Chapter 10 - Die Alten Hofs - Reunion at Lehmitz Tavern


Image – Die Alten Hofs, Crew 02 outside Lehmitz Tavern – Left to right; Sundras Tilbarg – Assassin, Helga of Helgoland – Bretonnian Knight Shield Maiden, Jederman – Barbarian, Drugen Greyfoot – Dwarf Brewmaster, Gwendolyn Woods – Wizard


The flickering lanterns of the Lehmitz Tavern cast golden pools of light on the cobbled square of Kleiner Alter Hof, as dusk deepened into night. The familiar warmth of the old stone tavern spilled from its wide doors and shuttered windows, inviting the weary and the adventurous alike. Inside, the scent of spiced meats, oak smoke, and strong ale mingled with the laughter of locals and the melodies of a half-drunk bard plucking a lute.

At a round table in a quiet alcove beneath a faded mural of Saint Graelor's Last Stand, the surviving members of Des Alten Hofs had gathered once again—though not in full strength. Erendriel Iluvator, Drow Elf Blade-singer was absent. The demands for his bardic ayres were high and he was travelling far and wide to give performances to nobles and royalty alike. He was missed and the shadows of his empty chair hung heavy on the mood, despite the cheerful clink of mugs.

Jederman the Barbarian, massive and still bruised from their last adventure, stared silently into his tankard. His broad shoulders were hunched as if bearing an invisible weight. When Hockrup of the Rebel Base Crew had delivered the grim news earlier that day—of the Labyrinth Raiders storming from the depths, the high elf guards slaughtered, and Eryndor (twin brother to Erendriel Iluvatar) taken—Jederman had turned pale beneath his weather-worn skin for Eryndor was his friend and true blood brother. He hadn't spoken much since, though his knuckles were white around the haft of the sword leaning beside him.

Helga of Helgoland, resplendent in mail polished to mirror-brightness, her long golden braid braided with rune-charms, sat to his left, her gauntleted fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the table. Her ice-blue eyes scanned the room with habitual vigilance, even while her voice rang out clear in conversation. “We’ve rested long enough,” she declared, more to herself than anyone else. “The Labyrinth calls.”

Gwendolyn Woods, the elven enchantress with a mane of curling bronze hair and robes trimmed in star-silver thread, leaned back in her chair, sipping slowly from a goblet of cherry wine. At her feet, the cat Balthazar—fur black as a moonless night and eyes like twin sapphires—groomed himself lazily, but his ears were pricked at every shift of tone or mention of the word sacrifice. Gwendolyn's voice was calm, but behind her gentle smile danced the promise of arcane retribution. “They’ve taken the wrong elf. The Labyrinth won’t hold us for long.”

Then, as if summoned by fate itself—or perhaps just the smell of barley—Drugen Greyfoot arrived.

The dwarf stood barely five feet tall, but he filled the room with his presence: a broad, copper-bearded brew-smith clad in a leather apron stained with hops and pride, his beard braided with little iron tankards that jingled softly as he walked. Over one shoulder was slung a battleaxe with an inlaid handle of Root wood and steel: on the other, a satchel of bottles sloshing with his latest concoctions.

He approached the table with a grin wide as a riverboat. “By the beard of Berronar, you lot look like death forgot to collect its due! Ale?”

Without waiting for an answer, Drugen thunked down a half-dozen bottles, each labelled with arcane runes and dwarven calligraphy. Names like Greyfoot Emberlager, Deep Delve Dunkel, and Molten Maltfire Stout gleamed on the labels.

Jederman stirred at last. He reached for the stout and took a long swig. “Still tastes like troll sweat and thunder,” he muttered—though there was the ghost of a smile in his eyes now.

“Compliment accepted,” Drugen said with a wink. “I heard about your elf friend. I may be late to the party, but if there’s raiders to gut and kin to save, then I’ve got an axe thirstier than my tongue. Count me in.”

The table fell into a rhythm of plotting and toasting. Maps were unrolled. Labyrinth rumours traded. Gwendolyn summoned a miniature illusion of Deep Level 2, flickering and smoky, while Helga traced paths through the projection with a steel-tipped gauntlet. Sundras Tilbarg, the silent assassin, sat in the shadows behind Gwendolyn, nursing a single glass of absinthe and saying little, as always. His presence was a blade unsheathed.

Outside, the town's bells marked the hour. Midnight.

Inside, a vow was renewed. Not by oath nor contract, but in the clink of mugs, the steady gaze between comrades, and the shared silence at the thought of what had been taken—and what must be reclaimed.

Somewhere, beneath stone and shadow, in the bowels of the Labyrinth, Eryndor Iluvatar waited. Time was running thin.

And the ale was running out.

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