Tales From The Midnight Maw Ch 04

Duskhallow's streets were damp with morning mist, curling like ghost fingers through the alleyways, and clinging to the boots of travelers just now trickling in from the northern road. Inside the

Midnight Maw,

the warm scent of fresh bread, sausage, and spiced cider filled the air. The tavern was busier than usual for this early hour, every table buzzing with a hum of excitement that hung just beneath the surface.

At their usual booth near the hearth, the party sat scattered around a table laden with breakfast platters and barely sipped mugs of tea and coffee.

Salem raised an eyebrow, watching a group of brightly dressed travelers at a corner table exchange flower crowns. "Is it just me, or is the tavern... full?"

Annabelle slid in beside them, balancing a tray with a fresh plate of eggs and roasted tomatoes. "We tend to get a lot more travelers this time of year," she said, sliding the food in front of Eric, who immediately began forking sausage into his mouth. "Fey-Fest is coming up. It's gotten a lot more popular now that the more murderous fey have been banned."

"Banned by who?" Ivy asked, blinking. She stirred her tea absently, still not quite awake.

"The regional council," Annabelle replied. "Or maybe the fey themselves. Hard to say. One year there were three disappearances, two spontaneous pregnancies, and a guy who couldn't stop speaking in rhyme for six days."

Eric snorted. "Sounds like my kind of party."

Chris approached from the direction of the job board, three parchments in hand and a gleam in his eye.

"Don't even think about it," Salem warned.

Chris paused, deflating slightly. "What if it's a good one? One has a sketch of a banshee that looks a lot like your mom."

"I still have chain-shaped bruises in places no spell can reach," she shot back.

Eric grinned. "What about a bard's finely-tuned fingers? Would they reach?"

Salem threw a piece of toast at his stupid face before turning back to the ranger. "Chris, it's okay to take a day off. Our payout from that dungeon quest will get us through the month if Eric doesn't blow it all on booze and blowjobs."

Eric held up two fingers. "No promises."

Chris sighed and tossed the parchments onto the center of the table. "Fine. No quests. What do you want to do with your

precious

free day?"

Salem leaned back, stretching luxuriously. "I desperately need to stock up on spell components. That dungeon burned through half my catalysts and all of my alchemy salts."

"That explains why your last

Fireball

looked more like a fire...

poof,

" Eric said, grinning.

She flipped him off without looking.

"We've been in Duskhallow for days now and haven't had a chance to really explore the town. Might as well poke around while I still have coin."

Eric nodded, already eyeing the door. "I'm in. I want to get some fresh air, play the lute a bit, maybe see if anyone's selling secondhand magic pants that don't bite."

Salem rolled her eyes. "You find the weirdest stuff."

"And it always makes things more fun."

Ivy had been quiet throughout the exchange, her attention fixed on the notebook beside her bowl. She finally looked up, fingers tightening slightly around her mug.

"I think I should stay in. With Chris."

Chris turned toward her, surprised. "You sure? I thought you were itching to try that new invocation."

"I am," she said softly. "But the Velvet Thorn... they're probably still looking for me. If they get wind I'm here, it'll cause problems. Best I stay low for at least another week or two. Until I'm stronger."

Salem nodded. "Smart. Let us know if you need anything from the apothecary."

"Thank you," Ivy murmured.

Salem grabbed her satchel and looped it over her shoulder. Eric swung his lute over his back and grabbed the last sausage from Ivy's plate with a wink.

"I'm off to the music shop," he started, but Salem frowned.

"You're coming with me first."

"Am I now?" he replied with a grin.

"Yes, because I need someone to carry my satchels and distract me from impulse-buying another cursed sex toy."

Eric gave her a mock bow. "I live to serve."

She grabbed his collar and tugged him toward the door. "And serve you will."

"You know," Ivy said softly as they left, "it's kind of sweet, the way they bicker."

Chris sipped his tea. "It's sweet until we end up having to exorcise another closet because someone brought home a sentient corset."

As Salem and Eric disappeared out the front, Chris turned back to the bar, where Annabelle was pinning a new flier to the announcement board. The parchment had floral borders and soft pastel lettering.

"What's that one?" he asked hopefully, moving to her side. "New work?"

Annabelle smiled faintly. "Sorry, just another flier for Fey-Fest. They're holding their regional celebration not far from town this year. Should be wild."

Chris arched an eyebrow. "Is that a good wild or a 'lock the doors and keep your pants on' kind of wild?"

