough.

The path east leading away from the Fengrow ranch was the only road that lead to the Capital city of Corone from the tiny farming colony, and led through a small wooded area about half a mile wide in all directions. The sun was beginning to set, but the wood was not so dense to bar all light from its leafy floor. Winds swept in from the hills, creating a whistling noise, as the two fellows marched down the path. Brown, dead leaves crunched under their boots as they scanned the sides of the path. They knew not what they were looking for, but tales spread from the big towns of wizards and elves with the power to bend elements and even spirits to do their bidding.

"I bet it was elves."

"Naw, elves don't bother people. They hide in the forests down south, and don't much care for humans 'nuff to come bother us. T'ain't murderers neither."

"How do you know? You never seen an elf!"

"Sure did. Remember Rad'santh? Last year? That pointy earred feller what was wearin robes 'n walkin' down the street like he weren't outta place? Smelled like funny spices and weak wine?"

"He weren't no elf stupid. He was an orc!"

"Nuh-uh. Orcs is ugly as cow-pies. Elves are pretty like women. Got them big green eyes and clean drawers. I bet not a single one e'er got so drunk they messed 'emselves after a night o' drinkin'."

"Y'er the only one who prides 'imself on his ability ta shit 'imself in public."

"Takes skill, boy! Most people pass out afore they get that drunk!"

The two men shook their heads and shared a hearty laugh. In truth, neither of them expected to find anything in the wood. There wasn't even proof that a single individual was responsible for the strange deaths, but neither wanted to disappoint their father.

"Ya think it was Eisert? Him's pa was a wizard."

"Nope. Wizards wear robes and got pointy hats. Eisert's pa was just bat-shit nuts. Made bracelets outta hog guts and other weird stuff."

"Yeah, but, didn't our pa and his posse smoke 'im down by the crick? Maybe he WAS a devil lover and came back to exact his revenge. OOOooOooOoo..."

"Stuff it. T'ain't funny. Just keep yer eyes open. I think I heard somethin'. Mighta been wolves."

Indeed, something nearby rustled in the brush. Ernest, the older of the two brothers took a torch out of his pack and struck it up with tinder, then passed it to his younger sibling. With a rough shove, he sent John off the path a ways and proceeded to shoulder his weapon - Just in case.

[Venessian]

"Ahhh!"

John tore out of the woods and back onto the path and was well on his way home, screaming with his brother in tow.

"What!? What is it?"

"Demon! Run!"

The sound of heavy, inhuman foot falls was hot on their trail and the pair veered, diving for cover behind a fallen tree as the "demon" kept its course on the game trail, ignoring the two after they hid. Its back was covered in course hair that rose like spines, a pair of razor-sharp tusks jutting from its mouth. Its fur was red, the colour of blood and it made a horrible squealing noise as it passed.

"You dang fool! Its just a wild pig! Stupid!"

Ernest smacked his brother in the side of the head, and with adrenaline still pumping through their veins, the two laughed again.

"That coulda been supper! At least then this wouldna been a complete waste o' time."

"Hey, mebbe it wasn't. Lookie here."

A moment or two passed and John looked about the wooded glen's floor, spying something that was not mere foliage. Behind the fallen tree was what appeared to be a leather messenger's bag, monogrammed with the initials B.A. in a fine blue stitch. It smelled of apothecary substances and earth, as John pulled open the brown flap to examine its contents. He frowned, as he realised its contents had already been rifled through, almost everything having been removed. A few household herbs and spices and brass trinkets of no real worth fell to the ground nosily as the nosey farmer turned the bag upside down, hoping for some kind of overlooked treasure.

"What do you think Ernest?"

Ernest looked on, his face blank. He mumbled something quietly that John didn't quite catch, but the younger of the two brothers was too enthralled with his find to bother asking him to repeat.

"Who do you think it belonged to Ernest?"

"J-oh..."

"Wassat?"

"Jo-ohn..."

"Naw, it ain't mine that's for sure. Too fancy for my tastes.

