Somewhere near nowhere was a town, a town almost as notable as nowhere. Anhedonia
was but a few acres around, made of stone and timber that once was the forest. Few
merchants bothered to go there, there was not enough money to be made from such a
small, unsubstantial population. Though without the few merchants that did drag
themselves into Anhedonia’s fog-like gloom, the small town would surely wilt and wither
away.

      Naturally in a place with so little to offer, ale, beer and every form of alcohol was
consumed in pints, then gallons. The only business worth the land it sits on was of
course the town’s only tavern, where inebriates shouted cheers as they crashed their
steins together, making the brew splash over their arms. They lift half empty glasses up
in long drinks, most of which spill down their chest. Whatever makes it down their gullet
is liable to erupt back up and splatter across the wooden floors.

Just outside this chaotic drunken celebration of blandness, a withered old woman sat
in the dirt with her back to the cold stone wall. Her raggedy old coat pulled tight
around her thin frame. White ash colored hair whipping around in a violent wind, her
face aims downward as she holds her bare hand up in the cold wind. Quietly begging
for something, anything, a coin or a crumb of bread. She blinked when she saw ratty
boots stop not too far from her. Looking up, she saw a tall dark man wrapped in clothes
not much better than her own. Sitting in his arm however, was a large loaf of bread.
“Boy.” She called out to him, motioning for him to come closer. Much to her surprise, he
actually walked over and crouched down before her. His skin was dark and rough like
the skin of a potato, blotted and pocked from a lack of care.

“Yes?” The man with his loaf of bread looked at her with concern, concern for the way
her cheekbones seemed to protrude. Or was it the way her skin hung over her face like
a poorly fitted sheet?

“If you’ll give me a bit of that bread, I’ll tell you your fortune.”

Immediately he made a face at her, though he did his best not to be rude. He sighed
heavily and looked away, then down at his bread.

“It’s a good deal sonny, to know your fate for a bit of old bread.”

The man wanted to just leave with his loaf. It was all his food for the day, likely for
tomorrow as well. The old woman looked at him, her eyes turning milky with age. Guilt
tugged firmly at him, so he huffed and plopped unceremoniously down in the dirt with
her. She held out her hand for him, so thin it made her knuckles seem bulbous, or
perhaps that was her arthritis.

“Suppose it is.”

“What’s your name boy?”

“You can give me my fortune but not my name?”

He gave a meek smile as he broke his stale bread into uneven halves and gave her the
larger piece. She gave him a cheeky smile just before she took a bite. For a moment,
relief washed over her in a wave, her eyes closed, and expression relaxed as she
chewed. As he watched her tuck the bread into her jacket, he wondered why she was
out here begging. Shouldn’t she have children to care for her? After a moment, she
grabbed his hand in hers.

“Now let’s see if we can’t find that name.”

She held his hand up and squinted at the dirt collected in the folds of his palms, the old
woman grumbled as she rubbed the sleeve of her not much cleaner jacket around his
hand.

After rearranging the dirt in his palm, she moved a thumb over a blotch of discolored
skin on the heel of his palm. She glanced up at him and down again.

“...Silas...Silas Brynmoor isn’t it?”

He blinked in surprise at her, and she gave him a near gummy smile before laughing.
“How did you-”

She poked a line in his hand then follows it across his palm.

“See this, this line right here. See how it splits right here?”

Silas looked at her skeptically, pressing his mouth to a thin line before responding.

“Yes ma’am, does it mean something?”

She nodded then smacked her lips loudly. Silas never believed in these sort of things, he
wasn’t superstitious in the least. He liked black cats, thought mirrors were more fun
broken, and honestly never found a ladder tall enough to walk under. Silas listened to
her despite not believing a single word she said, however if all this silliness was the old
woman’s only way to feel like she paid for her food, then he would go along with it. He

never did like the way people just thrust their opinions on to others as if theirs was the
only opinion that mattered. The old woman snorted at him.

“You ain’t gotta call me that, no one calls me that.”

She pressed her thumbs against his palms, examining thick calluses and wax burns
from his lifetime of manual labor and poverty.

“Well alright miss, what does it mean?”

This time she laughed, she laughed so much her sagging cheeks tinted pink for a
moment. After waving him off, she went back to his hand.

“The split in the line means you’ll be married. See how the line is real clear and
connected? That’s a good thing. I don’t know if she’ll be pretty, but she’ll be good to
you.”

She let go of his hand to show a similar line on her own palm, giving a lopsided smile.

“See, you two’ll be thick as thieves, yeap.”

Thunder cracked overhead. Both looked up as the rain began to lightly sprinkle down,
steadily growing heavier. Silas watched her place her hands down in the dirt, trying to
push herself up. She huffed and grunted, the terrible weather must make her joints ache
something awful. Silas reached out and simply scooped her up as if she was a dainty
damsel.

“Well miss, where can I take you?”

The old woman laughed, one arm holding onto his, the other pointing toward the
nearest city gate.

“I’ll be right out there.”

