Syn-De-Fyr

It is in the village of Syn-de-Fyr that our story takes place. The village itself is nothing more than a stopover for weary travelers on the road. Northwest forty leagues are the Staining Three, but they have little Power, here.

Syn-de-Fyr has only the one Inn, The Red Barrel, so known for the painted barrel that its proprietor keeps outside the front awning at all times full of rum. The rum is generally good, and so is the proprietor. Barnaby Jack is his name, and for only a trifle and a kind word he will put up even the most cantankerous ass. It is said widely that Barnaby Jack hasn’t a mean bone in his body, no, not a one. For only a trifle he will give the sagest advice, be it on the harvest or on the way to some endeavor. Yes, always a straight talker, Barnaby Jack.

The mistress of The Red Barrel is none other than Patti Fey May, largely known as the town gossip, and even so, just largely known, eh? She and Barnaby have run the Inn for as long as anyone cares to remember, and that is all that anyone will say on it.

The first night saw us in the commons at The Red Barrel, where we were observing the local venue of music and drunken hilarity. The harvest had come, and most of the crop was in. The weather turned, and a rainstorm blew in as darkness fell. Several of the locals hurried out to beat the rain home, and Patti Fey May began to mutter to herself darkly as she cleaned the tables, “It is an ill wind which blows this eve, yes, an ill wind indeed.” Ah, wives, we said. She moved away and into the kitchen, leaving us for just a moment. Barnaby Jack then appeared from the upstairs, and called down to see if we might have any needs before he went abed.

"Nay, Barnaby, nay."

And just as he turned away, the front door burst open and one of the local men ran in screaming, “It got Del, it got him, it got him!” The man was wild with fear, showing the whites around his eyes and scampering to get near the fire. Barnaby Jack rushed down the stairs and leapt to bar the door, just before the latch lifted up and the door rattled fiercely, then boomed once mightily, but the frame and bar held. A deep, echoing laughter then rolled into the room from outside, drowning the sound of the heavy rain, and Barnaby went white and shook like a leaf by his own door.

We spent the night together in the common with a watch posted, though what good that might have done we could not say. None of us slept well, but nought else happened.

Long searching in the morning, well after the sun had risen, at last revealed the body of Del, a simple farmer who lived on the outskirts of the village. He had been one of those locals to try to beat the rain home. We found him off the road in a ditch, not a stones throw from his own door. His eyes were missing and his exposed skin was finely cut to ribbons. All of his clothing had the look of hard use, as if he had spent days working the fields, yet we had seen it was new last evening…