The Halls Of The Damned

The landlord nervously stares at you.

«You talkin' seriously m'lords? Nobody goes to the Halls Of The Damned!»

A young wench passing behind the landlord drops her tray, spilling beer all over the floor.

«You little walking disaster! — snarls the landlord — Clean this mess! At once! Any more beer at your table, m'lords?»

«Yes, please. What about the man who entered the ruins a week ago?» you ask.

«Well, he looked well-manned and stalwart. But he nevertheless did not come back. I've outlived many winters now, and the few people I saw coming back from that accursed place, all had their lives changed. Forever.

«For better or worse, I guess.» you gingerly observe.

«Noe, m'lord. For worse only. Ah, here's your beer. Enjoy!»

«One last question — you press a couple shillings on the landlord's hand — this morning we heard a nanny sing a strange lullaby to her baby. It seemed to mention the Halls Of The Damned. Do you know it?»

«Who doesn't?»

«So, please. Would you mind?»

The landlord reluctantly yields with a sigh:

Don’t you dare to walk alone
in that ghastly, cursed dome.
Family blood drops down the tree,
tears are there where hope should be.
Be life spurned, be light banned
from within the Halls Of The Damned!

Then, uttering some more words you can't quite make out, the man leaves.