Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I'm a Fisherman In A Strange Coastal Town. There Are Old Gods Here | Scary Stories

Episode Date: August 17, 2023

I went searching for one... Merch is now live at ⁠⁠lighthousehorror.com⁠⁠ Story from TheShadyPear Make sure to check out more of their work at u/TheShadyPear                ��        Original YouTube link: I'm a Fisherman In A Strange Coastal Town. There Are Old Gods Here For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Sound Effects: Freesound Zapsplat  Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new scary stories, new true stories, and new creepypasta stories twice a week!

I was born in a small coastal town, the sort of place that never quite caught up with the times, and where fear and superstition had much more weight than logic or science. Growing up, I'd always thought the place was dull, with little to do and way too much gossip. That belief followed me even well into my thirties, though then working as a fisherman and hearing tall tales on a daily basis, I'd at least learn to keep my opinions to myself. The Salt Witch was one of the local myths, a powerful being who made bargains with people. Depending on your wish, you could walk out richer than a king or lose life and limb before even blinking. You should not anger the Salt Witch.

For most of the time, that was the town's version of the boogeyman, a story told to scare children and behaving. But it only took one too many bad fishing seasons, or a particularly husband, harsh winter for people to start getting really serious about the witch. To the point a raft would be sent to sea to appease her. I once watched that raft leave port for six years in a row, full of flower garlands and offerings we'd be better keeping and pushed into the ocean by sailors far too stubborn to admit it was pointless. A part of me always thought it was stupid.

Until my mother got sick. And I understood. Sometimes you just need to believe in something. It was said anyone who seeked the salt witch out was either a fool or had nothing to lose, with not enough money to call a doctor, and mom's almost constant fear in strange fits. I was disparate enough to fit in the second category. I followed every story of her I could find, from the common fisherman tales to increasingly obscure rumors, wandering through the ports and long past the town's outskirts.

For a time, that's all I did. Any time I wasn't nursing my mother, I'd roam around the coast on my little boat, only half working and barely sleeping. I did it for what felt like ages, and was about to give up, until one day I finally saw something moving just across the bay curve. The gaggle of children was the first thing I noticed, once I'd made my way back to shore. There were over a dozen of them, in varying ages from infants to teenagers, picking shells and running and whatnot. Their laughter filled the air, fighting for space over the cries of the seagulls, and a particularly curious toddler even wobbled his way to inspect me.

Hey, don't run too fast now, I said. Oh, sorry, sir. They go where they please. By the edge where the waves met the sand stood a solid white figure. Lucy was a young woman of graceful features, with fair skin and hair cascading in waves down to her hips, pale, as if made of the very seafone that covered her feet. I'd never seen an albino before, rare as the condition is, and her light-cutting. dress in the early morning glow made her seem almost ghostly. I don't quite remember what I was thinking at the time, but I'd barely slept in over a week. And truth be told, I was barely keeping myself on my feet. No way I'd find it in me to watch out for any inhuman forces at play or tests to deem

me worthy. The first thing I did when I laid my eyes on her was mumble, help, and faint at her feet, almost flattening the toddler in the process. When I woke up, I was lying on a couch, tucked under a thick blanket. The scent of flowers and food reached my nose, and I felt warm and comfortable for a whooping two seconds until my mind registered I had no idea where I was. It seemed to be a very large house,

with its own orchard in a backyard visible through the windows and a foundation of stone and brick, rather than the woodsy style I was used to seeing around town. I walked around a bit, and over to what I guessed to be the front door. The building rested at the very top of the reef, standing just far enough from the edge, and at such an angle, it and the trail that led up there couldn't be seen from below. But standing on the doorstep and looking through it, one could see the whole town stretching below our feet. Its distant noise and chatter, reaching us like whispers,

in the wind. The bell tower was the only clear sound from there, ringing its loud call out to the heavens. It was eight in the morning. A gust of wind and vertigo hit me, and I quickly scooted back to my spot on the couch. There were children all around, eating breakfast or studying, or going about their morning routine. None of them were reacting to my presence much, though, either as if I wasn't there, or belonged there all along. And I'd started wondering whether or not I should get up the stairs and explore the upper floor of the house when the pale girl I'd seen on the beach came over carrying a tray of food, fruits and jam, yogurt, and a fresh loaf of bread. I took it as my cue to remain where I was.

