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The sun was slowly setting on the estate, and the inn was near full to bursting. Light spilled from its windows, and as guests would enter and exit, each movement of the door would release a great cloud of laughter and talk, the raw noise of humanity. The guests of the estate were in good humour: another mark had been made, another blow struck against the great evil that lurked in the darkness below their feet. It was a moment that deserved recognition and, more importantly, celebration.
Even the taciturn bartender had cracked a smile, a momentous occasion indeed. At the bar itself, a weathered lawman and a veteran of many battles swapped stories while imbibing from great, oak mugs filled with frothing spirits. Beside them, a jester clad in red and yellow sang, a high, clear voice emitting from his polished white mask. His singing partner, a tall and intimidating barbarian dressed in furs, accompanied him note for note, one muscled arm grasping his narrow shoulders. Her harsh, growling contralto kept to time with his soft tones, making for a homely melody.
Further along still, there was the rattle of dice, the muttered curses and shouts of joy of the gambling den. A philosopher and an academic held sway over the hall, his freshly waxed moustache and beard glimmering wetly in the candlelight. His opponent, a man of poor manners and sharp blades, swore thickly as the occultist turned over the cards on the table. Disgusted but not entirely surprised, the man shoved a row of chips over to the grinning academic, turning and making his way to the bar, scarf swaying. The occultist neatly added the fresh row to his growing pile of chips, laughing softly to himself, and seeking fresh prey.
The frustrated highwayman brushed past a tall, elegant woman leaning against a wall, talking animatedly to one of the inn’s employees. The young lady blushed as the woman gesticulated, a row of knives glinting from underneath her frock coat. The thief doffed her hat and placed it upon the maiden’s head, whereupon it immediately sank, covering her brunette curls and flushed cheeks. Distracted by the hat, the graverobber seized the opportunity to grab at the young lady’s hand and place a kiss on the back: thus emboldened, she began to gently but firmly pull her towards the stairs.
The highwayman slumped at the bar, holding up one stained finger to the bartender and receiving a shot of something foul. He downed it and leaned back, examining the crowd of friends, colleagues and acquaintances that filled the room. His eye was caught by a trio conversing in hushed tones sitting in the corner of the room: two men and a woman. The woman was covered from head to toe in colourful, exotic fabrics, only exposing her dark eyes and her clever, scarred fingers. In complete contrast, the man sitting stiffly to her right only wore the barest of robes, his chest, back and accompanying scars bared for all the world to see. In a similarly unusual fashion, the woman’s other companion had neglected to remove his plate armour, in stubborn defiance of the festive atmosphere. The bandit noticed, to some amusement, that the knight’s sole concession to his surroundings was the straw extending from a mug on the table in front of him. As he watched, the knight picked up the mug and delicately inserted the straw into one of the slits in his visor. The hooded, bare-chested man let out a burst of raucous laughter, prompting the crusader to turn and presumably glare through his visor. The trader sitting between them slowly shook her head, the various jewellery sewn into her clothing jingling, as she resumed stroking the battered censer sitting in front of her. The skull fashioned into the top of the censer seemed to stare at the highwayman and, shuddering, he turned back to the bartender.
Far above the contained chaos, in the room that fully occupied the inn’s top floor, a lone figure sat and scratched away at a parchment in silence. The desk he wrote creaked under layers and layers of papers. The sole place of calm was to his immediate right, where a small box made of some unusual wood held five glass orbs: four black, one white. He wrote ceaselessly, ignoring the muffled sounds of merriment from far below. Only to be interrupted by a knock at the door. He spoke without turning:
“Good evening, Hendry.”
The door creaked open, and a short, stout woman shuffled inside. Her grey robes were stained, and her armour, once of fine craftmanship, was slowly fading in both colour and quality. She stood in front of the heir, and remained silent.
“Is there a reason you are disturbing me?”
The vestal licked her dry lips, and spoke up, her voice cracking.
“Why are we still here?”
At this, the heir finally turned. He looked at the vestal, and remembered when she first arrived to his estate. She was no innocent waif: battle-scarred and experienced, she came seeking adventure, opportunity, and because she believed that it was her holy duty to do so. She had fought and survived where many others did not, and she only grew in strength and confidence.
Until he sent her and her compatriots down, down, further down than any other expedition had gone. Past the great, black gates, into a darkness unlike any seen on this mortal plain. Into a cursed world brought forth by his ancestor. That day, Hendry returned alone, and victorious, but shaken. Nothing she had seen, no fight won, no beast vanquished, could have prepared her for the horrors patiently waiting in that antediluvian pit of evil. He saw this now, looking into her hollow, staring face, and he saw it when she came out of the ruins and swore to never return.
“You are here because I need you here. Just as I need the others.”
“Why?” She whispered. “None of us will go back. You know why. You saw what we did”. The man, made old before his time, shifted in his seat.
“Yes, and that is why you will not leave. You, above all others, understand what we are fighting for. You are the only one who understands the sacrifices I have made, the horrors we have faced and continued to face. I will not fight this alone”. The fragmented warrior shook her head, tears slowly sliding down her face.
“Let us go. Let us see the world, and enjoy its beauty, while it still remains. We deserve that much.” The heir stared at her, head cocked to one side, fingers slowly drumming at the table.
“I will consider it”. The vestal nodded, and slowly turned back to the door. As she began to walk through, she heard him speak behind her.
“I still remember them, you know. All of them”. Hendry turned back and looked at the heir. Her eyes, once green, now bloodshot from fear, pain and sleeplessness.
“You should. You killed them”.
She left the room. The heir stared after her, still as a statue or a corpse. After a while, he turned back, and resumed writing his records, adding to the rows and rows of scrolls decorating the walls. Let the living embrace an evening of joy. The dead still had work to be done.