ONE

Once Upon a Time in the Middle of Nowhere

Far to the south, across the Dagger Mountains in the lone oasis of the Snake Eye Desert, there lay a small village by the name of Woodwall. The town’s nonsensical positioning in the middle of a barren desert had left it largely isolated from the rest of the country. Traversing the arid landscape to reach the town was a perilous journey on its own. However the danger was worsened by local legends of a giant python that was said to lull travelers into complacency with its adorable big doughy eyes before head butting them into the distance with all its might for no other apparent reason than its own personal enjoyment.

As a result of its isolation the town had been forced to adapt itself into a relatively self-sustaining community, but was not completely devoid of a tourism market. Occasionally visitors would brave the barrens and visit the town with one specific delicacy in mind.

A unique quality of this oasis was that it possessed the only source in all the country of the coveted emdeema fungus; a rare mushroom that was only ever found growing on oasis trees. Upon ingestion, emdeema induced euphoria, vivid hallucinations, and an overwhelming feeling of joy in an individual. The effect was so intense that it made addicts willing to put themselves through the side effects of dysentery, itchy eyeballs, and left-side-only weight gain. However those with the tendency to partake in such narcotics and those who were willing to make long and treacherous journeys did not overlap much, so most of the emdeema users were permanent residents.

As a result of its isolation and drug-addled demographic, the town of Woodwall found itself in a stage of suspended growth. Fortunately, the members of the community who still considered themselves to be working class had been enough to keep the town afloat. From the butchers and bakers to the candlestick makers, they were content to live their lives of modest means and even took pride in their rural community. But with every community there will always be those who don’t quite fit in.

In the heart of the dilapidated building on the south side of the oasis, obscured by the broad palm fronds and his generally unkempt yard, there was a faint glow of the local blacksmith’s forge. Dungar Loloth and every Loloth before him had lived there producing all of the ironware in the town of Woodwall since its inception many generations ago.

Despite their legacy, the Loloths never quite properly meshed into the fabric of the tiny hamlet. Their inherently gruff nature combined with their unabashed contempt for junkies rendered them unable to properly connect with their neighbors. Luckily for them, all denizens of the desert had a need for iron tools whether or not they were fond of their supplier. Since no one else in town even knew a vise from a pair of tongs, they remained captive customers to the monopolized market.

After the death of his father, Gundar, a few years ago, Dungar became the only remaining member of the Loloth bloodline; thereupon at the ripe old age of thirty-four he also became the sole heir to the family business. Like his father, he had a mane of dull curly carmine hair and matching beard which he had to keep short due to it constantly catching fire from the forge.

What he lacked in height was compensated for by his broad shoulders and stocky build, but his most prominent feature was what were referred to as his “crazy eyes.” They were a pale blue which seemed to capture the light in any room and vibrantly stand out against his weather-beaten skin. They always had a look that could strike a feeling of unease in whoever peered into them, which gave him the impression of someone who could snap at any moment. This notion was further supported by his resting facial expression being perceived as one of perpetual disdain.

He bore the other classic Loloth features as well, particularly the broad flattened nose and thin lips which were frequently curled upward to reveal teeth during his many moments of agitation. Whatever business the Loloths lost due to their intimidating visage, however, was regained by their quality iron products and lack of competitors.

Unfortunately, despite upholding his family’s reputation for superior craftsmanship business had been at an all-time low for the blacksmith in recent years. The steadily waning Woodwall ironware market then all but dissolved when that hippie wizard showed up in town flaunting his drug-addled discovery of how to transmute wood into diamond, leaving Dungar hopelessly unable to compete with the diamondware’s aesthetic appeal and ease of production.

Consequently, Dungar was forced to begin relying on the makeshift inn he converted his home into when business first began to decline. Originally meant to merely supplement his income, it became his fulltime profession while he looked forward to the day Rainchild Earthumper the Wise inevitably died from an overdose or ramifications of trying to “connect with nature.” Or if he just simply left, but that’s not as gratifying.

The inn’s business, albeit not substantial, was still a definitive improvement on the small income of his remaining blacksmithing business. Dungar quickly came to find no customer was more loyal and reliable than an alcoholic once he had liquor on his menu. As long as he kept the booze flowing there would always be food on his table.

Despite it still not being his ideal trade, the blacksmith fit quite well into the role of an innkeeper. His years working the forge had tempered his body into a condition as hardy as the very iron he folded. And although he was not a particularly sociable fellow, his inherently honorable nature coupled with his sturdy physique allowed him to foster his inn’s reputation for fair prices, safety from theft, and swift defenestration of any who opted to not follow the rules or keep the peace.

With the recent business of a potential true love and/or meal ticket up for grabs, the many travelers making the journey to the kingdom created a marked increase in guests to his inn. As they came and went, he found himself actually beginning to mildly enjoy their company. The newfound public interest in politics and current events was a breath of fresh air compared to the usual sanctimonious ramblings of Rainchild that everyone would otherwise be eating up.

Since this marriage business began, many guests of all walks of life had shown up at his door. One was a man of wealthy means who clearly believed he was the best candidate for royal ascension. He traveled with a caravan of several vehicles holding many different exotic goods as well as his own personal detachment of archers. He also had a man covered in leaves whose only duty was apparently to stand very still and pretend to be a potted plant.

Another guest was a mild mannered little old man in shabby clothes who had been making his way up from the valley in the south. He presented himself as a chauffeur and was working his way towards the kingdom, stopping off at any little town he came across in search of someone who would commission a ride from him, a venture that was not going well since he didn’t seem to understand that chauffeurs were generally expected to provide the cart as well as drive it.

Dungar had virtually no regard for trivial traits like ambition and social status. All guests received an equal amount of apathy and disinterest from him. He would consent to idle chit chat with any who graced his tavern with their coin, but primarily felt compelled to keep to himself and pay no interest to whatever their intent and wherever they intended it. So long as tabs were paid and disturbances were not caused, he was willing to accommodate any and all. That being said, the odd forcible removal was something he discerned an occasional pleasure from providing.

However today would not be business as usual for the pub proprietor, for yet another soon-to-be guest lay on the horizon and friendliness was not in the aura he was projecting. Quite the opposite in fact; this man had clearly seen some shit.