She set the tray down in front of me and let me take a few bites before asking, What happened to you? My mother was kicked out of home in her late teens. I don't know whether I was the very reason she was kicked out, or if my presence was the result of some less than fortunate encounter in a dark alley. Fact is, I was born, and we only had each other. She raised me on her own until I grew old enough to start working, too. It turned out it was a lot easier to find a job when you're a man, and I did well enough that she could retire without us starving. But with that considered, we barely got by. So when she got sick and the usual home remedies weren't working, there wasn't much we could do.

We couldn't pay for a doctor. We could only wait for death or go meet the salt witch. So there I was. I'm not a witch. She sighed, but I'll see what I can do. Ideally, she said, if someone was sick, I should have brought the patient with me so she could give them a checkup in person. But mom was bedridden, so it couldn't be helped. She couldn't go down to the town with me either, since the town's folk hated her.

So instead, she asked me about my mother's symptoms. How bad were her fevers? Was there any obvious infection? Did she cough, and if so, were the coughs dry or wet? How well she slept? I described everything as well as I could, and then Lucy went into the kitchen. I could still see her sifting through bundles of herbs and empty bottles, clearing space on the counter before she remembered to close the door.

I exhaled slowly, letting my shoulders relax while I waited. The Salt Witch myth was already around before I was born. But if I assumed Lucy's uncommon looks weren't the only occurrence throughout the generations, then it wasn't hard to think the rumor started when someone up her family tree first moved in. I guessed maybe her grandmother or other old relative. And I just realized that up to that point, buried deep beneath layers of skepticism and denial, I'd been terrified. People told so many horror stories about her.

Some said she was fickle and cruel, rising the tides and controlling the weather. Others, that she was made of stardust and cobwebs, older than deaf, and just as cold. And if you crossed her wrong, she'd turn you. to salt. I had searched for her with my prayers said and ready to die, waiting for the town's bell to ring and announced me gone in the morning. But she was just a woman, who happened to look a little different from everyone in the place she lived at, and they chose her as a gossip target. I wanted to throttle them. She came back from the kitchen with a flask and held it out for me to take. How do I use this? A small drop every morning.

and no more. It's pretty strong. I turned the flask around and checked it up close. It was the size of those cough syrup bottles you'd see at the drug store, but without a label. The liquid slashed inside, tinting the clear glass walls with a coat of brownish black. The smell hit me instantly, sharp and almost metallic, with a faint note of charcoal in the background, and I had to reclose the lid as soon as I'd opened it. The thing looked disgusting. Sorry, I can't fix the taste. She stated quietly. Her eyes fixed on me as I inspected the medicine. But it can be taken with water or mixed with food. I nodded, still slightly disoriented by the smell. Her gaze bore into me until she noticed the toddler across

the table was taking chunks of his breakfast bun and dumping them on the floor. Marcus, no, I don't like the little seeds. Then someone else can eat it. Don't waste food. I just sat there, still trying to process reality, while watching her circle the coffee table in a hurry. I'd expected something more ominous, I guess. Like filling that vial with my blood in payment once it was empty.

Give up my firstborn for the exchange or something on that line. Not a three-second stare and rushing off to steal a child's little hands. And what do I give you in exchange? She looked back at me and hummed in thought for a second. How about you come over and help me with my siblings until my mother feels better? Of all things, she wanted me to babysit. I was speechless for a while, then let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. Huh. I can't believe people make so much stuff up. But even then, if everyone who met you died,

you'd not have any more visitors, right? That would be bad, yes. She agreed, though judging by how her head tilted in confusion, my dark attempt at humor had flown over her head, likely for the best. And that's all my routine came to be. When I woke up every day, I put a drop of medicine for my mom in the water by her nightstand and left. My afternoons were spent fishing at sea or selling my earnings at the market, and I came home in the evenings. But my mornings were spent at the house over the reef with Lucy and her family. The weeks stretched into months.

My mother's health improved, but even after she recovered, I still found myself following the same path towards that house, hiking the trail up the reef and rocked. Rising along with the sun until the town's hustle and bustle was only faint background noise. Those mornings were my favorite part of the day, opening the curtains and tidying up the house, setting up the laundry, preparing breakfast together, before finally waking up the kids. You know, I'd never seen a saffron flower before. Well, now you have. The spice part is just these red pistols in the middle.