"Why not both?" she replied with a smirk.

And in the silence that followed, a distant bell chimed from somewhere in the northern quarter.

~~~

The morning fog had begun to lift, but the streets of Duskhallow still glistened with dew. Salem and Eric strolled down a winding cobblestone lane, the bard strumming lazily at his lute as they passed sleepy storefronts and bright-eyed vendors setting up for the day.

Eric's tune was jaunty and teasing, a melody that bounced between tavern song and bedroom serenade. He plucked a few notes, spun in a half-circle, and winked at a pair of passing travelers who giggled and tossed him a pair of copper coins.

"You're not even trying to play something decent," Salem muttered, eyeing him sideways.

"I'm not playing for decency. I'm playing for tips. And titty flashes. And maybe the occasional offer I can't refuse."

Salem rolled her eyes but couldn't quite keep the smirk from her lips. As they passed a busy produce stand, her gaze lingered on the arrangement of fruits and vegetables stacked with suspicious artistry. Cucumbers stood upright in carved wooden holders. Zucchini lounged beside bundles of polished eggplant, glistening under morning mist. Some were cut with little smiling faces. Others wore hats. And still others were... notched.

"Are those... arranged on purpose?" she asked.

The vendor, a rosy-cheeked halfling woman, caught Salem's glance and winked. "Fey-Fest prep. You'd be surprised what sells this time of year."

Eric leaned over and snatched a phallic-looking pickle off the display, biting into it with a snap. "Fey do love their food like they love their lovers: juicy, complicated, and a little dangerous."

Salem shook her head, chuckling despite herself. "You're insufferable."

"You wound me," Eric said, dramatically clutching his chest. "You know what would cheer me up? Practicing a spell. Let me dazzle you."

"You? Casting magic? Should I step back?"

"You wound me twice in a single breath. I've been practicing. I think I can manage it."

She eyed him. "Fine. We haven't passed a magic shop yet. I need guano for a few of my fire spells. That's specific enough for

Locate Object

right?"

Eric grinned and took a step back, flourishing his lute like a sword. "One spell for bat shit coming up."

He closed his eyes and began to hum, letting his fingers pluck out an irregular rhythm. Salem watched as he centered himself, breathing slow, posture straightening with unusual grace. The notes spilled upward, a cascade of sound like laughter and rainfall, and then Eric thrust his hips to the north with a final strum.

"This way, sexy lady!"

Salem stared at him, deadpan. "Did you just cast with pelvic direction?"

"Pure arcane focus. I channel my intent through the hips."

"That explains

so much.

"

They marched onward, Eric following the tug of magic that pulled like a string around his spine. Salem took in the street around them--Duskhallow's north quarter was older, with cracked cobbles and wrought iron balconies that leaned with age. Ivy clung to every wall. Lanterns still glowed faintly, reluctant to surrender to daylight. Laundry lines hung between buildings, a tangle of shirts, bras, and something with suspicious leather straps.

After several turns and a detour past a bakery promising cinnamon buns with special glaze, they found themselves in front of a derelict stone chapel. Its wooden doors were chained and padlocked, and its windows clouded with dust and age. The once-golden sigil above the archway had faded to a dull gray. Something unrecognizably phallic.

Salem squinted up at the rafters. "Bats. Definitely bats. Look at the guano streaks."

Eric beamed. "

Technically,

my spell worked."

"Technically, you found a condemned church."

"Still counts."

Salem moved to turn away, but Eric froze.

He'd caught movement behind the second-story window: a face, half-shrouded in shadow, unnaturally pale, with eyes like candleflames in fog. Feminine. Ghostly. And so alluring it made his fingers curl involuntarily around his lute.

The figure raised a translucent hand and crooked a finger, beckoning him.

"Salem," he said, his voice lower.

She turned. "You okay?"

He pointed. "There was... a woman. Pale. Spectral. And kind of hot, in a doom-sex way. She waved me in."

Salem blinked, looked up, saw nothing. She scanned the quiet street. "You're sure?"

"I know a horny ghost when I see one."

She sighed. "We haven't found a single real apothecary today. If there's something haunting that place, we can clear it out. I grab some free guano, you get your spook-on, and we call it a win."

They looked around to make sure the street was clear. The morning rush had shifted elsewhere, and no one was paying attention to the old church. Salem pulled her spellbook from her satchel, flipped to a familiar incantation, and traced a glowing rune over the padlock. The chains hissed and unraveled with a metallic sigh.

The door creaked open on its own.

Eric leaned toward her. "Ladies first?"

She gave him a look. "No,

mother fucker.

You want to find the horny ghost. You go first."

He straightened his coat, strummed a chord for courage, and stepped inside. "Let's go touch some

boo-bies!

"

~~~

Back at the

Midnight Maw,

the tavern pulsed with energy. The hearth blazed in the corner, casting golden light across the polished floor and oak-paneled walls. The scent of fried onions, fresh bread, and cinnamon-spiced cider thickened the air. Patrons filled nearly every table, and above the din of utensils and conversation, bursts of laughter rang out like clinking glasses.

