Amos

Amos shivered as he pulled his cloak tighter around himself. After several years on the road, the garment looked as tattered as he felt. His steps were heavy, and he walked with hunched shoulders like a man twice his age. Beneath his cloak, his left hand rested on the hilt of his sword, while the right touched anxiously at a stone hung around his neck. His wife’s soul-stone amulet; a constant reminder of what he had lost, and why he pressed on.

The strangeness of this forest unnerved Amos. He could have sworn that with each step he took the trees drew closer in, as if moving to bar his path. Further, he was certain it could not have been more than a few hours since he entered the woods, yet already the sky was dark and the temperature was dropping rapidly. It was far too cold for autumn in The Heart. The frigid air bit harshly at the exposed skin of his face and hands.

Nevertheless, he continued, choosing his steps carefully in the scant moonlight that pierced the forest canopy. He thought of the torch in his heavy canvas pack, but he dared not light it. The forest was aggravated enough at his presence without introducing fire to the situation. It already felt as if every tree had eyes and each was fixed on him. Surely, most sane men would have turned and run by now. Or perhaps most sane men would never have entered the Forsaken Woods to begin with. According to the histories, these woods were not named for nothing.

Yet Amos ventured where few others dared because somewhere in these woods he would find an inn. It might seem an unusual place to seek an inn, but it was an unusual inn that he sought. This inn, so the stories told, had a rather frustrating habit of never being where you expected it to be. Yet it often was exactly where it needed to be. Tales perpetuated over pints by second- and third-hand accounts spoke of lone travellers, lost beyond hope, following a strange light in the deepest reaches of the wilderness and coming upon a peculiar yet welcoming inn.

From Amos’ research, he believed stories of the inn had begun circulating around the same time as the sudden influx of high strangeness - malevolent spirits, twisted creatures, and supernatural occurrences - across Satchea. Not long before his family were taken from him.

It had been nearly two years since that day. Returning home from a job as a sell-sword - taking innocent lives for coin - he found frost forming around the edges of the front door. When he stepped inside his breath cast a coiling mist. It was as if winter had come but had been constrained to those walls. When he found his family, they were sat up, rigid, lifeless, cold. Wearing empty expressions and distant stares. The air smelled of burning flesh, but there were no marks on their bodies — no sign of sickness or injury. As if they had simply decided to die where they sat.

Amos had barely rested since that day. He sought this inn now, in the Forsaken Wood in the dead of night, not merely out of curiosity, but to find answers, to find hope. Perhaps a promise of vengeance for his family. Or the strength and understanding to protect others from their fate. He would not be caught absent and unawares again. He could not.

A deep groaning and creaking of timber pulled Amos from his thoughts and stopped him dead in his tracks. All around him, the forest came to life, swelling into an uproar of rumbling, groaning, and cracking wood under a chorus of shaking leaves. The ground trembled and swelled, the last bit of moonlight faded and then blotted out. Just as quickly, the forest fell silent again.

In complete darkness, Amos stood still as stone. His heart pounded in his chest as he tried to quiet his breathing. His hand fixed on the hilt of his sword ready to draw, he listened. The woods were still. Beyond quiet, utterly devoid of sound. No gentle murmur of nocturnal birds or even the rustle of the wind through branches. If not for the cold biting at his skin and the soreness of his feet beneath him, Amos might have assumed he was dead.

His eyes darted in vain, looking for anything to orient himself. He noticed a faint glow of light. Soft purple emanated from under his own cloak. Curious, he unwrapped himself, and purple light spilled out, illuminating the forest floor ahead of him. The soul-stone around his neck was glowing bright - as if some latent magic had newly awoken. What sorcery was this? Amos touched the stone with his hand — it was warm, and the warmth permeated his hand and into his arm. He could almost feel her now. Almost hear her voice… Amos shook himself and pushed back the feeling. This was no place for sentiment.

By the light of his wife’s soul-stone Amos chose his next step, and another. He pressed into the dark with newfound determination. Then a different sound broke the silence — a creaking like a heavy door on old iron hinges. He slowed and peered into the darkness. In the distance, another source of light flickered to life. A soft blue glow. Amos’ heart beat with anticipation and he couldn’t help but smile. There you are.

Quickly as he dared, Amos moved towards the light. Crouching low and stepping lightly as if fearing to frighten off his quarry. But his stealth was foiled as the trees began shouting their threats again — groaning and rumbling as he passed them. He ignored them, shutting them out of his mind. Focused on the warm presence pressed to his chest and the hopeful beacon of light ahead of him. The blue light suddenly surged to flood his vision, the trees ahead of him peeled back like a curtain, and a strong wind struck his back, causing him to stumble forward. The world reeled; he lost his footing and crashed forward onto a bed of soft grass.

An owl hooted in protest at this new intruder. Amos blinked as his mind oriented itself, then he scrambled to his feet. Unsure of what had just transpired, or where he now was, he turned a quick circle, taking in his surroundings. It was still night, but the sky was open, and the moon and stars were bright. He stood in a large clearing surrounded by a dense forest. In the centre of the clearing loomed a three-story building of weathered timbers. Its windows illuminated with the same blue light he had followed. Next to the door hung a lantern, also blue.

Was this it? The mysterious inn? Amos stepped cautiously toward the building, squinting to make out the sign that hung above its door: *The Wayward Inn*. It felt somehow familiar and foreign at the same time. The door swung open, and warm fire light poured out of the building. A figure stepped into the frame. Small, slender, like a young woman, but her silhouette was… an elf?

“Ah, Amos,” she called to him, “I was wondering when you were planning to show up.”