eware those beyond our realm's hold,
From misty shrouds, their tales unfold.
They pilfer, snatch, in shadows they tread,
Wanderers, silent, their secrets widespread.

Fear those who won't speak their intention,
No explanation, a cryptic convention.
They breed agony, death in their mission,
Devoid of compassion, a grim disposition.

Ahau's Chamberlain

A subtle shiver always courses through me when I peruse ancient poems of this nature. This one is simply carved into an old tree that stands in front of the tavern. They're laden with legends, to be sure, but perhaps there's a kernel of truth nestled within one or two of those chilling tales. I'm intimately acquainted with this feeling. I relish the pursuit of such leads – it's not just a hobby, it's my profession. My name is Crowhurst and while some may dub me an adventurer, I see myself as a profoundly inquisitive individual who traverses the world with an insatiable curiosity and an unquenchable thirst for knowledge.

This particular narrative has captured my imagination in a distinctive way. To me, it's not about unearthing buried treasure or obtaining the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. No, my fascination lies in the rainbow itself, in the story it tells. I'm poised to uncover the truth, and it appears I'm not alone in this endeavor. This place is bustling with highwaymen and shadowy figures. They gather in the tavern, fortifying themselves before venturing further into the unknown. They regale each other with stories of the scars and injuries they've endured over the years, comparing the lethality of their weapons and the durability of their armor.

Many among them speak of the Iks, of ancient symbols, of an otherworldly danger and of clues said to lead to a deceased individual who can provide guidance. The very idea is nothing short of mesmerizing, isn't it? Otherworldly danger, a deceased person – it's a marvel. I have an affinity for these superstitious folk myths from primitive societies. When there's lightning, it's attributed to an angry god; when it rains, blame is cast upon an evil witch lurking in the forest. And my fellow adventurers are deeply engrossed in this and treat these matters with absolute seriousness. I find it impossible not to grin at the solemnity of this society, their amusing apprehension when confronted with ancient tales and legends. It's almost as if they're frightened, akin to young children conjuring imaginary ghosts in their minds. And here I am, on my way to consult a departed soul for information about an interdimensional threat. Isn't that utterly captivating? Isn't that funny as hell?

Upcoming next: Blacksmith's delight.