"Jo..."

Ernest tugged sharply on John's flannel plaid shirt, finally catching his brother's attention before falling face first into the dead leaves, but not before sending a thick, syrupy glob of ichor into the air from his mouth. He slumped hard on the earth, gurgling. The back of his shirt had erupted in blood, which flowed away from his dying mortal form in lazy red streams. It all happened so suddenly that John barely had time to react as a small, almost child-sized figure crawled out from behind his brother's lifeless body. It was all bone, stained red and sticky with plasma. The skeleton of a child - no, its chest was too well formed and its skull far too large to be a child's, but it was a skeleton none the less. Alive, but not truly alive. An undead beast, animated by fell magic. John could only scream as the abomination crawled across the leafy ground, stringy bits of meat and cloth still hanging from its bones. Its fingers, now more like long, white and pink claws stained with Ernest's lifeblood, inched its way up John's leg until the skull was face to face with his own. It opened its mouth, but no sound emerged, as John screamed in terror. The creature, flesh flayed from its very bones, set upon the farmer then, and his haunting cries carried on the winds, ending in a violent gurgle as his throat was torn from his neck.

[Venessian]

Two days had passed, with no word from his children. Old Man Palmer looked out the only window of his tiny dwelling at his livestock, all accounted for in their tiny pen. Not a single one had disappeared in the night. Not one sheep was found mutilated on the hill side. There was a villain about, it was certain, but it wasn't a simple case of bandits and goblins that were the common source of distress in the region.

Every day, a brother or sister, father, or grandfather, disappeared without a trace, or worse. Palmer's own household of nine, was reduced to a huddled, cowering mass of five people, each wondering if they would be the next to suffer a horrible fate at the hands of a faceless enemy they did not know or understand. The only man coughed violently into a handkerchief, steadying himself on the wooden windowsill. He did not need to look at the rag to know that yet more red debris from his lungs had stained the already red cloth more-so. If the creature of the night did not claim him soon, his nerves and old age would.

Sheppards on the hillside now whispered tales of the undead roaming the outskirts of the village. Two attempts at fleeing to a nearby military outpost had resulted in more deaths.

"Jus' a matter o' time now..."

Palmer looked about the main room of his small farmhouse at the restless sleepers within.

"Which one o' ye will the devil take next?"

Would it be Jeffery, the youngest? Gertrude, his gracefully aged, willowy wife?

"I canna do this no more. I'm not for letting some coward of a demon decide me own where-and-when."

He knew the beast was close. It was always colder when it was around, and Palmer's old bones were sensitive to changes in temperature. He walked to Gertrude's bedside, picking his steps carefully. She was a strong woman in her prime. As strong as any he had ever known. He kissed her sleeping head, tucking a strand of silver hair behind her ear and whispered memories of when they both were young. She smiled in her sleep as if she had heard his words. It was the first time she had smiled since Gerret passed away in his sleep the previous day. Palmer felt renewed as he walked out of the house, silently closing the door behind him so as not to wake his family. The yard was silent beyond the sounds common to the farm. Those sounds were familiar to him and brought him strength. The door to the old shack behind the house was open, and he couldn't hear Femper snoring, which made the old farmer assume the worst for the innocent boy.

"Bless ye, humble Femper. Would that ye didn't have to be part of this cursed village. Would that ye didn't have te know all this pain..."

As if summoned by the old man's kind words, a massive figure shuffled out from around the back, and Old Man Palmer barely flinched at what he witnessed. Femper's flesh had been carved from his bones, which were still wet, and glowed in the light of the moon that still hadn't made its exit from the sky. The great orb seemed as if it were watching the scene unfold. Watching Old Man Palmer make his last stand. The large protrusion was still there. Hell if the elderly farmer knew what it was, but some speculated that the giant wart was what caused his mental disability.

"A toe-mer, the doctors called it, right?"

Femper's skeleton stood motionless, offering no contribution to the conversation.

