Passing Days

  Your party settles into Orymme’s quiet cadence, filling their days with small tasks and short ventures, slowly rebuilding their strength from the journey. Days pass by quick, each marked by visits to the Adventurer's Guild, and requests that take you into the surrounding woodlands or up to the edges of the snow-dusted hills. The work is simple, often mundane, but it offers a way to regain some strength and ease into the town’s pace. Each morning your party leaves with a purpose, and each evening your party returns to the quiet embrace of Orymme, the fire-lit streets wrapping around you like a soft, familiar cloak. The Adventurer’s Guild itself is a humble building, tucked into the corner of the square. It’s cozy, welcoming, and dimly lit, with maps of the region sprawled over the walls, detailing the surrounding wilderness with a kind of faded pride. It is here that the party first meets the guildmaster, an older man named Eddin, his face a map of deep wrinkles and a distant look in his eyes. He greets them as if he’s known them all his life, smiling warmly, though his gaze seems to drift when they ask him questions. "Requests? Yes, yes, of course," he murmurs, shuffling through papers that seem oddly thin for a place with such a rugged charm. Most of the tasks are simple; clearing out wolves near the lumber mill, helping farmers with an infestation of overgrown crows and the likes, the sort that would hardly tax even fledgling adventurers. Yet, it becomes clear that your party is the only one in town, with no other adventurers in sight. Orymme, tucked away under the weight of winter, seems to be a place caught in the slow crawl toward spring. The weather will keep you here for the next few months, isolated by the season’s icy grip. What better way to repay the village for its shelter than by taking on these small, humble tasks? A bit of coin for your trouble and a way to pass the time while the world outside remains frozen.

  One particularly strange request takes your party to the edge of the village, where an old woman insists there is a "whisper beast" haunting her barn. She describes it as an elusive, invisible presence—something that can only be sensed by the wind, its movements producing a soft, eerie hum as it slips through the cracks of the old wooden walls. According to her, the creature’s sound is like a faint, whistling tune, barely audible, yet haunting in its rhythm. Intrigued, your party investigates, but you find nothing. There’s no whispering creature, no presence at all—just the wind sighing through the loose beams of the barn, creating soft, musical whistles that echo eerily in the still air. Even the paladin’s divine sense detects nothing, no evil, no malice. Just the quiet hum of nature, familiar, yet strangely hollow in the barn's shadowed corners. When you return to the woman with your report, she listens attentively, though her brow furrows in confusion. She seems momentarily lost, her gaze distant. “But... there was a pale face…” she begins, her voice trailing off as though searching for the words. Her eyes glaze over for a moment, as if recalling something just out of reach. Then, with a shake of her head, she quickly dismisses it. “Ah, no. I must’ve been imagining things," she murmurs, her voice softer now, still dazed. "My age is catching up to me, I suppose.” She offers a weak smile, but there’s a tremor in her hand as she adjusts the shawl around her shoulders. Her eyes linger on you for a moment, not quite meeting yours and for a moment, it seems that she has more to say. Her gaze drifts towards you, not quite meeting your eyes, but lingering just long enough that you sense there’s something more she wants to say. For a heartbeat, it seems as if she might speak, her lips parting slightly—then the moment slips away, vanishing like smoke. With a final, hesitant glance, she retreats into the shadows of the barn, her footsteps soft, as if she’s eager to put distance between herself and whatever it was she was about to reveal. Whatever thoughts had been stirring in her mind, she leaves them behind, sealed away in the dim recesses of the barn’s walls. The moment with the old woman lingers in your minds as you return to your daily routine in Orymme. The strange, fleeting encounter feels like a weight in the back of your thoughts—her dazed words, the tremor in her hand, the unspoken things she almost revealed. You can’t shake the feeling that something is amiss in the town, something just beneath the surface, but for now, life goes on.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Ill Tidings

  Unperturbed by the bizarre encounter, the party returns to the village’s familiar rhythms, filling their time with the town’s simple routines. They buy supplies, exchange gossip with the innkeeper and townsfolk, and visit the blacksmith to sharpen their blades. The mundane tasks help fill the gaps left by the strange encounter, but small oddities begin to surface, just as the old woman’s words seemed to. However, they are easily dismissed, barely worth a second thought. At the butcher’s, for instance, your party notices a strange item on display—an apron with what looks like a deep stain near the heart. The butcher, a rotund dwarf with a thick beard, waves off their questions with a laugh. "I’ve had that apron for ages," he says, though his smile falters for a moment, and a crease forms on his brow. “Though I could’ve sworn I saw someone else with it some time ago.” A moment later, he’s back to his usual jovial self, slicing meat for their provisions, singing a little tune under his breath as if nothing is wrong, but there’s a slight tension in his movements, almost as if he's trying too hard to act normal. Later in the evening, as the sky deepens into twilight, your party strolls through the village streets, only to notice the growing darkness around them. At first, the cleric attributes it to fatigue, and the others, too, accept the explanation, the quiet, settling weight of the day making the shadows feel deeper, the night a little sooner than usual. But as the days pass, you begin to realize something is wrong. The street lanterns, which should have lit the way in soft golden hues, remain unlit, their usual glow nowhere to be seen. The lack of illumination is disorienting and the town feels quieter, more oppressive as a result. When you mention this to the innkeeper, he seems briefly alarmed, brow creased in concern. “Odd, those lights were automatic before,” he murmurs, then stops, his eyes glazing over. "Or maybe…we had someone to light them?" His voice trails off, and for a brief moment, it seems as though he’s lost in thought, trying to piece together something just out of reach. Then, just as quickly, he shakes himself out of it, lifting empty plates and bowls from the table. "I’m sure it’s nothing. We’ll figure it out." But the unease lingers, hanging in the air long after he’s turned back to his work.