The Crypt of the Damned
His hands moved swiftly over the old parchment, smoothed by the many hands before him. The Gnome was most helpful, almost a bit too helpful, always with this gentle smile on his face, his eyes hidden behind thick glasses.
He took another sip from the dark brown ale and carefully spooned some stew in his mouth, not to soil the map nor his beard. The strong flavour of venison was a good indicator that the cook used fresh local meat, not ground up spoiled beef as was the case in the last establishment he dared to set a foot in. Tymora be blessed he knew the one or other herb that would cure an upset stomach.
He looked again at the hand drawn ruins, his lips forming a silent word: “Everantha”. The “Watchful Fortress” in the common tongue. Only old stories told around the fireplace spoke of the evil that befell the Elven kingdom, yet little was known about its demise.
At the first light of day he would depart. His fingers stopped at Walhafrid’s Stede, the little drawn chimney smoking invitingly. His first stop. And then only a good days travel further west. He sat back and finished his meal with a fine pipe. Maybe the last bit of comfort he would have for the next weeks.