The old dwarven-kin leaned back in his chair, boots planted wide, beard rings chiming against his mug as he tipped it toward the hearth.

“Eh? A tale, is it?” Harl rasped, voice like granite being sharpened.
“Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn ye.”

He took a long swallow, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and lowered his voice until the whole lodge leaned in.

“Word is…”
He glanced left, then right.
“…somethin’ ancient has stirred.”

A log cracked in the fire. No one breathed.

“Oh aye,” Harl went on, enjoying himself far too much.

“You young folk think the world’s always been soft. Think peace is natural. Think monsters stay in the stories we tell to scare children.”

He snorted.

“That’s because none o’ you were here the last time a Guardian walked the land.”

A few patrons blinked, confused.
Guardians were the kind of thing grandmothers whispered about, not real history.

Harl leaned forward, eyes catching firelight like embers remembering how to burn.

“Long ago—long before this Lodge had proper walls and before these mountains knew their own names—there came a darkness from somewhere else. A wrongness. A crack between worlds where somethin’ foul slithered through.”

He raised a thick hand and splayed his fingers.

“Tall as three men, they were rumored. Skin like cracked iron. Eyes like molten ore. And teeth…”

He paused, savoring the moment.

“Well. Let’s just say they didn’t leave much behind.”

The lodge went very, very quiet.

“No blade could stop ’em. No spell held. Folk prayed, bargained, screamed, fled—didn’t matter.” Harl shook his head. “When a thing ain’t from this world, ye can’t fight it like it is.”

He tapped the table once.

“And that’s when a Guardian came.”

He didn’t say from where.
He didn’t say how.
He probably didn’t know.

But the fire behind him flared as though remembering.

“They ain’t gods,” he murmured. “And they ain’t immortal. They’re… called. Summoned when the realm shifts wrong. When the threads between worlds fray. When somethin’ nasty wakes up under the floorboards o’ creation.”

He sat back, mug dangling loosely from his hand.

“And if the old signs are showin’ again—wind changin’ direction, dreams runnin’ strange, shadows castin’ where no lantern’s lit…”

He shrugged one massive shoulder.

“Well. Either the world’s about to get real interestin’…”
He grinned, wide and wicked.
“…or real dead.”

He pushed his mug toward Marra without looking at her.

“Another, lass. Talkin’ this much dries a dwarf right out.”

The Lodge keeps its secrets… and its storytellers.

If you’d like to know who this gravel-voiced lore-keeper truly is, step into the archives:
👉 Harl Brimstone — Brewmaster & Keeper of Old Stories

The Veilwalker’s Lodge

🍻 A Seat Beside the Fire — A Story from the…