Seems so little, right? We'd eat together and clean up. And then Lucy sat by the loom and taught the older girls to weave and make the lace, while I'd work on the backyard garden with the boys and the littlest ones. Sometimes we'd harvest things together instead, and she'd mention more little things she knew about each plant. Or we'd take all the kids and head down to the beach to let them play around the shore. That's when most of their contact with the townsfolk happened, from other people looking

for the salt witch. Most wanted medicine, like what was given to me before. Others seeked advice, or were content with little lucky charms that truly held nothing but sentimental value. Those things were exchanged for other things from the town, parcels of butter and honey and fresh milk. Some people also bought the lace, and then there were less reasonable people, the ones who'd walk up demanding her to change the weather or make them rich, and the ones who didn't listen when we told them to stop sending offerings into the ocean. Some people are just stupid, I guess, but they ruined our whole day. And the times that happened, it wasn't hard to head up to the reef the following morning and find Lucy bundled up in her room, sighing up a storm.

She leaned closer and she kissed me. And we fell in love. I loved her. That was fact. As simple as dawn breaking each day, even though I didn't notice until it was already too late to opt out. She was strange and beautiful, and I loved her, and I drank her presence in like those lost in the desert would drink water. The townsfolk gossiped as they always did. They said the salt witch had me enchanted, that we met in the darkest hours and did unholy

rights. That's just how people are. Give them anything to blabber of, and in their minds I'd soon be sailing to foreign land on a stolen ship, whispering sweet nothings in the ear of a goat. I don't mind the rumors about Lucy, and I didn't care about the whispers of the neighbors behind my back. They'd never cared about us. So why should I? I didn't think it should affect me. That was careless. Maybe you could say it wasn't my fault.

That the events that followed couldn't be predicted or were outside of my control. And I suppose you'd be right. But I still wonder who left the door open. It might have been my mother, leaving for a stroll or groceries and forgetting to close it on her way. Or it might have been me who didn't lock it when I left to work. way, it didn't change the fact when I got home that evening. My mother was sprawled on the floor, silent and still.

She couldn't even cry for help. Her fingers were slick with blood as she tried to close the gash on her throat with her own hands. For a moment, I felt my heart freeze. There he is the one consort with a witch. I barely reacted at the trespassers in my home. home, other than glancing at the one who stepped on my mother's body as they surrounded me. Their voices were like white noise. My own breathing was too loud in my ears.

Creepy, Rich. I didn't respond. I wish I could tell you I cried that I sobbed and screamed for help and tried my best to help my mother. I should have. But I took in the cold truth of her limp body and half-loom. litted eyes, and the sight just left me numb. She was gone. She wasn't the best mother in the world, and I wasn't the best son either. But she had birth and raised me the best she could, and now she was gone. And I only saved myself.

When they surrounded me, I grabbed the first thing I could get a hold of and slammed it on the skull of the nearest person I could hit, making them stagger backwards and opening a path for me to flee. They lunged at me. Something stung my sides, but adrenaline kept me going enough to slip away. They came after me, and I ran. But to where? My legs made the decision before my mind even registered where I was going. That little voice of my conscience just told me to run, run, or I was going to die, and I kept running, just trying to put more and more distance between me and the ones chasing. My mind was blank, barraged by so many thoughts they fused into nothing, and my memory is a blur between running the trail up the reef and the moment

I was already crossing the front door, slamming it closed behind me. Something felt different in there. Dark, empty. Like what lied beyond the house's threshold was not the place I'd been to every morning for the past couple years. I expected it somewhat, from having walked in in the middle of the night. But no one rose up with the commotion I made. There were no candle holders where I expected to find them light up. Most of the trinkets and furniture were gone, the lacy curtains, the children's toys. The children. My Lucy. They were all gone too. I couldn't understand had the townsfolk got to them first. No, most people didn't even know how to get there, and it shouldn't be possible to hollow up the house and transport all the furnishings at that hour, even less without making noise.

