Warren Folke

Warren entered the bar, his shock of pure white hair - he thought to himself - adding just the right flair to his eye-skin-clothes combo. He glanced around and spotted Anastri heading to the bar, so he steered himself the other way and sat down across from a tiny old woman, her hands clasped around a beer. Old ladies were always chock full of information, little tidbits they had saved up like nuggets of gold they were only too willing to give away.

“Good evening, ma’am,” he said in what he hoped was a friendly voice. “I’m War- uh, Coin. Nice to meet you.”

She glanced up at him and smiled. Her eyes were a deep green, and now that he was closer Warren realized that she was a gnome. “What have you come to talk to me for? You know I’m trying to enjoy my drink.” Her voice was pebbly, like river stones clattering together.

Warren winced. “Ah, sorry. Look, I’m really just interested in the Sunless Citadel. As soon as I know what it is, I’ll go away. Please?”

Sighing, the old gnome set down her mug. “How do you know about the Sunless Citadel?”

Warren could barely contain his excitement. Finally. “So it is real! Where is it?”

“Oh, several days travel down the Old Road. I’m don’t go there - the goblins up there will kill you as soon as rob you, and they rob you pretty quick.”

“Why would goblins be hiding up in the woods? Especially on a road no one uses anymore.”

She eyed him. “They found something. Something hidden deep in the bowels of the Sunless Citadel.”

He leaned forward, breathless. “What?”

Suddenly, she sat back in her chair and sighed loudly. “Ah, well. Looks like my beer is gone, and when my beer is gone it’s time for me to leave.” She reached for a knobbly stick leaning against the table and began struggling to her feet.

“Wait!” Warren began, panic coursing through him. “I- would you like another drink?”

The old woman stopped and sat back down again, wreathed in smiles. “Don’t mind if I do - the old brain needs a pint or two for stories.” She watched carefully as Warren ordered another round, and then (mug in hand) continued. “The goblins claim that they have a magical tree, hidden in the depths of the citadel. Every summer solstice it provides a magical apple of healing, and every tenth winter solstice a deadly poisonous one. Of course they auction them off for exorbitant prices and no one is sure whether they really work or not. Such is the beauty of rumor.” She took a smug drink and settled back in her chair.

Warren could feel a tingly sensation running up his spine. An apple of poison. What he wouldn’t do to get his hands on that. He turned back to the gnome. “So why is it called the Sunless Citadel? Does it not have windows?” But she was snoring softly, her shawl draped round her shoulders and her hand still clasped tight around the mug.