Welcome to Nimmuck!

An even bigger crowd than last time had gathered at the city gates to see them off.

And this time, it hadn’t just been common folk.

Princess Liriel herself, surrounded by the heavily armored royal guard, had personally bid farewell to her husband with an innocent smile.

Marcus’ appearance was neat enough, his hair combed, his clothes fresh and wrinkle-free, but his face gave him away.

“What happened to you, lad? You look like a mountain troll chewed you up and spat you out!” Bromor asked, who hadn’t seen Marcus since the wedding.

“…I don’t want to talk about it.” Marcus muttered with dark rings under his eyes, slipping wordlessly into the car.

Bromor glanced questioningly at Gus, who leaned casually on the driver’s side and shrugged. “Same old problem. Eyes bigger than his belly. Or his... well you get it.”

The dwarf didn’t get it, but didn’t press either, and climbed into the backseat with Marcus.

“…Well, just missing our favorite grumpy ranger. Not like her to be late…” Gus muttered.

His demon arm twitched, jerking toward the wheel, but Gus yanked it back with all his strength.

“Oi, calm the fuck down, Handy! We’re not leaving without her. You’ll get your smashing soon, I swear.” The arm gave one last shiver, then went still.

Then Caeriel pushed her way out of the crowd, stomping toward the Golf with a furious expression.

An elf boy ran after her, smaller and younger but with a striking resemblance.

He stopped, panting, his face full of worry.

“Caeriel, you can’t just run off like that! What about Father?”

She froze. Then slowly turned, eyes narrow, voice sharp.

“Tch. What about him? I don’t give a damn what that failure is doing…”

“He’s still our father!” the boy cried. “And… and he needs help! You read the letter yourself!” He waved an envelope frantically in the air.

She took a step closer, voice shaking. “I’ve got better things to do.”

“Better things!?” the boy’s fists clenched. “You’d rather run off with strangers than stand by your own blood?”

For a heartbeat she wavered, jaw tight, but then she bit her lip, spun on her heel and stormed toward the car.

She yanked open the door, threw herself onto the seat, and snapped: “Let's go. Now!”

Bromor raised his brows, Gus glanced sideways at her. “Uh… you okay there? Daddy issues, huh?”

“I don’t want to talk about it!” she growled, tugging her belt tight.

In the backseat, Marcus wearily raised his hand. “Heeey, that’s my line…”

Gus sighed, leaning over the wheel. “Great. Now there’s two of you.”

And with a cough of smoke, the Golf lurched to life and rolled onto the open road.

After a while the mood eased, especially once Bromor got his stubby hands on the CD wallet and stumbled across rock music for the first time.

“By the gods… this is GLORIOUS!” the dwarf roared, beard flying as he banged his head in rhythm to the riffs. “Ironmaw needs THIS!”

Gus winced and turned the volume down a notch. “Yeah, yeah… calm your tits, Metallica. Question is, can this car even make it all the way there? Don’t we have to squeeze through some death-trap mountain passes or something?”

Bromor shook his head proudly. “There are many roads, yes, but our machines use another way. A gate, sealed by ancient runes, at the foot of the Lerantor Mountains. The Deep Tunnel leads straight to Ironmaw!”

Gus snorted, leaning back. “Magical undeground highway, huh? Sounds cozy.”

---

Hours later, the King’s Road was long behind them, the old Golf rattling over rough, uneven ground.

The earth had grown rocky, and heavy fog lay suffocating over the land.

At the wheel, Gus fought sleep as his eyelids drooped, but yawning, he pushed on.

With a click, he flicked on the fog lights, dull yellow beams cutting into the white wall ahead.

Suddenly, something darted across the road.

A small, shadowy figure, froze in the beams, staring right at them.

“Fuck!” Gus barked, wrenching the wheel.

The Golf slammed into a pothole, jolted sideways, and screeched to a halt at the roadside.

Caeriel snapped awake, hand already on her bowstring. “What was that!?”

Gus let out a ragged breath, side-eyeing her. “Oh, look who’s up. Have a nice nap, Sleeping Beauty?”

“I… I was only resting my eyes!” she snapped, cheeks burning.

“Yeah, right. Then maybe you can tell me where the fuck we are.”

From the back seat, Marcus muttered in his sleep: “…more lotion, princess… please…”

Caeriel ignored it, scanning the mist outside. “Wherever we are… it’s not elven land anymore. That much is certain.”

Silence hung heavy, until flickering lights emerged ahead. Dim at first, then clearer: a small village clinging to the hillside.

“A village! Maybe someone there can tell us where we are.” Gus steered the Golf toward the glow and parked at the edge of the square.

From the back seat came Marcus’ sleep-mumble, sweat beading his brow: “…please… not the strap-on…”

“Wake the fuck up,” Gus barked, shoving his shoulder. Marcus jolted upright, gasping like he’d surfaced from drowning.

Bromor rubbed drool out of his beard with the back of his hand. “Hrrmph. We there yet?”

They climbed out and followed a cobbled path into the fog.