My heart throbbed with pain and confusion, and so did my stomach, as my insides tried to function, despite the trail of blood still escaping the wound on my side. There was no one to help me. I was alone. No. It was a good point. thing. It was too late to regret it, but the truth is that if the townsfolk didn't lose track of me, then I'd just led an angry mob into the house of a single woman and over a dozen young children. It was good they weren't around. I stumbled into the backyard, my darkening sight finding no trace of the carefully tended orchard, while I rested my back against the husk, of what I remembered as a verdant tree. My strength was waning. The first rush of the first rush of

adrenaline was wearing off, and my eyes wandered to the open back door. From where I thought I could hear the townsfolk approaching. It was only then I realized what I was still holding. The bottle with my mother's medicine. Somehow it hadn't been damaged by me smashing it on a man's head, the glass smooth and solid in my grip. I don't know how the idea came to me. It was almost instinctive.

Or maybe it was the blood loss not letting me think straight. I held my breath and chucked the lid off, propped my back better against the tree, and chugged down. It tasted burnt, sour and bitter and cold. But after the first gulp, my pain lessened. After the second gulp, the burning feeling on my sides ceased completely, exchanged for the feeling of torn fabric tickling my skin. the third gulp. I couldn't stop. How much was too much? No more than a drop, I thought. But I drank

the whole thing. And then relief became agony. It coated my insides like a layer of sap, clogging down my throat. I hedged and gasped for air, but I couldn't inhale any. It stung in my lungs in my stomach, stinging ice spreading and taking over and chilling my veins frozen after searing through them. The bottle slid off my grasp and rolled onto the ground as I tried to just focus on breathing. In the distance, the bell tower rang announcing midnight, and faintly I wondered if the noise I heard along it, the rush of little steps approaching and childish whispers were real, or just a fabrication of my dazed mind. I had the faint awareness of seeing a man stepping through the back porch, yelling, found him to someone behind, and a knife being raised. I lifted

an arm to block it. How dare you? The words thundered above my head, spread in a wave of outrage, panic, and grief that almost drowned out my own. My sight went. white, but not from passing out. It was like a flash grenade exploded behind me, and I could see nothing but white, white hot rings of light, and the whispers. It was like a legion of voices fused into a single one, and yet it had something familiar. Most of my pursuers never reached the orchard. I could hear them through the half-open door, along with Lucy. I could hear them. I tried to get back up, rolling onto my stomach and dragging myself forward, but I could barely move.

My fingers were numb with cold. I couldn't even breathe. My consciousness faded in and out, muddling everything together, the children in the backyard, the townsfolk still inside, and Lucy's voice begging for them to stop. Everything was white. My sight, the sounds, white light and white nose. noise, fire and ice burning my bones, and then nothing. I woke up in the orchard, the early daylight fluttering weak behind a cloudy sky.

Rain poured from above and turned the earth to mud beneath me. Some water hit my face. It tasted strange, a little salty, almost bitter, though it might as well have been an after-taste of the medicine. I could hear the voices of children. It's getting annoying. It's the third trespasser already. I told you the entryway isn't working. We need a better system, longer passages, or something. I sat up, expecting to hurt all over, but I felt no pain, no bruising, no scratches from when I fell, no trouble breathing. My body was

suddenly aware of every tendon and muscle it had, and my eyes wandered to the garden place. plants, catching hints of colors I'd never seen in every petal and leaf. Something was wrong with me. But I couldn't see any wounds. Even the gash on my side and arm had closed, leaving the bloodied tearing in my clothing as the only indication it had been there. No. There was something odd on my arm.

I turned it to check the spot that the knife got me, and a layer of skin was flaking off like a bad sunburn, but instead of stinging red beneath it, my exposed flesh was an intact layer of light gray, closer to clay than flesh and hue. I probably shouldn't pick at it, but morbid curiosity took over. A strip of skin peeled off between my fingers like old paint. A jolt of panic took over, and I tried to slap it back in place, but it didn't stick and slipped from my hand and onto the ground. So instead, I hurried to make a bandage out of my own sleeve and keep it hidden. Thinking back, there was no pain or blood from that either, though the fright didn't let me notice at first. It's like I really was coated with paint or glaze and had ripped

off bits of it. I stood up and tried to reorient myself, squinting to see through the thick rain. The children were all over the backyard, divided between their usual morning routine and dealing with the weather. Some ran back and forth carrying the exposed firewood somewhere. It would stay drier. A few were fighting the clothesline in the wind, hurrying to fetch the hung clothes and sheets, and a couple others held said clothesline poles in place. A head, shielded from the weather by the back porch, There was a group butchering what from my previous sitting spot seemed like a large pig. Now that was a rare sight. It was uncommon to have meat around the house as far as I'd seen, since most of their food came from their own backyard.

