Grenstil

This mushroom was so old it had mushrooms growing on it. According to village lore it had been there when Staeld first arrived and decided that, yes, perching his house way out there on that overhanging branch was a good idea.

Other local tales spoke of earlier settlers, whose houses had made part of the branch collapse, hurtling them and their inhabitants to the forest floor. Nothing remained to support this story, though that only fueled imaginations. Despite these cautionary tales Grenstil had grown, attracting lovers of heights and those who craved that little extra thrill of, possibly, hurtling to one’s death before waking.

Most traders refused to deliver, claiming the mushroom had grown deep into the wood, sapping its strength, and that collapse was inevitable. Any day now.

“Fine”, shrugged the residents. They had organized their own supply chains, and, probably out of spite, had then gone on to create a whole new tourism niche. Nearby villagers puzzled over visitors wasting more money to spend a night in Grenstil, delighted to imagine it as their last. A few of the more sour ones suspected that the rumors of new cracks at the base of the branch had been spread by the Grenstilites themselves, as a means to attract more of these insane strangers.

However, nearby Konstad inhabitants and merchants did not leave it at that. Already, after a berrywine brainstorm, Shyomlen the innkeeper had come up with his own version of peril tourism. His cousin had agreed to mug some of his last clients as they were leaving, who had loved the experience. His inn was now booked for the season. Others were experimenting with the promising non-lethal diseases options. Things were looking up again.