The Rusty Axe

The Rusty Axe squatted at the village’s edge, its old wooden walls weathered by countless seasons. Varian ducked under the low doorway, Elric right behind him. Five other guards already hunched around a table near the hearth, drinking from chipped mugs.

“Well lads, no goblins yet.” Varian shrugged off his cloak, shaking free a fine mist. “Maybe we’ll get a quiet night.”

“Quiet. Right. And I’m the emperor of Grukmar.” Elric snorted.

Varian glanced at him. Though spoken in jest, he couldn’t shake the cold tendril of worry that coiled in his gut. He turned to the barkeep. “Ale. Two.”

They squeezed onto the bench, knees and elbows jostling. The tavern air hung thick and stale, redolent with sweat and sour beer. At the far end of the room, an old minstrel coaxed a mournful tune from a battered lute.

Rumors of Darkness

Varian took a pull of ale, grimacing at its bitter bite. Across the table, Tormund leaned forward, voice low and conspiratorial.

“You lads hear about them goblins in the east? Near Stonehold?”

Varian frowned. “What about them?”

“Word is they made some kind of deal. With the orcs.”

“Orcs?” Elric looked up, wiping foam from his lip. “What would goblins do with such creatures?”

“Dark magic, some say.” Tormund’s eyes glinted in the firelight. “Some kind of evil ritual. Tied ‘em together, made ‘em stronger.”

“Come on.” Brynn, a hulking redhead, snorted into his mug. “Goblins can barely find their own arses with both hands. You expect me to believe they’re suddenly making deals and doing magic?”

“I’m just telling you what I heard.” Tormund spread his hands. “People been disappearing from villages up there. Something’s riled them up, mark my words.”

Elara’s Whispers

“There’s more.” This from Elara, her voice soft but carrying. The others turned to look at her. The only woman in their group, she’d proven herself twice over, with blade and bow. But she had a strange skill for finding gossip and rumors. When Elara spoke, men listened.

“They say the goblins have shamans now. Witches who can call up storms and ruin crops with a word.” She glanced around the table, firelight dancing in her dark eyes. “They say they kill captives for their evil gods. Paint their altars with blood and hang skulls on their totems.”

Silence fell heavy as a shroud. Varian felt the others’ worry like a physical weight.

Doubt and Unease

Brynn broke the quiet with a forced laugh. “Come on, you don’t believe that nonsense, do you? It’s just stories.”

“Stories got to come from somewhere,” Tormund muttered.

“Aye, from drunk fools and crazy women.” Brynn took a long pull of ale. “You can’t believe every wild tale that comes down the road.”

“But what about the captain’s orders?” Elric spoke up. “Double watches, no one past the village edges… He’s not doing that over fake stories.”

“The captain’s just being careful,” Brynn said, but doubt crept into his voice.

Varian said nothing. He stared into the depths of his mug, watching firelight play on the dark surface. The stories chased themselves around his mind. Old superstitions, he told himself firmly. No sensible man believed such tales.

And yet…

He thought of the tracks they’d found, fresh in the loam. The claw marks on tree trunks, too high for any natural beast. The eerie silence in the forest, as if the very birds and insects held their breath in dread.

“Another round,” Varian called to the barkeep. He needed something to wash away the taste of fear that lingered on his tongue.

As the mugs were refilled, conversation drifted to safer topics. Talk of harvests and village gossip, of sweethearts left behind and dreams of glory. But beneath it all, Varian sensed the current of worry.

Outside, beyond the tavern’s weathered walls, night pressed close. Shadows lengthened, reaching with dark fingers toward the village. And in the depths of Grukmar forest, something stirred. Patient. Hungry. Waiting.