You find yourself in a forward archive of the Golden Dawn, the not-so-secret secret espionage order of Elyndor.
Anyone seeking information—or wishing someone gone—contacts the Golden Dawn.
They contact you.
This small, dusty archive is dark, the air so thick with dust that breathing feels difficult. By the faint glow of your candles, you make out shelves and tables piled with books and parchment. Countless reports and records are stored here—hundreds, perhaps thousands of spies must be responsible for them.
And now, you are part of it.
One of these records catches your eye, and you take a closer look.
From the Archives of the Golden Dawn | Interactive Fantasy Short Story
Report No. 17 – Interrogation of the Innkeeper Tarric Vethrin
Purpose of Interview: Background investigation – Subject: Tarric Vethrin
Interrogator: Anonymous scribe of the Golden Dawn
Interviewee: Tarric Vethrin, innkeeper
Location: Tavern “The Staggering Crossbow”
Client: Some noble or other
I entered The Staggering Crossbow shortly after sunset. The fire in the hearth flickered warmly, the scent of freshly baked bread mingling with that of beer. Tarric Vethrin stood behind the counter, grinning broadly, as if he had already seen everything—and I was merely another audience member.
“Ah, a curious visitor! Sit down!” he called. “Do you have time for stories? I guarantee laughter, tears, and possibly a few useful facts.”
I began with the usual opening question:
“Tell me about your family, Innkeeper Thalen.”
Tarric laughed.
“Tarric, Thalen. My father was a dwarven merchant. Quite a famous one, if I’m being honest. People say he shaped dwarven trade in a significant way. The family? Wealthy, a bit famous, and very busy constantly arguing with one another.”
He swung a tankard through the air, as if to dramatize the scene.
“Then something happened that’s almost unbelievable: an accident involving an apple cart. Yes, truly. My father—the mighty merchant—done in by an apple cart. The city still tells the story to this day. I always say: ‘When fate throws an apple your way, don’t chase after it.’”
He laughed at his own punchline, and I found myself smiling as well.
“My mother was a human seamstress. Incredibly patient, and very talented. She could give anyone a smile while stitching seams that even dragons would admire. Sadly… well, she’s no longer with us. A needle, a prick, a spot of blood on her finger—and a customer who brought filth in on their boots. That was the end. A seamstress, killed by the very tools of her trade. If that isn’t irony, I don’t know what is.”
For a moment, he seemed sincere. Too sincere. So I wrote down every word.
“And siblings?” I asked cautiously.
Tarric’s eyes flashed briefly.
“Ah, yes. My dear brother. He took over our father’s business.”
Tarric grinned, but his fingers drummed against the counter.
“He says I betrayed the family. I say he turned it into nothing but a business. He loves gold and everything that shines. I prefer stories and adventure. We see the world differently—and we don’t speak much anymore. But blood is blood, isn’t it? Sometimes you simply have to… accept your family as it is. Even when they cast you out.”
When I asked him about the tavern, he burst out laughing.
“There’s no better place to hear stories and meet adventurers—except living those stories yourself. I tried that once, out of sheer stupidity and because of a woman. A wild, fearless huntress—my first love.”
He leaned over the counter, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“She shot an arrow straight into my backside out of pure spite. Claimed I distracted her while she was aiming. I swear she laughed when it hit.”
He grinned broadly, almost fondly.
“The crossbow she used—Flutterarrow—I kept it. It still serves me faithfully to this day. A memory that shoots back, when necessary.”
He took a deep drink and sighed.
“May the Creator let her rest in peace… or maybe She already kicked her back out again. I wouldn’t blame Her.”
He chuckled softly, and the moment dissolved into warmth and smoke.
“Nowadays, I only tell stories that others live. Here in my tavern. This is where people drink, lie, and dance. And sometimes someone dies—but that happens in the best establishments.”
Then he leaned back and gave me a knowing smile.
“So. Enough about me. Now you tell me something interesting. I’m always looking for material for new stories. And for your report—write whatever you like. People only believe what they want to believe anyway. But if you write about me, then write this:
‘He told stories because no one wanted to hear the truth.’”
Addendum
Subject fully cooperative. Harmless.
As expected, he identified us as members of the Golden Dawn.
Like any good innkeeper in Elyndor.
He insisted on making the report “a bit more dramatic.”
I leave it to you whether we allow that.
— signed E.
Tarric is 35 and behaves like an old man. No idea how much longer he’ll keep this up.
— signed M.
Why does he carry a quiver of arrows? He uses bolts with his crossbow. Why isn’t that in the report?
signed V.
Because everyone knows. He collects them. From enemies and friends alike. Arrows, I mean. Not those things. What are you thinking again?
— signed M.
Exactly. Something that well known doesn’t need to be in the report. And I most certainly didn’t forget it! Who’s claiming that?
— signed E.
Honestly… you…!! Whatever.
— signed V.
A Fantasy Short Story from Elyndor
Tarric Vethrin has told his stories.
But the Golden Dawn has many more secrets to uncover.
This observation report is only a small glimpse.
Follow me and discover more spies, innkeepers, and adventurers in the world of Elyndor.
Don’t miss any further revelations.
I, Raven Morrigan Hawke, create Elyndor, a world full of hidden paths, whispering forests, and ancient secrets. Every illustration and story draws you deeper—toward brave adventurers, glowing crystals, and places where light and shadow dance together. Join me on the journey through this poetic fantasy world and discover what waits behind every hill, every tree, and every artifact.