Harlow lights a small lantern and leads the way down the narrow stairway without another word. The wooden slats creak ominously as you follow close behind, the descent to the cellar floor somehow feeling much further than it actually is. Even with the lantern, inky shadows seem to leap out at you, to the point where your spellhand fidgets, plucking nervously at the Weave. As you reach the bottom of the stair, the door above slams shut with a needlessly loud boom, and you find yourself wishing you had never heard of this damned tavern. What was it called again? The "Anxious Trumpet"? What a dumb name. That should have been your first clue to stay far, far away.

"In here," Harlow says, taking a right past stacked barrels of presumably ale, mead, and cider, to a small padlocked door. "They used to wander aboot an' bump into shite. We keep it locked now so they cannae hurt themsel'."

"Sorry, who?" you ask.

"Dinnae ask stupid questions ya goose." Harlow said, but followed it up with "The others, a course. The ones what got used up."

You nod as if that meant something but stay close to Harlow as he unlocks the door and shuffles inside, closing it behind you. He lets out a weary sigh and raises the lantern above his head to illuminate the small storage room.

The room is filled with bodies. Bodies with horrible, grievous injuries. Bodies with obvious wounds, burn marks, and stabbings. Bodies missing arms or legs or jawbones. One poor fellow is missing an eye and a spider has set up camp in the socket. Most of the bodies are, impossibly, on their feet and wandering aimlessly around the small space, casually bumping into walls or each other, seemingly undeterred by their life threatening wounds. You count 14 or 15 but it's hard to get an exact count with them constantly moving about in the shifting lantern-light. You back up against the door, horrified.

"Nother rounnnnnd. Nother rounnnnnd." says a man wearing a garland of dead daisies, hobbling toward you with feet and legs that are twisted around backwards at unnatural angles.

"Two bitsssss toomuuuuch" says one poor woman, wandering past with milky white eyes and a gaping hole in her skull.

"Goddess protect," you breathe, making her sign on your chest.

"Nae. Nae gods or goddesses here, outsider. Here, we are in hell," Harlow responds. You find yourself unable to disagree.

"Who are they?" you ask.

"People." Harlow says, and you hear a touch of sadness enter his voice. "Just people. Friends. Neighbors. People I used to know. People I used to bake pies for. People I used to... love." He chokes out the last word, as if stifling a sneeze or a sob.

You say nothing. There is nothing to say. One of the bodies shuffles forward and stops in front of Harlow, jaw grinding back and forth as if gritting its teeth in their sleep. You see a large gaping wound in its side, as if they had been run through by a sword. You can see the stonework of the far wall straight through the hole in their stomach.

"Ye remind me a bit a them, ya know." Harlow says. "Saw it as soon as ye walked through the door." He raises his hand and gently moves a piece of hair out of the face of the teeth-grinding undead body.

"Is this your..."

"Partner, yes. Del. Say hello, Del, we 'ave company." Harlow places a hand tenderly on Del's cheek. You're reminded grotesquely of the way you performed a very similar action with the smiling man. Del for his part sways on his feet and continues grinding his teeth.

"Uhm. Nice to meet you, Del." you say.

"I think we can dispense wi' the niceties, bairn. Del cannae say much naemore."

"Listen, I.. I'm very sorry for your loss but these-"

"Tch! They're nae dead, ya daft walrus. They're just all u—"

"Yeah, all used up. All of you people keep saying that. What does that mean?"

Harlow looks at you. His face is inscrutable. "It means this:" Raising the lantern high above his head again, he stomps his feet twice, very loudly, on the cellar floor. Half the room - at least six or seven of the bodies immediately clap their hands together four times in unison. And then after a moment, they return to their aimless wandering.

"What in the twelve hells..." you begin.

"We think they're... stuck. Stuck in a kind a loop with the last thought a any consequence they ever made. Cannae make new choices. But they remember the last one. Aye. They remember that one very well."

"Mother of..." you begin again.

"Ye 'aven't seen the start." Harlow says. Then bellows "ONE LAGER, TWO BITS" at the shuffling masses of bodies.

"Two bitsss too much! Too bitssss too mu..." A voice rings out from somewhere in the middle of the flock, before seemingly running out of steam and drifting off.