"Well, I hate to disappoint boy, but ye won't be gettin' none o' Palmer tonight. This old goat's got a different destiny than you, you poor, cursed idiot."

[Venessian]

He half expected the skeletal monstrosity to descend upon him before he could act out his last will, but to his relief, the remains of Femper stood motionless. Palmer's movements were slow as he took a few side-steps to the left to an old tree stump where Femper used to spend his days sheering sheep. The long, curved blade was still there atop the stump and Palmer picked it up, evaluating the tool. It was carved from bone, but its edge was honed and the blade itself was sturdy. He thought to attack the creature. To go out fighting, but knew that the attempt would be thwarted before he even got close enough. And then what?

No, he would die with dignity.

He exhaled, long and raspy, and could see his breath before his face on the otherwise warm, spring morning.

"Yer here then?"

The sound of hooves beat the dirt in a steady rhythm as a form almost as large as Femper came into view under the moonlight. It had long, spiralling horns the color of night, and fur as white as lamb's wool. Its eyes were black and had no pupils - soulless. Like a mountain goat, it had cloven hooves but stood upon two legs like a man, and strips of cloth were draped about its body strategically, indicated that the great beast had a sense of modesty like humans.

"Are ye... are ye the devil?"

The creature had no lips, but its great black jowls curled back to expose a row of white, blunt teeth; a mockery of a smile. It carried no weapons, but leaned heavy on a white cane made from ash. A sack hung over its massive shoulders, made from the hide of a creature that Old Man Palmer dared not guess. It was emasciated in stature, but the farmer knew that it was far stronger than he. Its shaggy-fur cover hands were as large as Femper's head, and each ended in long, blunt fingernails with bits of red matter caked underneath. To the superstitious man, it truly seemed as if the devil had made it a personal matter of seeing him into the next life.

"I got bad news for ye. All the sheep-feed's gone, so I can't offer ye a snack afer I go. Woulda gone inta town to get ye some, but sadly, yer bony friend's 'ave made that quite impossible."

The creature smile again. This one was brave. All the others had cowered, pleaded, and bargained in their final moments, but the human standing before the great beast was defiant to the last.

"I'd love to stay and chat, but there's a smell about ye that me nose doesn't much care for. And if ye think about touching me wife 'n the last o' me family, it won't just be me and the simpleton that die on me farm this day, rest assurin'."

Without warning, the brave, elderly farmer took blade in hand and pressed the tip into his breast. He wanted to be stoic in his final moments, but the pain was overwhelming. He cried out, as his life's blood seeped into the fabric of his bedshirt. The horned beast watched with amusement as Old Man Palmer slumped to his knees, a trickle of the vital fluid running out of the corners of his mouth and following the creases in his face. As the last of the life left the retired farmer's body, the creature clopped past the lifeless human towards the only door of the farmhouse, silent as the grave. It slowly pushed the door open and its hooves sounded heavily on the creaky wooden floor. It was dark, but that was no matter for the beast who was used to hunting in the dark of night. Closer he drew to the sleeping forms of the women and children of Palmer's family, but to the beast's confusion, its cloven foot stumbled over something on the floor. It cocked its head questioning, and was promptly answered by a pair of clicks, as the crossbows Palmer had rigged earlier that morning were triggered. One bolt whizzed by, narrowly missing the tall monster, but the second struck home in the mighty creature's flank. It cried out in rage, rousing the family from their slumber, right into a state of panic. It howled as it wrenched the dart from its behind, casting it aside furiously.

Palmer's bloodline ended that night, mercilessly torn apart by a dark agent of evil. But humanity left its mark upon the fell beast. It would not forget the farmers of Dokshire, and Old Man Palmer died with a sly grin upon his wrinkled face.

[Venessian]

No patrons came calling to the doorstep of the Only Pub that day. Eisert's bar was quiet, just the way he liked it. No rude yokels slamming his door disrespectfully. No gossip. No ignorant people talking about his father's cruel execution like it was tavern-stage entertainment. The whole village was silent.

