#randomencountered: seashell, locusts, yodeling
In your travels, you come across a town deep inland, flanked by a mountain range and a forest. Oddly, though, the town is absolutely littered with seashells. They’re part of the clothing, part of jewelry, worked into silverware and furniture, part of the architecture and signs. But you’re weeks from the ocean, and these shells could never have come from the nearby river.
That evening, at the inn, you inquire as to the source of the seashells. Eventually, you convince somebody to tell you: for years, a seafaring woman would visit as often as she could, coming to see friends and lovers. She would bring the shells with her to trade, and as gifts. She came so frequently and for so long that they’re as much a part of the town as the forest, or the buildings.
You ask when she will come back and are met with a shameful glance to the forest. “She walked into the forest after being slighted some months ago and hasn’t been back.” That’s the last thing the person you’re talking to has to say on the matter.
As your retire to your room, you hear a song echoing through town. Despite its quiet, distant tones, you’d almost swear your room was shaking from the sound. As the song continues, the shaking grows more violent until you finally jump out of bed to investigate. None too soon, as all the shells in the room shatter suddenly, a swarm of locusts pouring out of them and clouding the air. In a panic, you push into the hallway outside and find clouds of insects congealing in the air and heading up to the mountain. Now outside, through the buzzing of the unwelcome pests, you hear the song more clearly.
Echoing down the face of the mountain is a strange, frantic warsong. And it’s a duet. You smell the scene of ocean water and moldy undergrowth mingling together, and it dawns on you that the town is in danger.