But the methodic ease in which they moved, breaking bone and cleaving flesh, indicated a good amount of practice. It seemed odd. I'd walked half the way towards them before realizing that the pig's feet didn't have two pointy toes each, but five rounded ones. There was a human body under the butcher knives, naked, already headless, mostly bled out. A dizzy spell assaulted me, and I had to lean against the wall to not fall down again. I almost fled, if not for a thought that it crossed my mind. Did you save me?

I asked. Well, he was being super rude. One of them replied, running in uninvited and going stabby, stabby, no manners at all. Lucy got the others, though. That meant I wasn't necessarily in danger, at least not right then. I inhaled and exhaled a couple times, then took a few tentative steps towards them. My question had caught their attention, and I could feel their eyes on me as I approached. But it seemed they had no intention of stopping their current task.

The sky was crying up a storm, and by the time I reached the back porch and took shelter under its roof with them, I was already drenched. How are you even conscious? They asked after a moment, giving me a bewildered look. Maybe he had some of it in him to begin with. Some of the oldies who came down here had kids, right? It made father angry, though. He was always angry, and it's been a while, so if it trickled down the line, it's not

like it's going to be obvious. One of them said, I have no idea what any of you are saying. I sighed. Another of them waved a familiar glass. glass bottle in front of me, like that explained everything. The flask was as muddy as my head, but empty. You drank it all, right?

There's still some on your teeth. You mean the medicine from your sister? It's blood, well, not human blood. I guess you'd call it I-Cor. They looked at each other for support, then shrugged. When you drink I-core, it becomes part of you, imprints you with some of the old one it bled from. So it's good for healing wounds and illness and such, but you shouldn't have too much without time to adapt first, mainly not I-Corps from a high-rank source.

Why not? I asked. It hurt like hell and your mind might break. Well, it certainly did hurt like hell. No arguing with that. It felt like I was going to die. You're not surprised? Surprised about what? You thought we were all human, right?" I guess. I do have some questions, I admitted. The children had caught me off guard, but I had a guess.

I'd come looking for their sister while following an old myth after all. It's just, even if I knew that, some things are hard to accept until they hit you in the face, and I just lost the only blood family I had last night. My stomach was tied into a permanent knot, my heart both numb and stinging at the same time, while I tottered the line between denial and acceptance. But she was always a little different. Granted, she seemed more normal than the stories told, human enough to feel safe sitting at the same table, sharing the same food, chatting and making plans, while the kids chittered

in the background. And yet, odd enough to not question. when she took trays from the oven with her bare hands, or why it always seemed to rain when she looked sad or tense. So I knew, even if I didn't want to believe it, I knew it long before noticing the buildings and landscape seen beyond her windows didn't exist in the town where I was born, or how for every appeasing raft the people sent to see, there'd be yet another water-logged crying bundle in the house to take care of. Another little sibling, another offering. I knew, and it didn't matter.

Not to me. She said she wasn't a witch, and I trusted her. What time is it? It's morning, one said. It's always morning. Another one quipped. I don't think he knew that either. The first one replied. I had so many questions, but the kids were too distracted to answer more, busying themselves with a butchering duty, and I left them to it. I couldn't see Lucy anywhere, and with the past hours accounted for, I needed to find her, I needed to talk to her. And then I did find her in the living room, and I couldn't manage to say a word.

She was standing in the middle of the room, staring at her own hands like they were some something filthy. I couldn't see her face well from where I stood. Her hair was in the way. But there was pain in the tone of her voice, in the rain pouring outside and the slight trembling of her shoulders. Her lips barely moved, mumbling the same thing over and over again. It took me a while to understand the words. I told you to stop. Why didn't you stop? I briefly wondered why all the kids were in the backyard instead of with her, but they probably didn't know what to do other than give her space and make sure the daily chores would be done.

There was no one else in sight, only salt up the walls and salt piling on the floor and salt statues all around. Curiosity led me to inspect the nearest ones. They were all pure white. They were all pure white, Except when I eyed the faces up close, faint wet marks remained trailing down from their eyes. Red tears. I raised a finger to touch the stains, though there was no point in the gesture. No sign of life was left in them, but the blood lining down their cheeks, forever frozen in their prison of salt. This wasn't witchcraft.

