Farcastles

FARCASTLES: CHAPTER FIVE – DAGGERPOINT

The gate to Daggerpoint hung open—not broken, not breached. Just... open. Like a jaw unhinged mid-sentence.

No one spoke as they passed beneath it. Ern noticed Gellon slow his steps, one hand resting on the hilt of Mercy. Myrr walked in with eyes half-lidded, as if listening to something the rest of them couldn’t hear.

Inside, the village was half a breath from ruin. Shutters hung crooked. Doors swung gently in the wind. A well in the square had gone dry enough to crack. But the strangest thing of all was that everything else—the laundry lines, the swept porches, the arranged chairs—looked like people had just stepped away.

“Too quiet,” Gellon muttered.

“No signs of struggle,” Sarra said. “No signs of peace either.”

Torv sniffed the air. “Smoke. North side.”

Probably sitting on a stool | Shower thinker | Collaborative Worldbuilding | Community Games

/farcastles /brians-rescue

From the shadows behind him, others began to appear. Faces tight. Expressions unreadable. No weapons yet, but none looked far from one.

Ern felt his chest tighten. Not fear, exactly—more like waiting to feel it. He stood straighter. Didn’t reach for anything.

The man in the blue tabard looked him over.

“You,” he said. “What’s your word?”

Ern blinked. “Stay.”

The man tilted his head. “Well then. Let’s see if you do.”

Behind him, one of the villagers drew a knife.

Sarra stepped forward—but not to raise her weapon. Just to place herself between Ern and the crowd.

“No one has to bleed today,” she said.

“You say that like it’s up to us,” the man replied.

It hung there, that sentence. Like fog that didn’t want to lift.

And then a voice called from a second-story window:

“Enough!”

An older woman, wrapped in red and grey, hair like snow. Her voice cracked like a whip.

“They came for answers,” she said. “We’ll give them. But not in blood.”

The tension broke—not gone, but filed down to something manageable.

The man in the blue tabard stepped back. “Your luck,” he muttered to Ern.

They followed the woman into the old town hall. Dust and silence reigned there, but chairs had been set. Bread on the table. Water in a cracked jug.

“We’ll talk,” she said. “But first, you’ll listen.”

Ern sat without knowing why.

And the story, once again, shifted beneath his feet.

They moved as a loose formation, spreading toward the edges of the square. Sarra led, blade unsheathed but held low. Ern walked beside her, unsure if that made him brave or foolish.

He stopped at a window where something moved.

“Sarra,” he whispered.

They turned. Slowly, carefully. A curtain fluttered. Nothing more.

“Anyone there?” Ern called. His voice sounded too big in the stillness.

No answer.

Then, from down the lane—a creak. Footsteps.

A man stepped into view. Thin, gaunt, wearing a faded blue tabard and a smile that didn’t touch his eyes.

“Well,” he said. “I see the Castle sends children now.”

Sarra raised her chin. “State your name.”

“I could. But I won’t.” He spread his arms. “This is still a free town, isn’t it?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

“Exactly.”

Gellon stepped forward. “We’re not here to fight.”

“Oh, good,” the man said. “Because we’re all out of bandages.”