Confused ancient elves ask if tavern accepts mithril coins and interpretive poetry.
By Able Quink, Senior Chrono-Disruption Correspondent
BINDLEBURROW — Residents of this sleepy hamlet were enjoying a pleasantly mundane festival of cheese folding when a swirling, violet-silver vortex appeared in the sky and promptly dumped seventeen time-displaced elves, three woolly cattle, and one large obsidian sundial onto the village green.
Witnesses describe the event as “loud, glowy, and full of screaming in rhymed couplets.”
“We thought it was part of the entertainment,” said innkeeper Willa Tannibrook. “But then one of the tourists tried to pay for cider with a song about the birth of fire. In Elvish. And they cried when I offered soup.”
⏳ Time Travelers in Tunics
The group—mostly elves, though at least one may be a decorative golem—claims to hail from the Age of Dawning, which historians describe as “the time before time got regular.” They appeared disoriented, overdressed, and deeply confused by modern amenities such as shoelaces and left turns.
“They asked where the sky choir went,” said local child Podrick, who has since appointed himself their cultural liaison. “Also if the tavern still serves fermented moonfruit. We’re not sure what that is, but our jam lady is trying her best.”
Several of the elves have taken to gently weeping beside anything made of tin. One briefly communed with a rain barrel before declaring it “the new oracular seat of the River Oracle,” then tripped over a sheep.
🧙 What Caused the Wormhole?
Mages from the nearby Academy of Unnatural Inquiry arrived three hours late, citing “inter-planar lag.” They confirm the rupture was “likely a side effect of calendar correction rituals, unlicensed memory stitching, or an irresponsible bard playing the chords of entropy.”
“It’s not dangerous,” said Arcanist Blee. “It’s just very awkward. Like running into your great-grandparents during spring break.”
The sundial, which moaned briefly upon impact, has since sunk halfway into the turf and now emits occasional Gregorian chanting. No one has touched it.
🪙 Economic Confusion Ensues
Attempts to integrate the displaced elves into Bindleburrow’s economy have been met with mixed success.
- One elf attempted to purchase a wheelbarrow using a solid disk of petrified sunlight.
- Another exchanged a single haiku for three nights of lodging, which the inn accepted “because it was lovely.”
- Several elders refused currency altogether, instead offering “blessings of bark and starlight.”
“Do we accept mithril?” said merchant Harold Pike. “We do now.”
📝 Village Response
The local council has designated the green as a Temporal Hospitality Zone, with hay bales arranged into discussion circles and a “Welcome to the Future” pamphlet written in three languages, none of which the elves understand.
A new tavern rule states all poetic transactions must include a clear conversion rate.
Meanwhile, schoolchildren have begun forming cults around various elven tourists, selecting favorites like Pokémon.
🔮 What Now?
Scholars warn the wormhole may reopen—or invert—within the week, possibly sucking local structures, livestock, or pies back through the rift.
“We’ve posted signs,” said Councilor Mab. “But the tourists keep hugging trees and asking where the sky feasts are.”
Until further notice, residents are advised to:
- Avoid staring into the sundial’s core
- Translate transactions into both currency and metaphor
- Politely refuse invitations to participate in eternal dances “unless you’re absolutely sure what ‘eternal’ means”
As for the time-lost elves?
“We’re not certain what to do with them,” said Tannibrook. “But they helped me rearrange the barstools in a way that harmonizes with the song of seasons. So… they can stay.”
For now.
