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  [Sigurd]

  After his nap beneath the tree, in the cool breeze beside the stream, Sigurd felt refreshed. He opened his eyes to see the blue sky and gently wafting leaves of the tree above him. It looked like he had slept for an hour or so, judging by the sun’s position above his head.

  Sigurd packed up and was on his way in no time, pushing the pace once again. He wanted to get halfway to Oar’s Rest before sundown as he knew of a perfect place to set up camp around there; travelling in the dim dusk light was not pleasant and although there wasn’t much danger to wander into, it was easy to get lost and trip over the uneven ground.

  Sigurd, sighed as he slumped in the saddle, readjusting to try and get comfortable, absorbing the bump bumping of Dexter’s gait with his core was tiring and changing position required different muscles and bruised a different part of his bum.

  An hour later and his thighs were burning with the effort once again and his seatbones felt rather bruised. Stopping for a few moments, he dismounted, took Dexter by the reins and set off at a brisk walk. The sun was still high in the sky and he had plenty of light to see the uneven path.

  Over the next few hours, he alternated between walking and riding, stopping for a break every hour or so.

  The stream meandered hither and thither crisscrossing the gentle hills and along the foot of the Avalt.

  It was another four hours before Oar’s Rest came into view on the horizon. Distant and hazy with the distance he was looking at it from. Night was drawing in and Sigurd was looking forward to getting out of the saddle and stopping. They weren’t far from the camp site now and soon he would be able to rest, get a fire going and relax for a few hours before tomorrow’s journey. Hopefully he would make it to Oar’s Rest in time for dinner in the inn. A hearty stew would be fantastic, and a bed, and a healer most of all.

  He sighed, imagining it.

  The camp site he envisaged was beautiful, or it would be if he could see it in the light of day. Clouds had covered what little fraction of the sun peaked above the horizon sending red strobing lights flickering through the clouds. A beautiful sunset, but a pain in the arse to set up a tent in.

  The camp site was on the inside curve of one of the streams larger meanderings, down in a small divot in the land where the plentiful meadow stretched down to reach the water’s edge. It left a good 5 metre circle of soft grass behind the sandy beach, and before the sharp rise that led onto the flat plain. A circle of trees ringed the beach, bordering the meadow and insulating his camp from the wind. It was quiet and peaceful.

  The only sounds, the gentle breathing of Dexter, the hissing crackle of green wood burning on the fire, the gentle lapping of the water and the odd rustle of the leaves disturbed in the barest of gusts from the dying wind.

  Small sparks and embers danced above the fire, carried high into the twinkling night sky on the updraft of hot air. Sigurd sat and watched, absorbed in the beauty of it, thinking about the day he had had and the days that would come.

  The more he thought about it the more unique he felt that the dungeon was. It was a shame that he couldn’t reach the end of it, but it also made it more distinctive. If it was normal, and so far out of the way it would not have the interest that he was expecting it to garner.

  In a few months, once the guild sent people to confirm and they went back and reported, adventurers would arrive in force, ready to upend the entirety of what Littlebrook knew. He was ready for it, but he doubted the villagers would be. Still with the investment they were making, it was a good first step. His only hope now was that the guild didn’t find anything to sour the dungeon. Undeath was always unsavoury, and people weren’t happy to live next to one of them. So far, he had seen no signs, indeed it seemed to be nature aspected, but he couldn’t confirm it.

  Thinking about the dungeon still, Sigurd drifted off to sleep, closing the mouth of the tent in the last vestiges of conscious thought. Tomorrow would be a good day.

  The morning came too early, though that was always the case. Sigurd liked getting up early, but it was still a tough thing to do – crawling out of a warm blanket and cosy, peaceful tent. He shivered in the cold morning air, wincing at the cold dew on his feet and the pain in his ribs as he dressed himself. It may have been edging into summer but the early mornings were still very chilly, he shivered again, attempting to retract his neck like a tortoise into the warmth of his clothes, snuggling down as he pulled on socks and boots.