In their usual booth tucked beside the windows, Chris and Ivy sat across from Annabelle, who leaned forward with her chin resting on one hand and a sly smile tugging at her lips. She had a fresh glass of plum wine in front of her and that unmistakable gleam in her eyes--the kind that usually came before trouble.

"You're telling me you've

never

heard of Fey-Fest?" she asked, incredulous.

Chris raised an eyebrow. "Should I have?."

"It's

the

biggest event in this part of Evescradle," Annabelle replied, stirring her wine idly. "It started as a local thing, but now people travel from all over just to take part. Even some from across the sea."

Ivy looked intrigued. "Is it a music festival? Or cultural?"

"A little of both. Fey-Fest celebrates the peaceful coexistence between us and the Fey of the Ash Garden. There's a portal there, only about a day's walk from here. The place is... breathtaking. Bioluminescent cherry blossoms, waterfalls that glow with violet light, and this soft black grass under your feet that feels like velvet. It's like stepping into a dream you don't want to wake up from."

Chris gave her a look. "This still sounds like another way to say 'summer solstice party with flower crowns.' A bunch of hippie nonsense."

Annabelle grinned. "Well, the first couple of days are like that. Singing, dancing, illusion magic, food that makes you giggle when you eat it. Artists and spellweavers put on shows, and couples go to make offerings to the Fey for fertility or pleasure or just plain good luck. But it's the

third night

that sets Fey-Fest apart."

Ivy leaned forward. "What happens then?"

Annabelle's smile turned a little wicked. "That's when the Moonlight Massacre begins."

Chris groaned and put his head in his hands. "I'm guessing that has nothing to do with getting eaten by a fey creature?"

Annabelle laughed. "Only if you're lucky. And don't let the name scare you. It's a tradition dating back centuries--a game, really. On the third night, just after moonrise, the Fey vanish into the Ash Garden and hide among the glowing trees. Once they've had time to prepare... the mortals go in."

"To what, have a picnic?" Chris muttered.

"To be

chased

," Annabelle said, lifting her glass. "You go into the woods, clothed in moonlight and maybe a whisper of lace, and let the Fey hunt you."

Ivy's eyes widened slightly. "Wait. So... the Fey are the hunters?"

"Exactly. And trust me, baby girl, you

want

to be caught."

Chris looked skeptical. "Define 'caught.'"

"It depends," Annabelle said, swirling her wine. "Some Fey are gentle. Others are... not. But they're all deliciously inventive. If one catches you, you belong to them until sunrise. Or until they're done with you."

Ivy blinked. "Just like that?"

Annabelle nodded. "It's all consensual, of course. No one's

required

to participate. If you want to just watch the forest lights from a distance, that's fine. But if you do run... well. Let's just say the smarter ones pick their lingerie carefully."

"What do you mean?" Ivy asked, the curiosity boiling over.

"Something pretty, comfortable enough to run in, and preferably cheap and delicate.."

"Why?"

"Because it's probably gonna be ripped off of you," she answered, grin dripping with lust.

Chris let out a groan and sat back. "This place gets weirder every day."

Ivy blushed but didn't look away. "So... you've done it? The Moonlight Massacre I mean."

"I've been a few times," Annabelle said with a shrug. "I usually bring extra clothes and healing potions. Sometimes the games get

intense.

"

Chris made a face. "And people pay to be part of this?"

"Are you kidding? Some people schedule their entire year around it."

Ivy looked down at her tea. "I don't think I own anything lacy. Tieflings don't really--I mean, we have tails, so it's hard to find stuff."

Annabelle winked. "Don't worry. There's a boutique across from the book shop. They'll get your measurements and fix you up."

Chris narrowed his eyes. "And what do the men usually wear? I mean--if one were...

curious

...about this sort of thing."

