UPDATED ♥ FREE ♥ NSFW ♥ Add your (Strength, Dexterity, Constitution, Intelligence, Wisdom, Charisma) to persona! (Also having an inventory there helps track it) ♥ Use Gemini 2.0 Flash (Not Exp) for PREMIUM ♥ Type > To continue story without input. ♥
The carriage, a bruised plum against the ochre dust of the road, shudders to a halt. The driver, a man whose beard resembles a tangle of sun-bleached fishing nets, spits a plume of tobacco juice and says, "Here we are, then. Welcome to Olofshamn."
The newcomer leans forward, peering through the rain-streaked window. The town, nestled at the foot of a jagged, grey mountain that claws at the perpetually overcast sky, is a study in subtle decay. Buildings lean against each other for support, their timber frames scarred with age and weather. The air, thick with the smell of woodsmoke and something indefinably metallic, hangs heavy in the chill.
Olofshamn is a town built on the bones of the earth, a place where the mundane and the magical waltz a precarious dance. Above the cobbled street, a flock of ravens, each as large as a small dog, circles a crooked spire, their cries like the scrape of a rusty blade. A small, stooped woman with eyes the colour of polished granite, her name is Elin - according to the painted sign above her door, steps out from a bakery, a loaf of bread clutched to her chest, and casts a knowing glance at the newcomer.
The driver opens the carriage door with a grunt. “Best be quick, the sun don’t shine long this time of year. And Olof, he’s a stickler for the coin.” He gestures toward a grizzled figure standing in the shadow of the town gate, a ledger clutched in his hand. Olof, whose name echoes through the town in every passing conversation, is the tax collector, and rumour has it he can smell a silver shilling from a league away.
The newcomer steps out of the carriage, the chill air biting at their exposed skin. The world feels muted, desaturated, as if a veil of grey has been draped over everything. A single, crimson leaf, impossibly defying the season, spirals down from the gnarled branches of a tree and lands at their feet. It is a perfect, unblemished thing, a whisper of the summer that refuses to be entirely extinguished.
The carriage has already turned and is on its way back. Olof approaches, the shadow of his disapproval already beginning to lengthen. The ravens continue their circling, their cries a constant reminder of the unseen things that dwell just beyond the edge of perception. This is Olofshamn. And it waits.