Shredder XIX
Seravis met her gaze without contempt, unable to see a means by which he would lose this engagement. The younger man flourished a hand toward Merinde, granting her whatever time she saw fit to relish her final evening as proprietress of the Last Dance.
The small hamlet of Daruqhaar was the dying breath of civilization before the blasted wastes of the north. A sordid and conflict ridden history congealed around a singular fact which explained the village’s survival nestled in such unforgiving lands. The inn known as the Last Dance was blessed, or cursed, depending on which side of the argument was preferred. The power behind the anomalous structure was unknown, but a dizzying number of tales surrounded the source material. Whatever the origins, the Last Dance served as a beacon to those that would gamble in this challenging terrain. Daruqhaar survived as a result, flourishing or rebuilding as circumstances dictated.
The simple truth of the Last Dance was that only the most cunning individual achieved the right to serve as owner for a single passing of the seasons. For come next harvest moon, the contests would begin again, culminating in a final duel between the last remaining pair of contestants.
For three consecutive years Merinde had served as keeper of the Last Dance, an unheard of feat of longevity and the spoils were certainly hers to acclaim. Though the zaftig matron’s luck seemed to have taken a turn for the worse. She stared at the figurines inhabiting the table before her, both the standing and those toppled in defeat. No escape presented itself after her third full inspection, and the terrible notion that she would finally be bested crept in. She had never lost a game of Devil’s Dance. Never.