“Name’s Harl Brimstone. Aye, that Brimstone — though don’t go makin’ a fuss about it.”

If you came here seekin’ legends, battles, or tales of ancient foolishness, pull up a chair and fetch me an ale.

No, not that one.
The brown bottle.
The one with a kick like a mountain goat.
Good. Sit.

Now listen close, ‘cause I don’t repeat myself unless bribed with smoked meat.

I’ve got a few decades on most folk in this room, and a few scars to match.
Some earned, some gifted, and one or two I woke up with and have decided not to question for my own peace of mind.

I’ve traveled the nine realms and the half-realms between,
fought creatures you can’t pronounce,
lost friends I still curse about,
and outlived three wives —
only one of which tried to kill me.
(We parted on fair terms.)

These days, I stay here at the Lodge,
where the floorboards creak with old secrets
and the ale tastes better when the fire’s high.

Folk say I exaggerate my stories —
but funny thing, I never exaggerate the parts that matter.
And the ones who called me a liar usually came back later lookin’ troubled, whisperin’:

“Harl… remember that tale you told?
I think it’s happenin’ again…”

Aye.
It usually is.

If you’ve come with questions about the old legends —
Guardians, gates, realms, gods, monsters —
I might know a thing or two.

But mind you:
knowledge is heavy, and I don’t hand it out to folk who can’t carry the weight.

And if you’re thinkin’ you’re the hero of your own tale,
well…
That’s what all the others thought, too.

Now then.
Your turn.
What brings you to the Lodge, traveler?

— Harl Brimstone
Lorekeeper. Ale enthusiast. Headache in a beard.
Tips appreciated. Contradictions not tolerated.

The Veilwalker’s Lodge

🍺🔥 LODGE TAVERN BIO — HARL BRIMSTONE