Darkin A Journey East - By Joseph A. Turkot Page 0,41
living humans and gnomes here, and a peaceful race of trolls as well,” Slowin explained. “Make sure to be properly polite and respectful to all you meet. They are very protective of their seclusion here, and rightly so. It is only in knowing Krem that we may trespass here.” Adacon restrained his joy at hearing about the different races, each coexisting peacefully in the village.
They reached the edge of the village just as the sun slipped behind the westernmost peaks. Adacon studied the sky around them; it seemed they were encapsulated within a circular band of emerald mountains—it was as if the range was especially formed so as to conceal Rislind Village from the world. The village stood squat in the middle of the valley floor, and only upon reaching its gate did Adacon notice a stream running silently in from the east. A small post stood by the gate Slowin had led them to. Standing there was a tiny man, smaller even than Krem, and Adacon likened the little gatekeeper to sketches he had seen of gnomes. The gnome stood about as high as Adacon’s waist, and his hair was pushed underneath an odd triangular cap, colored brightly sea green. His entire tunic, for that matter, was sea green, except for a copper belt that held a brown sheath, in which sat a shiny dagger. The little man wore bole colored boots and gloves. The gnome’s hair was weathered auburn, and he had a patchwork beard and mustache. His eyes were small and black, but deeply set.
“Slowin, the oddest golem in all of Darkin—what brings you and this strange assembly?” asked the little gnome in a surprisingly deep voice.
“Ah, good Remtall! Woeful are my tidings,” Slowin replied. Time went by as Slowin explained to Remtall the whole story and their journey so far. Finally Remtall exclaimed:
“This cannot be Flaer—that Flaer who aided my passing into this village so long ago?” stammered Remtall, and the two embraced; Flaer lit up with glee.
“It is, though a hex is upon him now, and his tongue has been bound,” Slowin uttered.
“I am stricken to hear it, that and all the ill tidings you bring,” Remtall said. “Alas, we will find you ale, and beds to rest in for at least one night before you set out again farther east.” Remtall at last turned his attention to the slaves, and for the first time heeded them.
“And you two I suppose play some role in this flight. Pleased to make your acquaintances, freed slaves of Grelion, and welcome to Rislind!” With that Remtall heartily shook their hands. “Come, the sun sets, and the inn thrives.” Remtall began to lead them into the village when Adacon let out the thought that had been gnawing at his mind.
“Remtall—I knew a Remtall; he was my only friend on the slave farm I come from. He was no gnome, taller than myself almost,” Adacon said. Remtall gasped.
“It cannot be!” Remtall exclaimed.
“Surely you did not know him?” Adacon replied. Remtall lowered his head in sullen thought and then raised his eyes again to meet Adacon’s.
“Sad is my heart already at such dark news as Slowin brings; let us not speak further of this matter until we are within reach of tankard and ale—come quick!” Remtall spat desperately, and he raced ahead of them toward the biggest building in the village, presumably the tavern inn.
The party traced Remtall through the town, the slaves curiously glancing around the small village. The houses and buildings all looked similar; they ranged in size but each had ocher walls and a yellowed roof. Along the way several villagers walked about, one of which Adacon recognized for a troll, albeit a much friendlier looking troll compared to Bulkog. Many of the town folk gave cruel glances at the outsiders, and their only assurance was Remtall leading them on.
The troop came to the inn entrance, a giant oak door with a sign that boldly read, “Deedle’s Tavern & Inn.”
In went the group, one by one, and Remtall led them to a secluded table near the back of the place. The inn was fairly crowded for such a small town; Adacon glanced around warily, absorbing the strange faces. Such a concoction of mixed people Adacon had never before witnessed. Erguile too was wary, glaring around the wide room, until a tankard of ale was slammed down before him. A friendly barkeeper had hurried over to the table and set the pitcher down, along with five frothing tankards.