  Sigurd picked up his pack, rooted around and found his wash kit. The cold stream water was refreshing as he washed his face and mouth, the cold snapping him fully awake. He dried his face with his sleeve and wandered over to Dexter, giving the horse his morning oats and apple.

  While the horse was chowing down, he packed up the camp, idly chewing on some jerky and travel rations as he worked.

  Strapping Dexter up with the packs, Sigurd decided to walk for the first hour; get the blood flowing enough to be able to absorb the impacts of riding, and also to ease the horse into motion after a hard slog yesterday.

  Scrambling up the bank, he looked back briefly, Littlebrook was no longer visible behind him, he swung his pack on his shoulder, and set off leading Dexter over the gentle hills and hollows, the pair eating up the ground between them and Oar’s Rest quickly.

  The journey was long and slow, the untamed wilderness around the Avalt mountain made for hard going as soon the meadow-like plains transformed into steep rises and falls as the foothills of the mountains began in earnest. Many times, rocks gave away at the edges of the slanting trails that zig zagged up the sides of the rises, sending pebbles and stones tumbling down the steep banks into the valleys betwixt them.

  Sigurd forged on, heedless of the treacherous terrain, his dwarven ancestors guiding his sure footing and Dexter followed faithfully onwards with nary a pause from the equine mount.

  Several hours later, when cresting yet another of the rises, this time whilst riding Dexter, Sigurd saw that the town had finally separated from the horizon, becoming more distinct. And as the hours went by, he could see more and more of Oar’s Rest.

  First, the smoke, Sigurd could see it from afar, rising up and over the small wall that appeared next, circling the town, and providing some form of defence. Oar’s Rest was a larger town than Littlebrook and the shallower sloping foothills and woodland that stretched up into the Avalt were known to host small bands of goblins and packs of wolves that occasionally strayed into town.

  Littlebrook was further round, with the steep hard terrain of the Avalt protecting much of the village from attack, the stream too provided a natural barrier, as the water poured off the mountains in gushing flows that helped to guard from the deep forest that stretched around the mountain opposite from Oar’s Rest.

  The next feature that Sigurd could make out was the large spire from the church that reached up into the sky, far higher than the walls and other houses, the peak standing out amongst the cluster of indistinct buildings that surrounded it.

  So too did the inn, appearing at the other end, stand out, being far larger than most other buildings. That was what he was looking forward to, a warm bed, a warm meal and a cold drink. A recipe for happiness if he was ever aware of one.

  On the outskirts of the town, small farmsteads dotted the landscape, clustered amongst fields of crops. Sigurd weaved amongst the fields, courteous enough to avoid trampling the poor farmers’ crops.

  The smell of the town blew its way down to Sigurd and filled his nostrils, making his belly rumble. It had been several hours since he had stopped for lunch and he was eager to get to the inn. It wasn’t much longer until he could see the gate and hear the sound of shouting, the banging of hammers on anvils and the general hustle and bustle of a minor town.

  After Oar’s Rest, his next destination was Barkamstead. Barkamstead was a minor city in the grand scheme of the kingdom, but it was still a city and as such it had lots and lots of people, but more importantly it had a number of transport pads including one to the interchange, a highly defended location with connections to all the cities in the kingdom. From the interchange, Sigurd would transport to the Capital, and his destination: the Adventurers Guild. But first, he had to get to Barkamstead, a journey of about two to three weeks depending on his speed, definitely longer if he couldn’t get to a healer for his ribs.

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  Sigurd passed by some more farms before making it to the gate, it was unguarded as you would expect from a minor town. Oar’s Rest had no town-guard to man it after all, only a patrol of soldiers from Barkamstead that passed by every 3 months or so that could deal with trouble.

  Entering the town, closer towards the evening than the afternoon, Sigurd immediately went to the healers. Unfortunately, they were closed for the night, and the pain was not enough to cause such a fuss to try and find one. He would dread the cost of disturbing a healer after hours.

