The Furrow

A wind crawled up and over the precipice before you, lazy and slow but heavy with something that made the animal part of your brain twinge with a half remembered warning. The hills around you were picturesque and tranquil, choked with green life that hung heavy off of the boulders and jagged eruptions of rock. Mist swirled in the deeper valleys, pooling and flowing like a river, bouyed by the warm, humid air that flowed from the Furrow before you.

You brought your attention forcibly back to the matter at hand- the dungeon ahead of you that you had spent so much time and gold to prepare for, to get to, and now was only a short step away. Your breath caught in your throat. This place had its share of horror stories, but for all of its grisly tales, they were washed away when you remembered the stories of Archmage Grizibold and the inspiring ballad of the Ochre Sabrecat. Their stories of success, a student who unlocked deeper understanding of the great Web to catapult them to the head position of the Fulcrum Academy and a forgotten orphan of war who found the strength, wealth, and artifacts enough to lead her people back from the brink of extinction- they were what drove every idealist and adventurer from all corners of the map to this very spot.

You hissed out a wordless exhalation of emotion, good and bad, as you spun on your heel, trying to exorcise the jitter demon from your body.

"Ahhhghhh! Come on Elise, this is not the time to be rethinking things!" You coached yourself, the small pep talk mutely echoing off the mist padded hills. "This is simple! This is not even the hard part! This is embarrassing that I'm talking to myself like this!"

Feeling somewhat better at the outburst, you turned and looked back down at the innocuous crack in the earth, the rough stairs and ill maintained handrail disappearing towards where you knew the stone door sat, waiting to open with disproportionate ease for anyone who approached. A few sign posts, steles and carved Wordstone decorated the path, in numerous languages- memento from previous heroes, anchors to tie them to the material plane. The belief that if you left something at the threshold, a memory idea, or keepsake, then you would have an easier time finding your way back from the place beyond the door.

You brushed back your hair, and pulled a cord off your neck, upon which a thin polished stone dangled. Nothing profound, simply a gift from your parents, artisans of jewelry and stone. You laid it amongst the grass, above the step, and tried not to think of the numerous others that the grass and lichen had claimed, anchors that clearly did not have a very strong binding to their missing ships.

There was nothing more to do now. There was no way you could turn back, not after how much it took to get here. With a first step, and a clenched jaw, you began to descend, approaching the ageless stone doors that began to swing open even now, to accept its next tourist to its endless halls...