Solodark: Session 01

The sun hung low over the plains by the time the adventurers reached Brackenford. The heat clung to them like a damp wool cloak. Their steps drew curious glances from a few villagers tending to livestock or patching up fences near the weather-worn palisade.

The Leaping Hart stood near the village green, its paint faded and its beams slightly bowed with age. Inside, the air was cool and dim, and smelled of peat smoke and boiled barley.

Behind the bar stood a broad-shouldered man with a silvering beard and a scar beneath his right eye. He looked up as they entered.

“Well met, travelers,” he said, polishing a mug. “If you’re seeking lodging and food, you’re in luck — though it’s close. I’ve got three rooms upstairs, and space by the hearth if one of you doesn’t mind rougher sleep. Half price, of course.”

The party exchanged glances but said little. Conversation between them turned to bickering — who would take the floor, who deserved a bed, who snored worst. After a minute of this, Elric the ranger rolled his eyes.

“I’ll take the hearth. I sleep outside most nights anyway. At least this floor’s dry.”

Once the arrangements were made and packs were stowed, they returned to the common room. Garran poured mugs of thick, bitter ale, and the group settled near the fire.

Johan leaned on the table, swirling his drink.

“This village get much protection from the Duke? Or are you all left to fend for yourselves?”

Garran gave a short laugh.

“Protection? Haven’t seen a Redmantle or a royal blade in years. We keep to ourselves. Not much out here worth marching for — or so the Duke thinks.”

Drogo raised an eyebrow. “So no soldiers, no patrols?”

“A rider now and then, maybe once in a season. Taxes still find their way out, mind you — always on time. But help? No, not unless you count prayers.”

Archibald sipped quietly, then asked, “So what kind of trouble do you do see?”

Garran leaned on the bar and rubbed his jaw.

“Nothing big, thank the gods. Livestock go missing now and then. Lights in the distance. Strange dreams, maybe. Superstition, most of it.”

He paused. “Though folk say something’s stirring near the old stones.”

As the mugs grew lighter and the fire dipped into coals, Drogo leaned forward, resting his elbows on the worn wood of the table.

“What do you know about the Three Sisters?” he asked, voice low, casual — but not idle.

Garran paused in mid-clean, setting the mug down and wiping his hands on a rag. His gaze flicked toward the window, though the stones couldn’t be seen from here.

“Old stones,” he said after a beat. “Three of them. Tall, weathered things, maybe twelve feet each. Stand just off the Old Road, east of here. You’ve probably passed worse a dozen times, but these…” he shrugged. “Folk don’t camp near them. Don’t sit with their backs to ‘em.”

Archibald grunted. “Superstition?”

“Maybe. Or memory.” Garran picked the mug back up and kept polishing. “Some say they were grave markers. Others say Watcher stones, meant to bind something below. Had a peddler once swore they hum when the sky’s clear and the moon’s wrong.”

Elric asked, “Anyone go out there?”

“Not unless they’re drunk or desperate. A few herders use the area for grazing, but they move quick. And I wouldn’t go poking around after dark.”

He poured himself a splash of ale and leaned on the bar.

“You thinking of visiting?”

Drogo smiled faintly, not answering. But the look in his eyes said enough.