Lux Tenebris: The Monks of Threadwood Abbey

And then there were the bandits.

In Malora's experience, encountering bandits on the road was just one of those things that happened when you traveled overland. Like flea-benighted straw mattresses and food poisoning. It could be avoided if you knew what to look for, but eventually something would slip past you and you'd spend most of the night vomiting.

So far, her travels along the Old Road had been fairly serene. She'd gotten some odd looks in some of the hamlets she rode through, and occasionally simpletons would flee at her approach. But she couldn't say, definitively, if the last was because she was drow. It might have just been honest pragmatism. Malora could respect that.

Still, she was anticipating trouble at some point in her journey. She hadn't expected to encounter it from a bunch of monks.

She was a week past Honey Hill, and a week away from the Graymist Way, by her reckoning, when she encountered the priests. They were traveling ahead of her: a small group of black robed figures, leading pack mules. 

Malora thought about hanging back, but she was tired and priests, in her experience, could usually be counted on to look past a person's appearance. So she made no attempt to conceal her presence as she led her horse up the road toward the party.

They spotted her immediately and slowed to a crawl.

As she drew nearer, she studied their garb. They wore simple black cassocks and wooden sandals. Some of them walked with staves. The saddlebags of their mules were heavy with supplies.

Malora nodded her head. "Well met."

"Well met, lady," responded one of the priests.

At first, she thought he might have been a dwarf, but she quickly realized he was a rather short human. The man threw back the hood of his cloak, revealed the tonsured head of a monk. He had a wide, open face and a neatly trimmed ginger beard.

"You're traveling to Treeport?"

Malora frowned. "West," she said. "What's Treeport?"

The priest smiled. "Lord Terret's great experiment. You haven't heard of it?"
"No," said Malora. "What is it?"

"I could not do it justice," said the priest. He inclined his head. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Brother Varre of Threadwood Abbey. These are my associates."

He waved at his companions, who nodded in silent greeting.

"My name is Malora."

"Well met, Lady Malora. You've traveled far?"

The group began to move forward again, at a leisurely pace.

"From Fallen Baramir," said Malora.

Brother Varre's ginger eyebrows rose. "That's far. How was the road to the east?"

She told him. Occasionally, Brother Varre was ask a question or two, but he seemed content to let her speak. The day drug on, the sun sinking toward the western horizon.

"We should find a place to camp," said Brother Varre. "Would you care to share our fire?"

"Yes. Thank you."

Brother Varre nodded. The group of monks moved off the road, among a copse of slim trees. With practiced efficiency they set up their camp. Malora's offers of assistance were kindly, but firmly, refused.

By the time the sun had vanished beneath the horizon, the monks had started a modest fire. One of them, a halfling youth, prepared a simple meal while the others retreated into the woods to perform their "necessaries" as Brother Varre called them.

They returned and a savory stew was passed around in simple wooden bowls. Malora savored hers, complimenting the halfling on his cooking.  When she'd finished eating, Brother Varre relieved her of her bowl and passed it to one of the other monks, who began to clean them.

The night was warm and clear. A soft breeze stirred the leaves overhead, and the stars gleamed against the night-black sky. Malora yawned, warm and full.

She leaned back on her elbows and yawned again. Her eyes felt so heavy. Around her the monks spoke softly to one another. 

Malora blinked.

Once.

Twice.

She woke to the feel of warm sunlight on her face and a dull ache in her head. Glancing around, she was surprised to see that she was alone. The monks were gone, only the charred remnants of the campfire evidence that they had ever been there.

And gone with them were Malora's possessions.

"Demon's Teeth!" she swore.

Then her guts twisted and she rolled onto her side and vomited.

It was going to be that kind of day.