Last of the Mastiff Riders, Part 1

The air hung heavy with an undercurrent of tension and whispered conversations, muffled by the sounds of mugs hitting the table and cards shuffling. The dimly lit tavern exuded an air of secrecy and clandestine activity. Shadows clung to every corner, obscuring the faces of those seeking refuge within its walls. The flickering candlelight cast eerie silhouettes, emphasizing the covert nature of the establishment. The scent of stale smoke mingled with the aroma of strong spirits, creating an atmosphere both intoxicating and dangerous. The bar, scarred by countless brawls, bore witness to the tales of outlaws and renegades who sought solace within this haven of lawlessness. The walls, devoid of any decorative embellishments, stood as silent witnesses to the hidden truths and concealed identities that frequented the tavern. Time seemed to stand still within its walls, as fugitives from justice found temporary respite, plotting their next moves and exchanging furtive glances. In this unregulated den of rebels, the rules were forged anew, and alliances were formed in whispers. The dim light served not only to create an atmosphere of seclusion, but also to shield the patrons from prying eyes. This was a place where outlaws sought sanctuary, where they could temporarily shed their wanted status and find some sense of solace amidst a community of like-minded individuals

In a secluded corner, nearly imperceptible amidst the shadows, two figures sat huddled together with hoods drawn and pipes in-hand. Both were halflings, their small statures barely reaching the height of an average human's waist. Their hoods were drawn low, concealing their features and adding an air of mystery to their presence.

Aromatic tendrils of smoke curled and danced from the pipes clasped between their fingers, the soft glow of the embers illuminating their hushed conversation. Their eyes, glimmering with an unspoken understanding, surveying the bustling room with a mixture of caution and intrigue.

Despite their diminutive size, there was an undeniable aura of quiet authority about them, as if they held secrets and knowledge beyond their years. Their faint whispers carried an air of importance, their words carefully chosen and exchanged in a language known only to them.

Ferun, one of the halflings hoping to conceal their presence in the establishment leaned in, his voice a low murmur that carried a weight of certainty. "The keeper, Tirn," he said, his eyes glimmering with a mix of anticipation and caution. "He's the key. He knows everything that happens here."

His mentor Yesola, nodded in solemn agreement of her apprentices observation. Carefully, she gave a cursory glance towards Tirn, the tavern keeper. His piercing eyes missed nothing in these sacred halls of his command, his sharp ears attuned to every whisper that swirled like a hidden symphony within the walls.

As Ferun and Yesola savored the lingering taste of tobacco, their attention shifted to the scene unfolding before them. Patrons jostled for attention at the bar, their voices intermingling with the clinking of tankards. Tirn, ever the vigilant guardian of the tavern's secrets, moved with practiced grace, pouring ale and exchanging words with ease.

"Yes," Yesola responded, her voice a mere whisper laced with determination. "We must uncover the truths he holds. Only then can we unravel the tapestry of what awaits us within the Dead Woods.” Yesola's gaze swept across the crowd, taking in the swirl of faces, each absorbed in their own whispers and celebrations “We'll have to wait until the tavern is closed. Let us leave."

As Ferun and Yesola extinguished their pipes, a cloud of dissipating smoke mingled with the ambiance. Rising from their seats, they navigated the labyrinth of tables and patrons, their movements blending seamlessly with the ebb and flow of the bustling tavern. Yesola's form slipped through the gaps, her gaze never leaving Tirn's watchful figure behind the bar. He moved from patron to patron, his affable demeanor ensuring no glass went empty, absorbing droplets of information and rumors that his every patron carelessly slipped. Ferun, silent and agile, mirrored Yesola’s every move, anticipating his master’s movements as they neared the exit.

Ferun and Yesola slipped away from the tavern but their exit did not go unnoticed, Tirn‘s watchful eyes tracked their departure. The heavy wooden door swung closed, shutting out the lively atmosphere of the tavern and revealing the velvety darkness of the night beyond. His keen eyes, sharp and perceptive, lingered on the closing door, its sturdy frame a barrier between the secrets inside and the mysteries that awaited beyond. He understood the web of secrets, the delicate dance of clandestine endeavors, and he had long played his role as the guardian of the tavern's hidden tales. As Tirn resumed his duties, serving ale to the patrons, his eyes flickered with a knowing gleam, aware that within the darkness, stories would unfold, and secrets would be unveiled in the tapestry of the night.

The cool air of the night enveloped them like a comforting embrace as they emerged from the tavern. Their mastiff mounts, their life-bound and faithful companions, emerged from the shadows where they had awaited them patiently, their large, gentle eyes reflecting the moon's ethereal glow.

With a shared understanding, Ferun and Yesola approached their steeds, reaching out to stroke their sleek fur. The mastiffs leaned into the touch, their powerful bodies radiating warmth and loyalty. A bond forged through countless journeys and shared trials.

In unison, Ferun and Yesola spoke the ancient words of their order, their voices harmonizing in a reverent chant. "Ashar Vare'tu". The phrase echoed with ancient power, the words of which held many meanings but in this moment, it was a reminder of the unbreakable bond they shared, a promise of protection and guidance on their forthcoming quest.

The mastiffs, understanding the significance of the invocation, nuzzled their masters, their deep rumbling growls resonating through the night. Their eyes, gleaming with intelligence and trust, seemed to convey an unwavering dedication to their riders. Narian had chosen Ferun, just as Isaree had chosen Yesola to be their riders, a life bond that itself was tied within this invocation.

With a final pat on their loyal companions' heads, Ferun and Yesola exchanged a determined glance. The night air was saturated with anticipation, and the world seemed to hold its breath, aware of the imminent tale that would unfold.

With a subtle tug of their reins, Ferun and Yesola guided their mastiffs around the corner of the bustling tavern, leaving behind the dim lights and hushed sounds. The world beyond the tavern's reach embraced them with a cloak of serenity, the moon casting a gentle glow upon their path.

As their steeds paced forward with graceful strides, Yesola's voice, laced with anticipation, broke the silence. "The night grows old," she murmured, her words carrying an air of quiet confidence. "We won't have to wait for long."

The words hung in the air, carried by a breeze that rustled the ancient trees, their branches reaching out like gnarled fingers in the darkness. Yesola's keen intuition, honed through countless escapades, guided their actions. She sensed that their target, their objective, was within their grasp, just beyond the veil of shadows.

Ferun, ever the stalwart companion, nodded in agreement. The moonlight painted his face with a silvery hue, accentuating the determination etched upon his features. Their shared purpose propelled them forward, their trust in each other unwavering. With each passing moment, the night unfolded like a tapestry of possibility. The clandestine nature of their mission and the weight of their task bore down upon them, fueling their resolve.

The night grew older, the minutes slipping away like grains of sand in an hourglass. Time was of the essence, and Ferun and Yesola readied themselves for the challenges that lay ahead. Their hearts beat in synchrony, attuned to the pulse of the night, The night held its secrets close, and as they advanced towards their destiny, they knew that the wait would soon be over.

Read part 2 now!

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Glossary

Ashar Vare'tu - It refers to the name of the organization but can also be used as a greeting, or goodbye between fellow members, or used between master and mount to invoke the spiritual connection between the two.