Eisert hated the sound of children playing. He hated the smell of them; a mixture of cattle excrement and sweat. They were almost gone to the last, and the fat, unkempt bartender found a spring in his step that had been absent since the day his necromancer father left him to face the world alone. It was a cruel place. He was never allowed to forget the sins of his old man, and never allowed to be one of them.

Soon, he would be the only one.

He puttered about aimlessly, puffing on one of his gross cigars in the quiet comfort of his home, shirtless. He didn't feel the need to get dressed that afternoon, for there were no backwater villagers to make light of his weight or homely appearance. He snorted, spitting on the wall, before taking another long, smokey puff off his vice. It was a dark blessing, the day Venessian had made his evil presence known to the bartender. He was seeking Eisert's father - apparently the two had known each other, studied under the same black magician in secret many years ago. The fell creature seemed angered when Eisert explained, terrified at the time, that the villagers had stoned Albert Bukley to death on the eve of Eisert's tenth birthday. So he had made a pact with the beast. He told the ibixian of the gnome who passed through the village from time to time, and the gems he oft carried - the material component for the dark rituals that Ven used to turn human skeletons into walking undead horrors. The masochistic man revelled in the detailed accounts of how the necromancer sheered their flesh off their bones as they had sheered sheep to make their livelihoods. It seemed fitting.

In exchange, Eisert promised to reveal the location of his father's keepsakes. He never had truly understood the gravity of his sire's craft until the untimely arrival of his feindish guest. Eisert Bukley was not a stupid man, and might have made a good wizard had he the inclination. But the loneliness he felt in his soul bred sloth in his spirit. He sold most of the more important pieces of the great necromancer's treasure trove to the gnome trader Bartley Anderson, and used the money to keep himself perpetually drunk, stinking of pipeweed and whiskey. It had filled the hole in his existence that he had felt since his father's departure. But now, Eisert felt more than that. He was a cog in hell's spinning gears, and through his foul dealings, brought fear and strife to those miserable people he hated so.

The man poured himself yet another drink as he waited for the fearsome beast to report its dark deeds.

A knock came at the door a few hours later. It was either the beast he expected, or a desperate mob, come to string him up for lack of a more tangible scapegoat. He guessed man-goat.

"Leave your minions outside. They get blood on the floor and it stinks up the joint. Pain in the ass to get out of the wood work too."

As if he cared for the tidiness of the place.

"This-one extends his greetings to the ssson of Albert the Black."

Under normal circumstances, Venessian, betrayer of the ibixian people, raiser of the fallen, would have taken the information he desired by force. But the tide of goodness in the realm was at an all time high, and spirits as dark and black as Eisert's were becoming an endangered species as knights and other do-gooders safe-guarded the night and brought light to the once dark corners of Althanas.

"The task that the human has set out has been completed. Its revenge has been cultivated and brought to fruition. This-one now seeks the reward he was promisssed..."

"Yeah? Well, you'll have it. There's not much left mind you. Just a couple of old books and scrolls. I buried it in a box between two trees by the river. You'll know it 'cause the trees have ropes tied to them. It's where my father... er, Albert the Black, well, you know."

"Yesss... He was a great mage. Perhaps even more powerful than Venessian. But the pink man-thing should fear not, for the Black-One's death was not a waste. With his lore, the White-Despair shall breed hate..."

"Yeah, I don't care what your schemes are, wizard. Just take your books and leave me to my cups."

"...As it wills. This-one will take its leave, then. But one day, the Scourge of the Just will seek out this manling again, and when he does, he expects it will be compliant."

"Sure sure. Your will be done. Hail the Devil and all that. Now get outta here before someone sees you."

