..Village of Syn..
"We want whores!" The drunken boys lurched along the filthy alleyways of the ancient village, completely unaware of the dangers within. They had skipped their schooling in order to experience the forbidden pleasures of Syn. "Whores! More ale!" One of the boys slipped and fell into a puddle of vomit, laughing. The others grabbed him and pulled him up out of the gutter, continuing to stagger ever deeper into the labyrinth of dark lanes and narrow passages.
It was high noon in Syn. The desperate folk who called the village home came and went with a certain furtivness etched in their faces as if afraid to be seen by others. Beggars, the lame and sick, and fugitives from justice lined the stinking streets, looking for a handout that would buy them another drink or another pouch of soothing drug.
The markets along the way were little more than dank gatherings of illicit traders, trafficking in illegal wares. What few food stalls there were stank of slowly rotting meat and over-ripe vegetables. A dog turned on a spit, skin dripping an oily liquid onto the guttering flames.
The village sherrifs, themselves as corrupt as any, looked with both contempt and curiosity at the drunks, wondering idly how they could be taken avantage of. The boys continued walking toward that dreaded section of the village, the Old Town. Old Town was the most ancient part of Syn. Some claimed it was a thousand years old, some suggested it was much older.
The legends held that in ages long past, a group of wandering adepts settled here. Over the centuries, the village's reputation grew ever more ominous. Tales of ghosts, primordial creatures, and blood-thirsty denizens of the night circulated throughout the land with only the most foolhardy seeking a life there.
The boys bought another skin of ale and soon found themselves in an unfamiliar part of the village. Dark spires along the narrow alleys hid the sun, an unnatural silence hovering over them. They looked around, trying to decide which way to go when they heard a hissing sound coming from a doorway. "Here, my sons. Here within are the women you seek. Only one shekel. Come, come."
It is the folly of youth that allows them to believe what they are told. In their drunken state, the boys were all too eager to find the street-walkers they desired. As they entered the house, it took an instant for their eyes to adjust to the almost total darkness. A couple of candles were lit, and they could see an array of women lined up along the far wall. Women of every color and size, tantalizing in their skimpy rags. What the boys didn't see was the deadness, the emptiness of their eyes as they beckoned them, long-nail painted red, fingers crooked and twisted.
The crone that had opened the door cackled with glee when the boys made their choices and headed up a wooden ladder to a loft above the main room. All was quiet for a space, then the sounds of floorboards creaking and dust filtering down from between the floorboards were heard.
After a few minutes, the silence was broken by the boys yelling, and then their screams were cut short as the dust was replaced by blood dripping down between the cracks in the floor. The old woman watched as each of the bodies were unceremoniously dumped over the edge of the loft to thump onto the stone floor. The eyes of the doomed boys stared, lifeless, full of the horror they had seen.
"Take them to the pits. Our friends are no doubt hungry by now." The women did as they were bidden, dragging the bodies to the edge of a well inside a courtyard of the house. With one last look, they heaved them over the edge and into the dark mouth of the well and returned to their chairs along the back wall of the crone's house to await their next victims.