  Marching over to the inn, Sigurd walked around the side, tying Dexter to one of the rings in the stable block. Easing the door open, he observed the room. Busy, but not packed. In the back left corner, a rowdy game of cards was being played, he wasn’t sure what the game was but they seemed to be having a good time. Various couples and friends dotted the remaining tables. Friendly.

  Behind the bar was a large man, several heads taller than Sigurd, he leaned against the wooden counter with a friendly smile, watching the card players.

  He looked over as Sigurd stepped up to the counter.

  “What can I get for you?” the man asked, cheerily.

  “An ale, but first, can I stable my horse with you?” Sigurd replied.

  “Sure, sure, no charge for patrons, I assume you’ll be staying the night?”

  “Yep, a room and an ale would be lovely, I’ll just go secure Dexter first.”

  He made his way out of the inn and back around to Dexter, leading the horse farther into the stables and tying him up more securely. He closed the gate on the stall and wandered back into the inn, carrying the saddle bags.

  The barman, noticing his load, stepped round the end of the counter, picked up one of them saying,

  “Follow me, the stable boy, will sort out your horse for you” as he did so. Signalling to a youngster in the back as he did so.

  Sigurd was shown to a small room on the second floor of the inn. It overlooked the walls, and he imagined there would be a decent view, if it wasn’t so dark. He would see in the morning. Dumping his stuff on the floor, he took the key off the man, locked up and followed him back to the bar where he picked up his ale and took a big swig.

  “Ah, that hits the spot.” He exclaimed sighing. “Name’s Sigurd, good ale.”

  “Thorl” the barman replied, similarly succinct.

  They both stared at each other for a moment, before smiles crept onto their faces.

  Thorl stuck a hand out and Sigurd gave it a firm shake.

  “Nice to meet you Thorl”

  “And you Sigurd, what brings you to Oar’s Rest, we don’t get too many travellers, only the occasional travelling merchant or adventuring party heading up north.”

  “Oh, I’m from Littlebrook, heading off to the capital for a bit, got somethings to buy, some things to sell and some family to visit” Sigurd replied.

  “The capital huh, long journey.”

  “Yep, I’ve not been back in a few years, so I’m braving the trip now.”

  Thorl nodded, moving over to serve another customer, and leaving Sigurd to have a cold refreshing mouthful of ale.

  The inn was comprised of two building sections. A round room with a vaulted ceiling and exposed beams that ran up to its point. It felt grand and impressive.

  Coming off one side of the circular room was a rectangular section with two floors, the second of which housed his room. Oar’s Rest, being fairly small had no need of many rooms as most of the patrons lived in the town and stopped by for a drink and a meal.

  The inn was fairly warm, enough that Sigurd would have felt slightly uncomfortable if not for the chilled ale that he sipped on casually.

  A large double-sided fireplace provided that warmth sending flickering rays of light across the dark wooden beams in the main chamber of the inn.

  Sigurd watched the fire flicker for a few moments, his eyes lingering on it while Thorl served customers.

  Dinner was a modest affair, after Thorl had a break from customers he wandered back over and they chatted for a little bit as Sigurd nursed his beer, ordering another with his dinner.

  Thorl had encouraged him to go for the pheasant stew which came with a hearty helping of fresh bread. Sigurd liked the sound of that, and when a steaming bowl came over to him a few minutes later he was pleased with his choice.

  The meat was soft and tender, the veg had a bit of bite and wasn’t the mush that often occurred in many inns as they kept it hot for such a long time. It had the right thickness to it too, something that whilst not immediately noticeable did elevate the dish to the next level, and the bread… well fresh bread was hard to beat.

  He signed in contentment, patting his full stomach. A good meal indeed.

  “Enjoy?” Thorl asked, coming back over to collect the bowl.

  “Yeah, really good. Good recommendation.”

  “Well, I’m glad, it’s a favourite of mine too, similar tastes perhaps.”

  “Perhaps” Sigurd replied, letting the conversation die down.

