Smothering the stars, Luhnylla’s Great Moon looms over K?spar as he rides to Konyhol. Barely waning, the moonlight cast down from behind the thin cloud cover washes the snow in a soft blue. Snowdrifts blow around W?n’s hooves and dance between the wooden fences. A lantern hangs from his saddlebag, its purpose undone by the clear moonlight as W?n trots confidently along the road.
The land is barren: fields sunk deep into hibernation; farmhouse lights dimmed or extinguished; shadows cast only by the rare, leafless oaks standing alone in the open. Beyond them, the scene stretches unbroken to the rolling hills in the north.
The night is calm, its silence broken only by faint frost cracks, the soft hoot of owls, and the distant whistle of evergreens. K?spar yawns; serenity tugs at him. He draws a small cotton pouch of dried tobacco and peppermint oil from his pocket and tucks it beneath his upper lip.
Wolves howl in the distance, and W?n shifts from a languid trot to a canter. The streetlights of Konyhol grow brighter as he approaches.
Faerthryne had provided Nykhynna [1] with everything she needed, and she is painting with her finest brush.
Passing beneath the entrance arch, W?n slows. The main street sleeps, save for a warm orange glow spilling from the bar’s windows. Dismounting, K?spar takes W?n’s lead, fastens it to the veranda post, and steps inside.
The interior is typical of a bar in a small Ianian town: bare brick walls with the tops of kegs nailed to them, displaying the names of fine brands which they certainly do not sell; hardwood floors, rarely cleaned, never re-stained, and worn to where it's nigh impossible to tell the grain from dirt lodged in deep lesions caused by the soles of hobnailed boots; the main counter—in this case, against the left wall—is stained a dark brown, worn to bare wood in some spots, keeping the ghosts of patrons past ever present; light only comes from wall-scones and the fireplace, giving the room a dim, dank, dingy atmosphere to those from out-of-town, but a homely one to the townfolk of Konyhol, whose lineage folds in on itself like a fresh pretzel.
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K?spar stops on his way to the bar. The conversation on his right proves far more fascinating than anything the bartender might offer, even for coin. He makes his way over to the table next to the three men. Pulling out an old wooden chair, covered in chips, scratches, and initials, its original brown stain having long since been rubbed off from everywhere except the underside of the arched back, he sits down, facing away from them. Gazing into the wavy glass windows, he watches the men through their reflection.
“Lotta bats in town recently. Hanging from the eaves. Scaring the moonlight out of mah daughter. She can’t sleep through their squeaking.” Says one of the three, a rotund man with a matching round voice. He wears only overalls, the linen fabric of which has been ripped, patched, ripped again, and patched once more.
“Went out the other night to check on some of my cows, saw what must ‘ave been a ‘undred of ‘em ‘anging from one of my trees. Their eyes glow—ask me ‘ow I know.”
The third man, with long, unkempt, greasy hair, balding on his crown, sets his glass down with a thud and humors his friend with a wry tone. “How’s that, Ged? how do you know?”
“Cuz each one of the bastards was staring right at me.” Ged points to his eyes while looking between the others.
“Wow. I never would have guessed.” The greasy man points to his large buddy. “What’s your wife think?”
“She says it’s nothing—but I’ve heard the Humel girl’s been sneaking out. You can think what you want, but I think it’s K?rhylda.”
“They killed ‘er in the book, took ‘er ‘ead off. If she was ever real, she’s dead now—been dead for a few ‘undred years.”
K?spar raises an eyebrow at Ged’s statement. K?rhylda was far from dead, and he would rather come between a mother bear and her cubs than find her in the woods around Konyhol.
“HA!” The man in the overalls bursts out. “Do you think I can read?”
“No, and you can’t write or think either; that’s why I wanted your wife’s opinion, not yours.” The greasy man retorts and takes a long sip of his beer while the rotund man’s face scrunches in annoyance.
With more than enough information, feeling the ire of the bartender on the back of his neck, and knowing the tension between the three men will reach a breaking point soon, K?spar stands from his seat. Dropping a full-silver in the tip jar on the counter, he leaves the bar in search of an inn to stay the night.
Footnotes
[1] Nykhynna (pronounced NEEKH-ihn-na), is the Iania goddess of snow.
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