The towering necromancer nodded and with flourish, made its exit as abruptly as it had come, leaving Eisert to his empty existence. The fat man walked back to the bar and withdrew his favorite snuff box and removed its contents. His chubby fingers swept the bottom of the ornate container free of loose tobacco and felt around for the latch that would release its false bottom. Hidden within was a length of parchment the color of ivory. To any untrained in the ways of magic, its symbols and sigils would appear to be gibberish and crude drawings, but Eisert knew enough to see it for what it really was: an ancient spell written in human blood and sealed with wax from a special black candle. He clutched the rolled-up vellum in his ham-fist, considering the possibilities.

"I sold my soul to bring you peace, Father. Your death heralded the fall of Dokshire. But, do I dare walk the path that you laid out before your humble son? To give up this life of peace that i bartered the last bit of my humanity to find, and further sow the seeds of wrath amongst the race of people I once counted myself as part... Should I reserve myself a seat at the table of Hell, and watch humanity burn at the side of that beast of ill will?"

Eisert thought long and hard as the day faded away to night. He weighed the grave implications of what it meant to break the seal on the dire parchment, and decided, as his lamps and lanterns burned the last of their oil.

"I will make you proud father."

[Venessian]

Quest completion spoils:

-Albert the Black's Spellbook entitled: "The Tome of Oneirmancy"

It deals with spells of fear and nightmares, and will be the source of the new spells that Ven will take at level up.

-Venessian has spent all the black gems he aquired from the gnomish trader to animate a large portion of the town of Dokshire's population as skeletons, which will continue to haunt the place until they are disposed of, perhaps serving as a quest site for other players on Althanas if the powers that be think its a viable idea. Ven also took the largest one (The skeleton of Femper) as a contollable minion under his power. I will remove the one gem I had going into the quest as expent.

-Eisert Bukley will be a reoccuring NPC in my writing.

-In addition, there was about 250 gold in trinkets in the Gnome trader's bag which should be converted into gp if that number seems appropriate.

Thanks for reading!

Oh, one final note. If it seems peculiar that Ven wasn't technically in the quest at all until the end, please consider that I'm role-playing "the monster" so the story wasn't nessisarily about him, but the people he was affecting.

[Zerith]

Unsettle.

First off, I really want to apologize for the amount of time you had to wait over the holidays for this rubric. Your patience is greatly appreciated.

As always, should you have any questions regarding the rubric or the scores, please feel free to send me a PM anytime. With that said, let’s right straight to the numbers.


STORY:

Continuity – 7 – Given the fact that the story was more about the people of the village and not about Venessian, I feel like you did really well in this category. You explained the backstory of Albert’s death well, and did a great job of explaining why the story was taking place even through it was mostly a mystery until the end. All in all, your explanations made everything clear to me and I didn’t need to scratch my head while trying to figure out how this story fits into place among other events or why character where in the situations they found themselves in.

Setting – 8 – This is what I felt was one of the stronger categories in the story. You didn’t just tell me about the setting, but you used it in ways that I enjoyed reading. Eisert and the mugs are a good example of this, as you didn’t just tell me what the mugs looked like, but what the bartender was going with them as he cleaned them and turned them over to try and such. Though having the other farmers comment on how they looked cleaner later on made me laugh.

You painted a nice, clear picture for the reader. So I had no trouble imagining the countryside or even the Pub. Even the clothes that characters were wearing where explained in a way that I could picture in my mind. My suggestion for future threads would be try to expand on things. Add more texture to things, have characters pick up items and note the feel of the table. Or add more interaction, have people fumble with a crossbow as they carry it. I once was in a play that when the stage crew needed to buy time for the performers, one of the girls picked up a few pillows and fluffed them a bit before placing them on the bed that was to be used in the scene. Its little things like that can add more to the story. You did this a bit, and I loved it. So I encourage you to do more. I thought you did a great job with this, and you should be proud of it.

Pacing – 7 – I believe you intended to write this story as a bit of a mystery, while explaining how farmer were affected by Venessian more than anything else. You achieved this, and you also kept me interested in seeing what happened next. Yes, I will admit that I felt like the story started a little slow at first, but I believe it was at post 6 that I started to find myself always wanting to see what would happen next. I also felt like things were getting a little rushed near the end, but I don’t think that’s really important. Either way, I think you achieved what you wanted to do with the story, and that’s what is really important.


