Anfel

Anfel lies along the eastern bank of the Thring River, where the water bends wide before flowing south from the holy city of Thring upstream. The villagers like to say that the river brings them blessings, for it is said that the waters are touched by the light of Annaaru, Goddess of Life, whose great temple crowns the city upstream. Whether true or not, the fields of Anfel are among the most fertile in The Crownlands. Wheat, barley, and corn grow tall here, their golden stalks bending in the wind like waves beneath the sun.   The village is a modest yet proud place, consisting of stone cottages with thatched roofs, gathered around the Village Hall, the seat of Count Haragund of Warth. The count’s manor is a sturdy house of stone and timber, its small tower overlooking the farmlands and the mill below. Once, long ago, the House of Warth ruled all of Rasfadal from the royal court at Hofendal, and though those days ended centuries ago, the people of Anfel still speak of them with quiet pride. Within the hall, old banners hang faded on the walls, reminders of a time when the crown itself was theirs to bear.   To the north, beyond the last fields, lies the Old Circle, a ring of moss-covered pillars older than the kingdom itself. A dirt parth straight through it, unafraid to disturb its silence. Travelers sometimes leave offerings there, a coin, a sprig of heather, a few drops of river water, for it is said that the stones remember the voices of the old gods who ruled before the coming of men.   Closer to the heart of the village, the Watermill hums with steady rhythm. Beside it stands the woodshop, where planks are cut for boats and barrels, and where sawdust drifts through the air like pollen. Across the square is the Fishers Feast Tavern, a low-beamed house always warm with laughter, ale, and the smell of river fish frying on the hearth. South along the river road, near a gentle bend, stands the Inn at the Bend, a haven for travelers and adventurers alike. From its balcony, one can see the mist rising off the water at dawn, and perhaps, if the light strikes right, a glimmer of Annaaru’s blessing.   At the center of Anfel stands the Church of Olanya, the goddess whom the fishermen revere. Its walls are painted with blue and silver, and the scent of damp stone and candle wax hangs in the air. Every spring, the fishermen bring their first catch to her altar, in thanks for calm waters and safe passage. The church bell tolls each evening as the boats return, echoing down the river until it fades into the hills.