Another sleepy day passes within the warm confines of the wayhouse tavern. And so two old men sit on stiff wooden benches in front of the flickering hearthfire and gossip loudly to each other.
"There be gold in those hills," sighs one of the old men dreamily.
"I thought you just said it was jewels in the forest?" replies the other old man.
"As I said, gold in the forest..."
"Gold?" says the maiden as she leans forward.
"Aye, and more treasures than you can rightly imagine. But the sticky wicket is that it all belongs to the fey."
Tied for 16th place (out of 36) in the 11th Annual Interactive Fiction Competition.
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