  After a few moments of silence Thorl broke the silence again.

  “Well, it’s winding down for the night, pull up a chair by the hearth and I’ll pour us a drink, helps stave of the dark with a story or two, traveller,” he said with warmth.

  Sigurd was happy to oblige, Thorl was a friendly giant of a man, and he probably had some stories to share. Besides, he wanted to scope out the lay of the land in Oar’s Rest as well as catch any news for the road.

  Slumping down in his seat, the innkeeper put his boots up on the raised flagstone supporting the hearth and took a big quaff of his ale.

  “Perk of the job this,” he said, Sigurd couldn’t help but agree. The chill of the fading summer sun had set in on the last few hours of his trip and basking in the warmth of the Inn’s hearth fire was pleasant enough.

  “I imagine so, have you run the inn long? You know, it’s been a few years since I stayed the night in Oar’s Rest, but I’m sure I’d remember you.”

  “Ha, Ha, Ha” the man laughed heartily, “Hard to forget ay!” he said elbowing the half dwarf with good nature. “Been doing it on and off for ten years with a friend, splitting the time between relaxing and recuperating in the inn and adventuring. They don’t make all this muscle for nothing you know.”

  “I figured, you had that look about you, I can always tell an adventurer, older ones at least, the young’uns are harder to figure out, all the foolishness masks it I reckon.”

  “I feel ya. When the inn is brimming with delvers it has a different energy, luckily nothing out this way for them, often a rowdy lot and I can’t be dealing with putting down fights all the time. Got plenty of pleasant genteel patrons that wouldn’t appreciate their sort. Though does get a touch boring I’d say.” He paused a moment, “still I’m off in autumn for my half year, so excitement to come ay.”

  “Ay indeed” Sigurd replied feeling slightly guilty for withholding such important news. “Any destination decided? I did a fair few years myself, all around the kingdom really.”

  “No, not yet. I’ve done a fair bit of the Iron Spine dungeon, if you know it?”

  “Not too familiar, is that the one in the Northern Reaches, near Talois? I did more of Grey Eclipse and Lifeless Vault, closer to the central region, ambush dungeon and classic undeath those two. Oh and of course the great two, Parivalio and The Great Tomb.”

  “Yeah, I was born close to the Northern reaches so Iron Spine was a natural first dungeon, I did a couple delves in the great two but I didn’t enjoy it too much, too crowded and expensive. I thought about doing the Lifeless Vault but never went ahead with it.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t recommend, it’s tough and not too rewarding, plenty of monsters for growth but the wealth isn’t worth it without taking subjugation requests so I moved on after a bit, much preferred Grey Eclipse, its ambush so you have to be on guard, but if you’re ready and with a good team it can be very rewarding, and the monsters are glass cannons so, not too bad in that respect. You a tank?” Sigurd replied, asking for Thorls’ specialty.

  “Yeah, I soak up damage, besides there’s too much of me to dodge effectively.”

  “True, I suppose.” Sigurd said giving him a sideways look. Thorl laughed.

  “I’ll take your word for it on the vault, never liked the dark and cramped ones, so I won’t be visiting it. I was thinking of heading out to the Haunted Halls, its far away but it’s supposed to be worth the trip.”

  “Is that the one that has almost like actually rooms, with high ceilings and everything?” Sigurd asked.

  “Yeah, Mimics, and walking armour and the like, it sounds classic, fun and with its reputation for good rewards I’m tempted by it.”

  “I mean, sounds good, where is it?”

  “It’s at the bottom of Southern Point, Talask region.”

  “Ah” Sigurd replied.

  Southern Point was almost the opposite side of the kingdom, it was an island peninsula accessible only by the one land bridge connecting it to the mainland or by boat. Being at the bottom of the peninsula, getting to it would likely require a long, long journey and then weeks of travelling by foot through the craggy foothills and awkward trails. It was too mountainous to form large towns or cities down there and so the only civilisation was a few smaller shanty towns from what Sigurd recalled.

  “A bit out of the way then!”

