The Invitation

  As your party continues their work, tackling request after request, the townsfolk grow ever more grateful with each task completed. Wherever you go, you’re met with nods of appreciation and warm smiles—farmers who offer fresh produce as thanks, children who watch them with wide, admiring eyes, and shopkeepers who slip a little extra into their purchases. Word spreads quickly of their efforts: clearing the cave of predators, repairing the broken watermill, and lending a hand in quelling disputes that seem to rise from nowhere. For a village as small and isolated as Orymme, your party’s contributions feel monumental. It’s no surprise, then, when an invitation from the mayor arrives one afternoon, delivered with polite formality by a young clerk from the town hall. It’s handwritten in careful script, thanking your party for your continued service to Orymme and inviting you to dinner at the town hall that evening. “A gesture of gratitude,” the note reads, “and perhaps an opportunity to discuss matters of importance to the village.” The tone is warm, even cordial, but something about its precision feels… measured, as though an unseen weight lingers behind the words.

  When your party arrives at the town hall just as twilight descends, the building looms over the quiet square, its aged stone facade washed in the fading light. The lamps outside flicker, their glow feeble against the deepening dusk. The heavy oak doors groan softly as they swing open, and the mayor greets your party with an easy smile. He looks every bit the part of a village leader—calm, composed—but there’s a tightness around his eyes, a subtle weariness in his posture that doesn’t quite match his genial demeanor. “Welcome,” he says, his voice warm but subdued, as though he’s conserving his energy. His movements are unhurried as he ushers them into the entryway. His steps are measured, his movements practiced, as though the weight of his position bears down on him more with each passing day. The hall is dimly lit, its high ceilings casting long, uncertain shadows. The faint scent of varnished wood mingles with the sharper tang of old stone. There’s a quiet here that feels too complete, like a place that remembers its echoes but never lets them linger. The dining room is modest but elegant, the kind of space meant for small gatherings rather than grand occasions. A long wooden table dominates the room, set with simple but fine dinnerware. The candelabras cast a warm, flickering glow, though the light doesn’t quite reach the corners of the room, where shadows cling stubbornly. Nine empty chairs are arranged around the table, their placement deliberate. Your party notices that one chair—nearest the head of the table where the mayor sits—is conspicuously empty. The linens are crisp, the plates before it untouched, and a faint pang of expectation seems to hover in the air, unspoken and unnoticed. The mayor gestures for you to sit, his smile apologetic as if to excuse the absence of any other guests. “I hope this evening finds you well,” he says. His tone is conversational, but it carries an undercurrent of something else, something harder to name. The first course is brought out—a simple but hearty soup, its warmth a welcome contrast to the chill that seems to linger in the air. Your party exchanges pleasantries, recounting their work around the village. The mayor listens attentively, nodding at their stories, his smile growing as he thanks them for their efforts. “The villagers have spoken highly of you,” he says between sips of soup. “It’s rare for Orymme to see such kindness from outsiders. I hope you know how much you’ve done for us.”

  The second course is brought out—a sumptuous spread of roasted meat, glazed root vegetables, and aromatic herbs. The rich scents fill the dining room, mingling with the warm glow of the chandelier above. The conversation meanders pleasantly, the mayor recounting tales of the town’s history and recent harvests, his tone convivial and welcoming. As the mayor reaches for the wine decanter to refill his glass, his hand falters. His gaze flickers, almost imperceptibly, to the empty chair right next to him. The movement is so brief that it might have gone unnoticed, but there’s a strange weight to it—a fleeting shadow of expectancy, as if he’s waiting for someone to join them. The chair sits untouched, its plate and utensils arranged meticulously, the folded napkin resting atop the polished surface. No one else acknowledges it, but the stillness of the empty seat lingers, its silence somehow louder than the quiet hum of conversation. Though no one voices it, the same thought flickers in each of your minds: who was the empty seat meant for, what happened to them? The mayor’s hesitation ends as abruptly as it began. With a faint shake of his head, he mutters something under his breath and resumes pouring his wine, his expression smoothing into its usual genial warmth. The moment passes like a ripple on water, and the meal continues. As plates are cleared and fresh courses served, the mayor leans back in his chair, his fingers tracing the rim of his wine glass. After a pause, he clears his throat softly, drawing the room’s attention. “I’ve been meaning to ask,” he begins, his tone light but carrying a weight that’s hard to ignore, “if you’ve noticed anything… unusual during your time in Orymme.” The question lingers in the air, and for a moment, no one speaks. The six of you exchange uncertain glances, each searching for the right words. Finally, someone breaks the silence, recounting the strange occurrences you’ve encountered—doors left ajar when they should be locked, tools inexplicably vanishing, villagers pausing mid-conversation as though they’d forgotten what they were saying. The mayor nods slowly, his expression thoughtful but distant.

