Disaster

“A tragedy has marked this day for a thousand years. This should be an evening of mourning, a night of despair. This celebration… it sickens me.”

Now George frowned. Forgetting the crowd at the doorway for a moment, he tried to meet the stranger’s gaze with reproach. “If you don’t like our customs, mister, perhaps it’d be best for you to leave Ristol and my tavern. This country has celebrated on this day for generations, and that’s not likely to change.”

Disjointed laughter sounded from the sinister stranger. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “No, no, understand, little barkeep, disgusted as I am, I also find it quite amusing. This country’s celebration, its music, its mead… it all so carelessly invites disaster.”

Aggravated with the visitor’s strange antics, George’s temper finally surfaced. “Oh, since when?” he huffed. “A thousand Orta Festivals have passed without incident. Why should this one be any different?”

If anything, the stranger just seemed delighted that George had asked. For a split second, the barkeep thought he saw a flash of teeth beneath that hood. “Because today,” the Ceristalan laughed, “disaster has finally found you.”