Total Story Score: 22/30


CHARACTER:

Dialogue – 7 – There was a little tough, as I felt like so many characters were similar to each other. Yet the dialogue you wrote for the farmer worked. What they said and how they said things felt real, and more importantly, believable. Things were kept simple, though I did think to myself “would he really say something like that?” after I read Eisert’s second last bit of dialogue. Still, you did a good job with this. Just remember that it’s not about what the characters say, but about making sure that what they say fits the character.

Action – 6 – I can’t help but wonder that if Old Man Palmer was so smart and clever, you think he would have taken the time to set up a more potent trap for Venessian? I mean yes, his sons are dead, but we’re talking about his wife being one of the people left. One would think he would have been smart enough to take the extra time to set it up so the bows were aimed for the chest or something.
The actions of the characters were believable for the most part, though I think Eisert should have done something a little bigger than breaking a mug to catch the attention of everyone. Still, you didn’t focus on fighting, which was a good thing to read. Too often people seem to think that action really depends on those faced paced scenes and swordfights. You focused more on what the characters did on a day to day business. Not only did I find it enjoyable, but believable for the most part. You did a good job of doing this, keep it up.

Persona – 4 – This was a tough one, as I really didn’t feel much emotion from the characters. You portrayed fear well, especially in parts like when Femper went into another fit when Bill screamed in pain or when John died. Other than that, there really wasn’t much else. I was hoping to see a more heartfelt farewell between Palmer and his wife, or more anxiousness between people at the town meeting. Instead it seemed like they were all just drinking with a “Hey, you remember back when Bill did...” kind of atmosphere. I wonder if any of them were worried of something similar happening to them that night.
Emotion is tough to portray in writing, and this is something I really hope you work on and explore. It’s something even I find myself having trouble with, so I can’t really suggest anything more than reading more and playing around with it a bit. I’m sorry.


Total Character Score: 17/30


WRITING STYLE:

Mechanics – 7 – Not much can’t be said here as your writing was pretty solid. There was the rare spelling mistake (such a “mustaches”, though I believe it should be moustaches) and a fragment or misplaced comma. Other than that I didn’t find much, so I can’t really suggest anything. If you’re not (which I highly doubt) writing in a Word Document, I always like to suggest people do. If you don’t think you caught all of the necessary edits, ask a friend or fellow member of the site if they would be willing to read it. Sometimes it just helps to have another pair of eyes read your work, as they may find something you didn’t catch.

Technique – 6 – Again, pretty solid here. Some foreshadowing with John and Ernest in the forest, more with Eisert near the end of the town meeting where some of the ones I immediately noticed. Things like that definitely added to the thread, as it gave that feel of, “Oooo, someone’s gonna get it”. I can’t really suggest anything to help with this, as I feel like you did a good job with it. Perhaps add some allusion or something else? Comparing Venessian to the devil was a nice touch, I thought it fit nicely.

Clarity – 7 – You did a really good job here, as I found the story to be easy to read. Posts weren’t unnecessarily short or long, and I felt like you managed to explain everything clearly. I believe the only times I found myself a little lost was both the scene in the Ferngrow ranch with the mist and the scene with Ernest, John and the skeleton. Other than those situations, I thought the rest of the thread flowed rather well.


Total Writing Style Score: 20/30


Wild Card – 8 – All in all, I enjoyed the story and really hope that someone decides to use Dokshire in a thread in the near future. I’m also deciding to make this score a little higher as my personal way of apologizing for making you wait so long for this rubric.



FINAL SCORE – 67!!



Rewards:

Venessian receives 911 EXP and 451 GP!! I saw no problem with amount requested from the trinkets, so added that number in already.
Venessian also receives the spoils requested pending approval by the RoG.

[Silence Sei]

Exp-GP added.