After a long, winding journey, Wraithvine approaches a brand new settlement along a trading river for a well deserved rest. Only, the streets are unpaved, the carpentry is shoddy, and the only populace are scarecrows. Irritated, Wraithvine searches for “Mayor Bodembgin” to give a piece of hir mind… -- Deathshead419
The point was that there had been a village in this location. Or within the same idea of the location. Fresh water. Arable land. Excellent climate. Wraithvine found it by memory, but found it less than what ze remembered.
The buildings only looked like they should. They were cobbled together for appearance's sake. The walls were painted paper or card. The structures were hollow. The people were animated scarecrows. Even the stones of the foundations were papier mache. Some covered rough sacks of dirt that bolstered the uprights.
This was wrong. Very wrong.
Wraithvine opened hirself to the leyflow. Searching for anything substantial. Ze found it in the real stone and wood of the Mayoral building. Still more ephemeral than anyone might expect of such a place, yet strong enough to hold a mortal.
And something not alive was walking around where the office should be.
Wary and unsurprisingly paranoid, Wraithvine made hir way up the stairs. Careful to avoid making anything creak.
The walls were only nominally present. Paper hung loose off twigs and corded grass that served as uprights. The mayor was a sort of scarecrow. Twigs and cord given magical life and the ability to repair itself. A mockery of a head, made of sacking turned its painted eyes to hir.
"Welcome, traveler, to the city of falsehoods," said the dummy. "This is a village exclusively for the testing of potentially hazardous spells. To remain here is to remain in peril, but be at peace. Testing is paused while intelligent life is present inside city bounds. You may rest if you need, but the only provisions available are preserved berries of sustenance. One will be dispensed for each visitor at dawn. If you do not need rest, please follow the dancing lights to the observation station and safety."
That information arrived in all the languages that Wraithvine had learned in hir significant lifetime. All at once.
The people behind this were not messing around.
Wraithvine stepped lively, following new lights that led hir to some strong stone structures made to look like ancient cairns. But there had never been ancient cairns near this village in the past. Wraithvine knew that this village had never had a need for them.
They had burned their dead, and sowed the fallow ground with the ashes, so that their spirits would become part of the food that sustained them. So that their spirits... would sustain them. There was no need for memorials. Their lives were the memorial to those gone.
Inside the central cairn were what could best be described as maintenance staff. Minor Wizards and Artificers. Clustered around a table and playing a complicated board game.
The one facing the door startled at Wraithvine's entry, but then said, "Forty-eight."
"What in the names of all forgotten gods happened to Lyrehollow?" demanded Wraithvine.
"What happened to what?" said an Artificer. "There hasn't been anywhere here for centuries."
Wraithvine winced. "You managed to recreate it with close accuracy. At least on the surface."
"Cool," said the Artificer. "We were working for an accurate simulacra. Can you tell us more about the original place? We need verisimilitude."
Baffled, Wraithvine took a seat. "It was a bustling farming town," ze began.
[Photo by Steven Russell on Unsplash]
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