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  “It’s been happening for some time now,” he says, his voice quieter. “At first, I thought it was nothing—just the usual quirks of village life. But it’s become harder to ignore. Things move when no one touches them. Tools vanish and reappear. And people…” He pauses, his gaze dropping to his plate as his hands tighten around his knife and fork. “People seem… strained. Breaking down without reason. It’s as if something is pressing down on all of us.” The candelabras flicker as he speaks, their flames dancing in an unseen breeze. The air in the room feels colder, heavier, though no one acknowledges it. “I fear it may be a spirit,” the mayor continues, his tone shifting. “Or something worse—a devil, perhaps. A haunting unlike anything we’ve seen before.” He lifts his glass but doesn’t drink, staring into the dark liquid as though it might hold answers. “I’ve written to the Adventurer’s Guild, to the city, even to the lord of the domain, requesting aid. Or… I think I have.” His brow furrows, his voice faltering. “I remember drafting the letters. I remember sealing them. But I’m not certain if I sent them. Isn’t that strange?” The question hangs in the air, unanswered. Your party nods politely, masking their unease. His words carry an uncanny weight, the kind that settles into the gaps of conversation, into the silences that follow. It’s not just his uncertainty that disturbs them—it’s the way he seems resigned to it, as though he’s accepted the fraying edges of his sanity as part of life in Orymme.

  The conversation shifts after that, drifting toward lighter topics, but the atmosphere never fully recovers. Dessert arrives—a modest plate of baked apples drizzled with honey—and though its sweetness fills the room, it does little to dispel the underlying tension. The mayor thanks your party again for your contributions to the village, his words sincere but tinged with a quiet urgency. As the plates are cleared, his tone grows more deliberate. “I’d like to formally request your help,” he says, folding his hands atop the table. “These disturbances—whatever is tormenting Orymme—it’s beyond what we can handle. If something truly lingers here, I trust in your skills to uncover it.” Though his voice is calm, there’s a weight behind his words, a pleading edge he struggles to conceal. When the meal concludes, the mayor rises to escort you to the door. His gait is steady, his demeanor warm, yet his eyes betray that same faint, unfocused quality—like a man grasping at the edges of his sanity slipping through his fingers. “Thank you,” he says as he opens the door, his voice steady but distant. “For everything.” Stepping into the cool night air, your party is met with a sky full of stars and a village square bathed in pale moonlight. The quiet feels heavier now, the shadows deeper, clinging to the edges of the town like a presence unseen. You glance back at the town hall, its darkened windows opaque and unyielding, as though hiding something just beyond sight. The empty chair flashes briefly in your minds. None of you speak of it, but the image lingers, pulling at the edges of your thoughts. Whatever is happening in Orymme feels urgent, a puzzle demanding attention. Starting tomorrow seems not only prudent but necessary.

  Morning in Orymme arrives quietly, the mist clinging stubbornly to the narrow streets. The town seems unchanged, yet there’s an undercurrent, a faint but tangible wrongness, like a song played just slightly out of tune. Your party begins your investigation methodically, splitting your efforts across the town to probe for answers.