  “Yeah, that’s why I wasn’t sure, I reckon it will take me one and a half months to get there giving me a couple months of delving, more if I can get more time away. It’s not long but I should be able to hit some on the way back.”

  “You got a team going with you?”

  “Nah, I’m sure I’ll find someone on my way or down there, I’ll tag along with a group, and catch a caravan going back.”

  “Not much trade going to Southern Point, and not many adventurers either. I’ve been retired for a few years now, but I never heard much about the dungeoneering down that way.”

  “It’s certainly a bit more modern, discovered twenty years ago I believe, but it’s out of the way location stopped it being properly delved for a long time and the guild couldn’t really set up a farm so they didn’t care much, I expect to run into a few teams doing it, should be more peaceful than either of the great two which would suit me just fine.”

  “Well good luck, I myself would love to go back to Akkaalian Basque. Man, that dungeon was the most fun I ever had, but with the war and everything, dungeoneering there got shut down and that was when I called it quits, spent my last couple years out that way, never found a dungeon like it. The traps were almost games in how they were triggered, and the variance in monsters was a great challenge. I loved the thrill of the unknown and yeah…” Sigurd replied passionately.

  Akkaalian Basque was a shorter dungeon, that was delved for the sheer fun, it wasn’t particularly risky, nor rewarding, but it was a good place to train and an excellent way to pass the time. He had spent the last few years of his career out that way before war with the elves had ended that avenue.

  “Ah, a good one I’ve heard, definitely a shame it’s not delved so much anymore, but I suppose there’s no market for it.”

  “No, the war and treaty ruined it. Maybe I’ll go back in a few years. I may be retired but I’m not out of it.” He said, laughing.

  “How’s the road?” Sigurd asked.

  Thorl curled a lip before answering.

  “Not too bad, haven’t heard of bandits too much, but goblins are always a problem this time of year.”

  “Damn blighters” Sigurd cut in.

  “Yeah, no sightings as far as I know, which could be a good thing or a bad thing. A hard winter might have thinned them out or they could be plotting something. Kind of glad I won’t be here this autumn, something doesn’t feel right if you ask me.”

  That was interesting, Sigurd knew that Oars’ Rest often had sightings of goblins and smaller attacks which didn’t prove too successful.

  Fir^Alun, a settlement on the edge of the Palus Forrest, on the other hand, often experienced significant attacks and the village was abandoned regularly as citizens retreated to Barkamstead. It seemed the goblins didn’t understand the village’s use, a lumber town it exported much of the Western fronts lumber and the danger pay and government stipend meant it was always reclaimed, it was too useful, but far enough out not to require further development.

  If the goblins hadn’t been spotted, then Thorl was right, it could spell trouble for sure. Older goblins, nearing rank up, were cleverer and tougher, often holding sway over the lesser members of their tribes and they could hold the blighters back from savage attacks, building the numbers they produced, until formidable attacks could be given.

  If that was the case it could mean big trouble for Littlebrook, the village had very little defence and he wasn’t even sure Oar’s Rest would survive such an attack, and they had a decent, well-maintained wall.

  “Let’s hope not, we don’t need any trouble of that sort. It’s supposed to be peaceful out this far, we aren’t prepared for that.” Sigurd said, continuing on the conversation.

  Thorl and Sigurd chatted for another few hours, interrupted infrequently as a patron required another drink or for some other task Thorl was required for.

  Sigurd was grateful for the man chatting with him, the camaraderie he felt with another adventurer, someone who could understand him, was different from what he got in the village, not better but different. It fulfilled a need.

  He was only sorry he wasn’t able to tell Thorl about the dungeon he had found. Perhaps on the way back through. He liked the man, and if the dungeon was as cool as he thought it might be, he would definitely be interested in forming a new party for such a task.

  A possibility, he wouldn’t think too hard on it just yet. Only time would tell.

  Sigurd retired to his room, relaxing on the comfortable bed, content to fall asleep. Soon enough he drifted off.