The houses were squat, round, half built into the rock, with stone arches over doors and round windows glowing faintly in the mist.

As the four entered the main street, the change came quick: shutters slammed. Bolts slid into place.

Warm lights blinked out one after another until only darkness and fog remained.

Their footsteps echoed loud against the silence.

Marcus jammed his hands into his pockets. “…Okay, this is creepy as shit. Straight up Silent Hill vibes.”

Gus snorted. “Yeah, just waiting for a pack of zombies to shuffle around the corner.”

He glanced at Caeriel. “Better keep your bow ready!”

“My bow is always ready!” she snapped.

At the end of the lane, one building still glowed: an inn.

From inside drifted the scratch of violin music; jagged, off-key, like someone strangling the instrument instead of playing it.

The door moaned as Gus pushed it open.

Inside, the light was dim, smoke clung to the rafters.

And at every table sat hobbits.

Dozens of them. Short, stocky, their faces pale and hollow, eyes ringed dark as if they hadn’t slept in weeks.

The bow screeched across the strings one last time and the music died.

Conversation stopped, tankards froze halfway to lips and every face turned to the newcomers.

No one spoke.

Then, as if on cue, the hobbits dropped their gazes, raised their mugs, and sipped and the dull murmur of voices resumed.

The four approached the bar, where the innkeeper, a burly hobbit in an apron, stood waiting.

His hands folded around a mug he hadn’t stopped polishing.

“What brings two humans… an elf… and a dwarf… to Nimmuck?”

Gus cocked his head at the others. “…Well, now we know where we are. Anybody ever heard of this dump?”

Only headshakes.

“We’re just passing through. Need two rooms,” Gus added.

The innkeeper nodded once, grabbed a ring of keys, and let them clatter onto the counter. “Upstairs. End of the hall.”

Then his eyes cut toward Gus’s twitching arm, lingering too long, narrowing, before he turned away.

“And if you’re wise… you’ll stay in your rooms after nightfall.”

Caeriel narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The innkeeper only shrugged. “You’ll find out…” He turned away, as if that ended it.

The four exchanged glances. Gus gave a low whistle. “Fantastic. Cryptic warnings right at check-in. That’s a solid five-star review.”

They sat at a free table, surrounded by silent hobbits sneaking wary glances.

Minutes later, the innkeeper returned with four mugs of beer and steaming bowls of stew.

Marcus eagerly grabbed a mug. “Ah, perfect! A cold beer after a long drive!”

“Hold on.” Gus frowned. “Did you seriously ordered beer?”

Marcus blinked innocently. “Yeah? So?”

Gus tapped his forehead, then pointed dramatically at the staff propped on Marcus’ shoulder. “Dude. Did you forget you’re a goddamn beer mage!?”

“But all my staff conjures is ale! I want to try something new! And they’ve got pilsner here, Gus. PILSNER!”

“…Ah, whatever, man. You’ve got royal dowry gold to burn anyway, 'Prince Consort'.”

They laughed and clinked mugs.

Only Caeriel grimaced, pushing her mug aside and flagging down the innkeeper. “…You don't happen to have… moonberry juice, maybe?”

The innkeeper chuckled, shaking his head, and walked off.

Suddenly, a frail hobbit edged up to their table, pale and trembling.

His voice shook.

“You… you must leave this place. At once. While you still can! If you stay… something terrible will happen!”

Bromor paused mid-sip, setting his mug down halfway. “Well, this just keeps getting better.”

But before the villager could say more, two buffed hobbits seized his shoulders. “Enough! You’ve been warned.”

The frightened hobbit struggled, but the larger ones dragged him into the shadows, the door slamming behind them.

The rest of the tavern pretended nothing had happened, the low murmur of voices returning.

Caeriel’s brows knitted tight. “Something’s definitely wrong here.”

Gus wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “No shit, Sherlock! What gave it away? Maybe tell us what we’re supposed to do now, since this is clearly a goddamn hobbit... horror... village!”

Caeriel inhaled sharply, leaning in and lowering her voice. “We stay sharp, keep to ourselves tonight, and see what happens. Whatever is going on here, we’ll find out soon enough.”

Bromor nodded grimly. “Aye. And if there’s foul play, I’ll just use my axe.”

Marcus hesitated. “…So, no more beer?”

“Exactly,” Caeriel snapped.

Not long after, they left their dishes, took the keys from the counter, and climbed the groaning staircase.

The hallway was narrow, ceiling low enough that even Bromor had to duck.

A few sooty oil lamps cast dim light across the floorboards.

“If something’s wrong, the signal is: knock-knock, pause, knock, pause, knock-knock. Got it?”

The three men nodded.

"Good. Get some sleep."

She opened her door and disappeared inside without another word.

In their room, the three men flopped onto the beds, looking at each other uncertainly.

Marcus lit up his staff. “Well… screw it. How about one more drink? Just a tiny one. Nightcap tradition, right?”

Bromor and Gus exchanged a glance, then smirked and nodded.

And while Marcus filled their cups once more with the magic of his staff, outside, the fog thickened, curling tight around the hobbit village like a noose.