Chapter one

The Tale of Brensom as recounted by Marta the whore :

The gut wrenching scream pierced the evening still, then was smothered ... then silenced.

A blood red moon of the lunar eclipse bode particular evil in the lands far south of Kharanos. Such an eclipse was a rarity, unlike the scene unfolding below. A heady stench of fresh blood and entrails rose from the stained earth to meet the moon in flight.

The dark, young dragonspawn slavered, arched towards the moon, disgorged a horrid, angry roar, then slowly flapped his wings gaining rhythm until reaching the inevitable moment of great power that lifted the beast into the air above the scant remains of his nocturnal kill. A grey dwarf makes for a very small meal; another kill was needed to even begin to sate the great wyrm.

Brensom convulsed, as he always did when such foul destruction was observed ... such happened too often at night especially around the full moon, predictably and unrelenting. The recurring nightmare woke him in a great sweat, uncontrollably shaking and swimming in his own excrement. The now familiar sensation of being disemboweled by a dragon was still too much for it not to be acknowledged by primeval autonomic reflexes. Brensom rolled to the side and retched violently. The wooden bucket placed along side Brensom's bed every night for years now, served its purpose yet again. His head spun and the room lost all distinction. Brensom lay semi-conscious on the floor. The closeness of the walls in the abandoned Wendigo Den was oppressive and gave no sense of protection despite their solidity. And the odour of Brensom’s bodily objections was never erased completely, despite the almost daily dedicated scrubbing and washing. The lack of fresh air in the small cave helped retain the now familiar ambiance of Brensom's adopted dwelling place. Brensom longed for a different existence, or non-existence if that was what it took to rid himself of the almost nightly corruption of his mind.

Marta sniffed, as she always did when sitting near the fire. Wood that burned well was scarce in the town of Ironforge, so the old rotting Oak from the northern mountain forests had to suffice. Marta swore that a powerful malaise overcame her when exposed to the fungal smoke of the burning oak. She looked into the distance of the fire having drained the tankard grasped in wizened hands.

When asked how she knew the story of Brensom was true, she muttered "Just listen child, and you will also know".

She always spoke of the patrons of the Stonefire Tavern as children ... it was certainly her right. Marta was easily one of the oldest human women in the city. Now hunched near the fire her silver hair glistened and danced in partnership with the firelight, her dark eyes still youthful and lusty. A keen observer would recognise that this old body once was lithe, energetic and fulsome with the passing years taking little from the woman who was once, it is said, the well-paid companion to passing nobles. Such things were never spoken of now in the open, for some as a mark of respect and others for fear of retribution if the rumours were challenged either by Marta herself, or the number of admirers who strutted around her seeking acknowledgment and the honour of her gaze.

The proceedings, as it appeared with such an enamored audience, was closely observed from a distant corner of the room. Two forms, huddled over a small table, scanned the audience from the protection of the shadows cast by the flicker of the oaken flames on those assembled around the bar and great table in the middle of the tavern. Many dazed by Marta's magicks did not sense the observation and would have cared not with the warmth of a good ale. The innkeep paid no heed, as long as correct coinage was tendered for goods and services. Gwenna, the barmaid, knew that it was improper to remember faces that chose the shadows for their garb so elected, wisely as she seemed it to be, to serve and move on. Marta's sharp eyes caught what was necessary without betrayal.

Murmurs darted as Marta motioned to an empty tankard at her side and a young man dressed in fine leathers, tossed a coin in the general direction of the bar, "Marta's tongue needs a little lubrication to continue". As Gwenna deftly caught the coin, Marta feigned a glare of threat towards the one who dared address her so ... then laughed as the boy cringed. An old dwarf, Tognus, guffawed and slapped the man on the back. "Gotcha hunter !" Those others who had recognised the tease in Marta's glance were also laughing heartily and when the young hunter regained his balance, he joined in the merriment. Marta acknowledged Tognus with a slight nod and then returned to her captive audience.

As a fresh tankard of mead was handed to Marta, her hand brushed against the petal skin of the young woman who served her. Marta hesitated, then returned to the weaving of Brensom's tale.

This is chapter one of a novella intended to be written in the future. This was conceived to flesh out the back story of a roleplay character, first used in a Neverwinter Nights permanent world, then adapted in place name only to a port into Horizons/Istaria and finally into the mythology of World of Warcraft. I acknowledge place names and character names from the MMORPG, World of Warcraft.

To be continued ...