Sure enough, outside the gates beside the brick road into town sat three cozy little
wagons. All with a single black metal pipe chimney sticking out from their rounded
tops, little tufts of gray smoke puffing out and floating upwards. One wagon was coated
with flaking red paint and fading flowers swirling about here and there. Another was a
simple wood wagon with a few rather elegant carvings around the windows and over
the wheels. The last little wagon was painted sky blue with little runes hidden in floral
designs, words in another language adorning the windows and the top of the little red
door. Silas headed for the blue wagon that the old woman pointed at. He smiled when
he saw small, puggish faces smooshed on the glass peeking at them as they
approached.

Silas helped her into her small home, smiling wide as he looked in the door. A bit
cramped and cluttered, though a wave of warm air spilled out over him as he watched
the children clamor over to wrap their arms over their grandmother. The smallest of the
children was a girl with messy auburn hair who waved at him from under a narrow
table wrapped in blankets. Silas noticed the small stove was on, though there wasn’t so
much as a pot of soup. No dinner. Nor did he smell any food. Once again, his heart
pushed his empty belly to the side as he held out the other half of his loaf. All three

children stared at it for a moment before a boy with a ratty blond ponytail grinned as
he whipped it out of Silas’ hand.

“Thanks, Mister!”

With that the boy slammed the door on poor Silas, who grimaced as he heard the old
woman yell something he didn’t understand. He then scurried off back to town, his thin
patchy boots squelching in the thick muddy grass and splashing through puddles as he
went back to the town gate. He watched as shopkeepers shut the curtains of their
display windows before locking up and popping open umbrellas as they leisurely
headed home, warm in their thick wool coats.

Home, where likely a hot dinner, a warm bed, and loving family waited for them. He
tried not to be jealous of them and their good fortune, though it was difficult as he
trudged back to his ruddy candle stall. Silas took down the banner that hung over the
top of his stall and opened the space beneath, where all of his things fit neatly in a little
corner. This left the rest of the space open for him to wedge himself into, using the
banner as a blanket. Thankfully the top of his stand was mostly coated with wax, so he
could stay dry in as much of a home as he could afford. Silas found it easy to fall asleep
as he was far too accustomed to ignoring his pleading belly.

The tavern, like most nights, was open late, its patrons loud and obnoxious as they go
about their revelry. Once again there was nothing to celebrate. The barmaids watch as
the floor is muddled with bodily filth, then they roll up their sleeves and go about

cleaning. These women bring more drinks while customers dance, cheer, break into
fights, and then again into song. They sing off key loudly, then even louder. They sing
so terribly that it becomes difficult to tell when the sounds have shifted from a drunken
frolic to panicked screaming.

Eventually all the ruckus began to bother Silas, who remained huddled into a little ball
under his stand. After a moment he wiggled out and sat up, looking around blearily. His
foggy mind does little to make sense of the chaotic situation until a woman screams
nearby. Silas looks in the direction she’s shrieking at and immediately wakes at the
image of the tavern up in flames. In a flash he’s up and about searching for a way to
help. The fire department is small, untrained and overwhelmed. A few men run to the
nearest well and hurry as much water over as they can, most of it sloshing over the
sides of the bucket.

These men threw as much water at the wall of flames as they could, though it didn’t
seem to do anything. He ran over to ask how he could help, instead he heard them
panicking about the people still inside.

Silas froze in place when he heard it.

The thought tumbled into one ear then seemed to find itself stuck in his mind. He
gasped then did the only thing he could think of, to run headlong at the tavern door. He
rammed into the door with his shoulder raised up, splitting the door into several pieces
as he barreled through. It landed in parts with heavy thuds against the floor, a wave of
smoke and heat washing over him.

The heat almost knocked the wind out of him, it almost knocked a bit of sense into him,
too. Instead, he only shouted out that the door was open, watching people stumble over
and out the door.

When he was sure the bottom floor was clear, Silas climbed up the weakening stairs. He
went through kicking down doors, grabbing whoever was inside to haul them out to
safety. Afterwards he headed back in, minutes later dragging out someone else, again
and again. Soon enough, a small crowd of nearly burned people sat, laid and stood
outside in the street just watching him go, praying he would come out just one more
time.

As Silas ran for the door with one more person slung over his shoulders, a creaking
caught his attention. Looking up he spotted something dark in all that neon fire,
something dark staring down at him angrily. It leaned forward from its place high up on
the beams. The movement caused the structure to creak, and Silas moved to run.
He could feel the hot wind of the burning beam falling down behind him and reacted
the only way he could think to, he flung the man he was carrying out toward the door.
Just as the man went flying out Silas screamed out in pain as he felt it come down on
his leg. Silas hit the ground, his face bouncing up off the wood floor. In a panic he tried
to hold himself up and pull his leg out from under the beam. Instead he found it pinned,
then something else came down. Such an ugly thing.

It was misshapen with a face like a deformed wolf, though it stood with long gangly
limbs. Its lip curled in a low growl, and it placed its thin arm, all layered with ropey
muscle, onto a column holding up the stairs. Silas panicked as he realized what it was
doing, his voice locked up and he pulled wildly, trying to free his trapped leg. The ugly
malformed beast simply watched him with mild interest as it pushed the tall column.
With another loud creaking groan, the burning wood splintered away from the ceiling
and came down on Silas.