Harrowed

Dim streetlamps illuminate damp, cobblestone pathways and the decrepit outlines of stone huts with shingled, a-frame roofs. Each individual building becomes more clear as the trio moves further into the otherwise barren village. Aside from these constructs, the only other life that makes itself known is a murder of crows atop the roof of a tavern at the far end of the main street. Rising fogs condensate on the glass of each window, soaking into the wooden frames and warping them in the slightest of ways. The three continue their approach, hearing the strings of a piano being plucked and the jolly hoots, cheers, and laughter of a crowd within. Being cautious of their surroundings and on the lookout for anything suspicious, they step onto the porch. Briar- taking the lead- reaches out with his crossbow extended and pushes it against the front door. As the hinges creak and reveal what lies within, the music stops. Noticing this, the occupants also begin to silence themselves one by one. Briar grips at the crossbow's trigger as he hugs the oak with it, keeping it aimed just beyond his line of sight. With the door now more than halfway open, the contents and individuals beyond it can be seen clearly. As more than twenty nervous faces look back at him and Cronn, who is second in line to enter, he lowers his weapon and raises an empty hand into the air, signaling as best he can that they mean no harm.

"Nostrum? Here?" A baffled voice questions from somewhere within the crowd. "What business do you have?"

"Now, now, Lieu." Calls out another, who steps out from behind a bar against the far wall. "Let's not lose ourselves before we get the answers." The man proceeds to loosen the ties of his apron before approaching the trio and motioning for Briar to lower his hand. "Welcome to Blackcreek, Outsiders."

As the patrons pick up their activities once again, Briar, Cronn, and Belial take post at three of the bar stools, continuing to converse with the barkeep. Without asking of their tastes or being given a request, the man pours each a glass of bronze liquid and passes them over. Once the beverages have been accepted, he continues removing his apron and hangs it on a lone hook behind himself.

"That's a homebrew of my own creation. Feel free to critique it if you'd like." With a hearty smile, the man props his arms upon the bar. "Name's Arbor. I've lived here in Blackcreek my entire life and can say with confidence, you're the first Nostrum I've had the luxury of laying eyes on." As the three of them sip from their glasses and hold back gags, Arbor continues. "Now, if I may ask and on behalf of Lieu; What brings you to these parts?"

Briar glances off in Lieu's direction as Belial explains their arrival to Arbor, and studies the scowling man from afar. His clothing choice suggests to Briar that the man is a local, no more than the average laborer, and has obvious ill feelings towards Nostrum. A character trait that would have cost him his life during Briar's days with The Bethel. Being satisfied with his examinations, Briar returns to the conversation.

"Well, I can assure you, there are no beasts such as those in these parts. No... no more than the beast that is mankind."

"I'm sure you can understand why that may not always be enough for us to turn away from an investigation, yes?" Cronn sets an empty glass against the polished wood and pushes it across to Arbor, who stares blankly back at him, as if unsure of how to take Cronn's words.

"You're with The Bethel?"

"Not anymore." Briar assures, lifting his own glass up to his lips.

"Ah, that's a shame. We haven't had a holy man in our presence for quite some time now." Arbor refills Cronn's glass and passes it back to him, with a slight shake in his fingertips. "Our church burned down a few years ago. We've not the funds to pay for repairs, nor the youth to do it ourselves simply out of the goodness of our hearts."

"Peculiar." Belial states, squinting at Arbor from the corner of his eye.

"How, might I ask?"

"I would think that if your church was destroyed only a few years ago, your village would still be comprised of a fair amount of faith-having residents. Would it not?"

Arbor puts on a toothy smile and wiggles a finger in Belial's direction. Then, reaches beneath the bar and pulls out a large piece of rolled-up parchment. Sliding a few glasses out of his way, he proceeds to open up the illustration within; Using the same glasses he had pushed aside, he pins the corners of the parchment down and points at a specific image. The trio examines the marked area themselves, as well as those around it.

"It didn't take them but a week to relocate. The whole lot of 'em migrated to Boar Mane. Just across this river here." Arbor traces over a thick line drawn out on the map as he speaks.

"What about yourself? Why did you choose to stay?" Belial questions, still wary of the rather hospitable man.

"Like I said," Arbor's softening voice begins, with his expression unchanging, "lived here my entire life. I've neither the energy nor the motive to go about changing such a thing now."

Easing up a bit, Belial leans back and takes another swig from his glass. Cronn, still beaming down at the map, furrows his brow and taps at the bar with the tips of his fingers. His eyes trace and retrace the same path several times, with each passing becoming quicker than the last. Briar, noticing this, follows Cronn's eyes as best he can.

"Gregory," Arbor calls out across the room, "would you mind heading out and feeding the birds for me?" A man seated across from two others stiffens his oddly long neck, enabling himself to look over their heads and back at Arbor, who holds up a large wooden pail. The contents slosh about like pig slop, but the fermented odor suggests otherwise. Briar gags as rot fills his nostrils but regains himself before what amount he has had to drink comes back up. Turning away from it, he faces the one named Gregory, who stands from his seat and nervously trudges over to collect the contents from Arbor. "Thank you."

After wiping bitter tears from his face and turning away from the bucket, Briar opens his eyes once more. Only to be met with the full image of Gregory. Taking in a sharp breath, he looks the man up and down but maintains his physical composure. Glancing one and two seats over from himself, he sees that Cronn's attention is now fully devoted to the open map, and Belial is pounding down yet another freshly poured glass with no concern for any other activities going on inside the tavern. Before stepping away with the bucket in hand, Gregory looks down at Briar and locks eyes with him. The milky-white orbs shift about in their sockets, yet seem not to struggle with focusing on specific objects as Gregory quickly snaps out of it and rushes towards the door. Making sure to grab a hat that had been hanging on a hook on the way out and placing it over long, unkempt hair.

"You've taken quite a liking to this brew, have you not?" Arbor asks Belial with a chuckle.

"Once you get past the stench, it flows rather smoothly." Belial informs, wiping his mouth with a dirtied sleeve.

"It's become quite the signature drink here in Blackcreek over the years. The Bethel would've never allowed such a thing." Arbor collects Belial's glass and pulls another bottle off a shelf. As the cork pops free, Cronn's eyes dart up from the map and pierce through Arbor's back.

"The Bethel still wouldn't, if they knew of this place."

"I beg your pardon?" The sound of pouring liquid stops abruptly as Arbor lifts his head, staring straight at the wall in front of him.

"We're not in Blackcreek." Cronn's words rattle off the walls as a wave of silence fills the tavern. Briar, who is still watching the door Gregory exited through, notices every other face turn his way. The piano stops playing and the giddy antics of the patrons come to a halt, as the Nostrum gain their collective attention. "Blackcreek is yet another mile upriver."

"So it is."