Annabelle just smiled. Her smiles were somehow never innocent.

~~~

The air shifted as soon as the door creaked open. The chill that rolled over Eric and Salem was not the simple cool of abandoned stone, but something deeper--older. The kind of cold that crept up from the ground, passed through flesh, and brushed the edges of the soul.

The interior of the chapel was cloaked in shadows. What little daylight slipped through the dust-caked windows fell in diagonal slats, illuminating the floating motes and cobweb-draped pews. The altar at the far end had long since crumbled, its statue of some forgotten deity broken at the neck. The scent of mildew and age clung to everything.

Salem stepped cautiously across the warped floorboards, her boots creaking softly. Eric followed with his lute slung and his other hand on the hilt of his hidden shortsword.

"Spooky, but not exactly guano-central," he whispered.

A creaking sound echoed from the upper floor--distinctly not their doing.

Both froze.

Eric drew his blade in a smooth motion and held it low at his side. He glanced at Salem, who nodded silently, already forming a small flame in her palm for light.

They moved quietly up the steps, boots brushing over old rugs faded from sun and time. The second floor of the chapel revealed rows of broken benches and shattered bookcases. Torn hymnals lay strewn across the floor like forgotten prayers. But there was no sign of life--or undeath.

Eric frowned. "I swear I heard something."

Salem gestured toward the corner where a ladder led to the bell tower.

"Probably bats up there," she said. "You wait here. I can handle some guano."

Eric gave her a mock salute and leaned against the wall as she climbed.

The bell tower ladder groaned under her weight, but held. Salem climbed with the grace of someone who'd scaled worse and reached the upper platform without incident. Above her, the broken bell hung in its housing, and around its base--bless the stars--was a thick smear of bat droppings.

She grimaced, pulling out a vial and unrolling a length of cheesecloth. With a flick of her fingers, a spectral hand shimmered into being and began carefully collecting the mess.

"Romantic," she muttered.

Behind her, a floorboard creaked.

Salem turned quickly, expecting maybe Eric had changed his mind--but it wasn't Eric.

It was a man. Or rather, the

ghost

of a man, standing bare-chested in the gloom, his form faintly luminescent in the dusty light. He was tall, lean, and sculpted like a work of art forgotten by time. His face was noble and angular, his lips curled in a smile both friendly and feral. He was faintly translucent.

And completely, gloriously, naked.

"Oh my," Salem breathed, genuinely startled but undeniably impressed. Her eyes dipped lower, involuntarily.

He tilted his head, amused by her appraisal.

"You shouldn't be here," he said, voice like smoke over velvet.

"That makes two of us."

The ghost stepped forward and raised his hand, gesturing in a slow circle. The air shimmered faintly, like heat over stone, and Salem felt her limbs slacken, her thoughts slow.

A charm spell. Subtle. Elegant. Dangerous.

Her lips parted, the Mage Hand dropping the guano it had been collecting as her eyes glazed over.

~~~

Down below, Eric shifted uneasily. He'd been staring at the broken altar when a soft giggle danced across the silence. It wasn't Salem's voice, and it came from behind him.

He spun on his heel, sword half-raised--but paused mid-motion.

A woman stood in the shadows between the pews. Her hair was long and flowing, hovering like it floated underwater. Her translucent skin glowed like pale moonlight, her eyes alight with mischievous hunger. She was as naked as her male counterpart upstairs, her body a perfect, sensual echo of desire made manifest.

"Hello there," Eric said, eyes wide. He raised his sword. "I'm gonna have to ask you and those glorious tits of yours to stand back."

She giggled again, stepping closer, bare feet silent on the wood. She raised her hand, fingers tracing delicate runes in the air.

Eric's shoulders slackened. His blade lowered.

The enchantment sank into him like warm honey, flooding his senses. Every concern melted. Every alarm dulled. There was only her: radiant, sensuous, and impossibly inviting.

She pushed him gently down into an ancient pew, straddled his lap, and reached for his belt.

"You're very...

warm,

" she purred.

Eric, enchanted and completely at ease, let his head fall back against the pew.

"Mmm," he murmured with a lazy grin. "Best shopping day

ever.

"

~~~

Back at the

Midnight Maw,

the morning rush was finally beginning to thin. Annabelle returned to the booth with a fresh pitcher of cider and two more mugs, setting them down with a grin.

"Alright, lovebirds," she said, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I've officially avoided my duties for as long as possible. If I stay here any longer, someone's going to start shouting about undercooked sausages or stale booze."