Beyond the Mourning Gate, the path widens into what might once have been a proper road. Cobblestones emerge occasionally from beneath layers of silt deposited by the amber river's seasonal floods. At times, the stones form recognizable patterns—whorls and geometric designs that suggest this was once more than a simple thoroughfare. A processional route, perhaps, or a path with ritual significance now lost to time.
The amber river continues alongside the road for a while before bending away to the east. Its departure reveals a landscape both beautiful and unsettling. Rolling hills dotted with twisted trees stretch to the north, their bark the pale blue-gray of a drowned corpse, their branches reaching skyward with an almost supplicating quality. Between them lie fields where crops once grew, now host to knee-high grasses the color of tarnished silver. These grasses move in the breeze with unusual synchronicity, as though they share a single consciousness.
The air here smells different—less of salt, more of some indefinable spice that prickles the senses. Occasionally, motes of light drift past, hovering momentarily before continuing on unknown journeys. They resemble fireflies, but their glow is steadier, their movement more purposeful.
As you crest a final hill, Faram's Respite spreads before you. The village occupies a shallow valley, cradled within the protective embrace of the surrounding hills. From this vantage point, it appears almost picturesque—simple structures arranged in rough concentric circles around a central square. A stream, perhaps a tributary of the amber river, cuts through the western edge of the settlement, powering what might once have been a mill.
But as you draw closer, the village's true nature reveals itself. The buildings, while largely intact, show signs of the same decay that marks everything in this land. Roofs sag inward. Walls lean at concerning angles. Windows stare like vacant eyes, glass long since shattered or fallen away. And moving through these hollow structures are hollow beings.
They shamble through the streets and open spaces of Faram's Respite, going through motions that mimic daily tasks with eerie emptiness. A figure sweeps endlessly at a doorstep with a broomless handle. Another stirs nothing in a cauldron over a cold hearth. Two more carry a non-existent burden between them, adjusting their gait to accommodate a weight that isn't there.
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Most disturbing is their armament. Unlike the mindless husks you encountered on the beach and along the river, these hollow ones carry weapons. Old and rusted implements—axes with splintered handles, spears with pitted heads, swords notched and dulled by time—yet deadly enough in their simple purpose. The weapons hang loose in their grips as they perform their pantomimes of life, but even in their mindlessness, there is the suggestion of readiness, of dormant purpose that might awaken with the proper stimulus.
You remain at the outskirts, observing from the shelter of a lightning-struck tree. From here, you can see the central square more clearly. At its heart stands what might have been a well or fountain, now dry and partially collapsed. Around it, more hollow ones move in their purposeless routines, some armed, others simply lost in endless repetition.
Then you notice the creature.
It moves through the square with ponderous deliberation, a massive presence that the hollow ones give wide berth to, altering their mindless paths to avoid its approach. Covered in matted fur that has grown in patches of deep brown and sickly gray, it stands nearly twice your height when rearing onto its hind legs. Its form suggests it might once have been ursine, though now it seems a grotesque parody of such. One foreleg is significantly larger than the other, ending in claws that drag furrows in the earth. Its head is misshapen, with one side expanded into a bulbous growth from which multiple eyes blink independently. A sound emanates from it continuously—not a growl or roar, but a low, mournful humming that vibrates through the ground beneath your feet.
The hollow ones clearly fear this abomination, scuttling away whenever it approaches, temporarily abandoning their endless tasks before resuming them at a safe distance. All except for one.
At the edge of the square sits a figure who seems out of place among the mindless husks—a woman wrapped in layered garments of faded blues and grays. Though her face is partially concealed by a deep hood, something in her posture and proportion strikes you as familiar. The crone from the beach, or someone remarkably similar.
As the massive creature lumbers past her seated form, she shows no fear. Instead, she raises a gnarled hand and strokes the matted fur of its flank when it comes within reach. The beast pauses at her touch, the multiple eyes on its malformed head blinking in sequence rather than unison. The humming changes pitch briefly before it continues its ponderous circuit of the square.
From your vantage point, you scan the village for possible routes. To the west, near the defunct mill, the buildings are more scattered, offering a path that might allow you to skirt the main settlement. To the east, a narrow alley between leaning structures could provide a more direct route through the village. And straight ahead lies the central square itself, where the woman sits near the dry fountain, occasionally acknowledging the misshapen beast with her touch.
The sun has reached its zenith, casting few shadows to conceal your approach. Soon you must decide how to proceed. The hollow ones continue their mimicry of life, weapons hanging from lifeless grips—dormant for now, but for how long? The massive creature circles the square in its endless patrol, humming its sorrowful tune. And the woman waits, seemingly aware in a way the husks are not, perhaps even expectant.
Faram's Respite lies before you, a village of hollow purpose guarded by armed emptiness.
What you do: How will you proceed?