Witches are humans with strange skills. She said she wasn't a witch. And I trusted her. She couldn't be a witch if she's not human. I glanced at her from over my shoulder. When I noticed I couldn't hear her mumbling anymore. She turned slightly and was watching me. Pale eyes locked into mine.

I flinched. You're afraid of me? I'm not afraid of you. I lied. Yes, you are. Her voice was a whisper fighting the wind that howled against the windows. The morning was cold, a gentle coolness despite the weather, silvery sunlight seeping through the glass panes and beneath my skin.

Another white lie. But what wasn't a lie? What was she? I'd sometimes thought the way she looked at the kids and, me bordered on weird, like she expected us to shatter at the slightest touch. Maybe to her we would. How much did she have to suppress and smother down, just so she'd not turn us to dust? No one else was there to tell me otherwise, so I stepped closer.

I dreamed of whisking her away before going somewhere else far, far from there. Now I knew that wasn't possible. But I just couldn't leave her like that, standing alone in that room surrounded by empty shells while an anguished storm wailed outside. She froze for a second when I reached out before slowly easing into the embrace. I wondered what she thought I'd do, though clearly a hug was not what she expected. Of course, somewhere in my mind I'm not. I knew my current course of action was not what most would have done.

Maybe an idiot would have tried to fight her. Feeling the bitter black that flowed in her veins was enough to justify either killing her or dying trying. And most people would see the fate of the last ones who did try and would have fled in horror. Yet I found the act of keeping her close gave me comfort and helped me feel less along. And I hoped the feeling was mutual. Because when I looked at her, I could see nothing but the girl I fell in love with, the girl

who knew the names of every herb and weed, but got sarcasm as well as a child, would get quantum physics. Weird and quiet and sweet, with an inherent gentleness and everything she did that, for the life of me, I never managed to match. She was still the same, even while surrounded by bodies and with her own body pressed against mine, shivering in my arms. Her head was tucked against my shoulder, and I hid my face in her hair. It smelled of ozone and earth and dew on leaves, like the ghost of a garden. I was afraid, yes, but I never felt unsafe near her.

You should go. She said my fear, a sense that if I walked away and crossed that front door like so many times before, I'd never see her again. But if I didn't leave now, I never would. She seemed so frail, not the fragility of a human or of life as I knew it, but of an ancient temple eroded by time and abandon. I could fuel the weight on her shoulders and the cracks weathering down her back. Leave.

If not, I'll keep you here. She said, that's fine. As long as I keep you too. We stood like that for a long while, hearing the sounds of the children going back to their routine around the house, the cries of the seagulls beyond the front door. and the distant noise of the town waking up with a day. They said the salt witch would demand a price for every wish, a pint of blood, your heart, your soul.

She never asked for mine. I had shared it all of my own free will. Maybe it was naive, and maybe it was stupid, but I didn't care. I was exactly where I should be. The rain eased into a drizzle, before stopping completely. The bell tower rang twelve times. Then silence fell, as the world outside shifted into noon, and I remained in the realm where morning endures.

I've lost count how many years it's been since then. A hundred, a thousand, maybe more. Long before the little town I'd grown in became a city, and the city became ruins, and time whisked away its last remains from the realm of the living. I don't regret my choice. Humans are fragile, whimsical, and stupid, tripping all over life and repeating the same mistakes over and over. But if you have anything in your favor, it's that the innate ability to choose and change

and create, you're always making the most amusing new things, like this iPhone thingy with the internet. You could make heaven on earth if you'd all stop fighting and killing each other over bullshit for 15 minutes. Until then, we'll remain as we are. waiting and watching. Our domain filters through yours, for the most part unnoticed, nested in spaces in between. In the corners the light bends a little wonky, in unused rooms and abandoned buildings and the hollow of old trees. The rules to find us evolve with you, revolving around your

faith and the tales you pass on, but our truth doesn't change. My name is Rahil, the Pathfinder, spouse to the morning star. I maintain the doorways between our realm and yours. If you find one, feel free to pay a visit, sit down, have a drink, and share a story. But make sure to mind your manners, and don't wear out your welcome. Don't be rude. I hold no care for your safety if you are rude. My family has a lot of mouths to feed, after all.

And we don't waste food.