"MANY HAPPY SALUTATIONS!" he yells.

Instantly, "Another round! Another round on me! Another rounnnn... Another... Nother..." is the response from the man with the daisy garland, before he too shuffles off back into the mass of bodies.

"Ya see. Nae dead. They remember. They all do." Harlow caresses his partner's cheek.

"...soundnicesss..." Del mumbles.

"What'll ye have for ya supper tonight, love?"

"piesoundsnicepiesounnnn. piesounnnnss." Del says.

"Aye. I'll bake ye a pie then my love." Harlow responds. You can see tears flowing down the man's face. He doesn't try to hide them. "Right. Just need to reset first."

"Uh. Reset?"

"Aye. Reset. Or d'y'ave a flock a chickens in yer back pocket ye dinnae bother tae mention?" Harlow gathers himself, lowers the lantern, and opens the door, preparing to leave.

What do you do?

#MastoDnD

You glance over at the smiling man uncertainly. He is staring directly at you with adoring eyes. The weave glistening and pulsating just beneath its skin.

"Well that's unsettling," you hear yourself say aloud.

"Sure is. Never seen it act like that before," Gill breathes, looking over your shoulder. "So are you in control of that thing now, or what?"

"Uhm. I'm not sure. I think so? Kind of. Weaves like this are notoriously unstable." With your spellweaving hand you poke experimentally at the knot you tied. "Seems to be holding for now though."

Gill grunts noncommittally.

"We should study it," you say.

"We should kill it," says Jimothy, through gritted teeth.

"We should study it and then kill it," Gill says.

"You should get in the kitchen and fetch warm water and rags before I kill the both of you," says the barkeep.

"Aye, Keth, on our way. Come on, I'll accompany you to the back," Gill says, leading you away by the elbow. "Harlow can be a bit... grumpy about strangers in his kitchen."

"There's one thing I don't understand," you say, walking and thinking out loud. "When I... When I 'came back', all my injuries were healed. As if they never happened. I lost a HAND. So why is Jimothy still hurt?"

Gill lets out a deep sigh, "Look, this place, whatever it is now, whatever's been done to it, it's got rules. Can't die. You come back. Can't leave. You come back. You come back, and you keep coming back. It's like it remembers you. But every time it remembers, it... it forgets. A little. YOU got lucky with your first loop. It remembered most of you. Maybe even all. Jimothy, well, he's been coming back hundreds maybe thousands of times. After that many loops, injuries don't heal. Bones stop knitting back together. Small things at first, then bigger and bigger. You lose some of yourself. Finally, your mind starts to go. Bit by bit. Until..." He lets the word hang in the air like a noose.

"Until what?" you ask. Almost afraid to hear the answer. You push through the kitchen saloon-type doors, and hold one open for Gill. Harlow glances up from the oven, where he is pulling out a fresh tray of khaffa cakes.

Gill looks you square in the eyes. "Until there's no more of you to remember. And then you're... well you're just used up." He turns to Harlow who is setting down the tray. "Harlow, Jimothy's..."

But before he can get out another word, Harlow has scooped a pile of kitchen rags and a large wooden bowl off a nearby counter and shoved them in your arms. "Hurt. Aye, I heard the swearing. I'm nae deaf yet. Kettle's already hot. Mind ye dinnae burn yoursel'."

"Gill, what happens if you get all used up?" you ask, a tremble entering your voice despite your best efforts.

Harlow and Gill exchange a glance.

"Well, show 'em." Harlow says, after a beat.

"Are you sure that's wise?"

"No I'm not sure it's WISE ye cow. Naught aboot this is WISE."

Gill hesitates. "It's just..."

"FUCKS SAKE Gill if ye won't, a will. They're just people. 'Sides, a wee bairn deserves to know." He takes the bundle away from you and shoves them in Gill's arms instead. "Now pour some water and git oot a my kitchen! See tae Jimothy."

Harlow takes the kettle off its little hotplate and sets it to the side before wiping his hands on his apron and turning to the top of the cellar stairs. "Well? Are ye comin' or nae?"

What do you do?

#MastoDnD