"The Thunderfront is crumbling," said the sailor with the crooked nose. His voice was quiet, yet the other two sailors couldn't help but hear his words, even if they had tried. The tavern buzzed with the tumult of docked travelers seeking refuge from the storm outside. The tempest had been raging for hours now, showing no sign of passing.
"Nonsense!" bellowed the old sailor, immediately drawing curious glances. He quickly lowered his voice as his hand crept toward his mug. "That damned stormfront will curse us forever."
The third sailor, the youngest among them, cast a quick glance toward the door and murmured, "Is it true? What they're saying in Sheshir?" All three fell silent. One scratched the rim of his mug, while the others stared into their half-filled glasses.
The room was stuffy, heavy with the scent of stale beer and the dull stench of wet wood. The aroma of sweat mingled with the smoke from the hearth, which barely escaped through the narrow chimney. The sailor with the crooked nose took a long draught of his beer, but it tasted bitter, making him swallow hard as he weighed his companion's words. The relentless patter of rain against the tavern's roof and walls was a constant companion, interrupted only by the occasional distant thunder.
One of the men knocked his boot against the table as he shifted restlessly. The floor beneath their feet was damp and muddy; the grime from travelers' dirty boots had collected in puddles between the warped floorboards. The three men sat in silence; only the clamor of the tavern and the dull creaking of the beams could be heard. Another peal of thunder caused the walls to tremble slightly.
The old sailor snorted and wiped his mouth with his sleeve before slamming his mug onto the table. "Damned nonsense."
He glanced around the dim tavern. Flickering candles provided sparse light, except when a particularly strong flash of lightning shimmered through the window, briefly illuminating the shadows of the patrons.
"Tomorrow," the old sailor began, nudging the table slightly with his foot, "we'll move on when the storm subsides. As far away from Sheshir as possible."
The sailor with the crooked nose raised his head. "Not you too, with that rubbish!" He shook the table as his leg bounced up and down. The old sailor grimaced.
"You're the one who started with that damned nonsense. Just keep your mouth shut next time. I'm no fool. When the whole country is talking about it, it's best to clear out until the uproar settles. Fear is bad for business."
He leaned back, revealing that his shirt was torn at the shoulders, as if it had been exposed to the waves too often. The sailor with the crooked nose wore a leather headband that held back his stringy brown hair, yet it was as soaked as the rest of his clothing. He opened his mouth as if to say something but then thought better of it and took another long swig of beer.
The youngest wouldn't relent. "Not just the peasants and craftsmen—even the merchants and nobility are discussing it. Remember the Runecarrier at the dock? He couldn't stop talking... They say the Oracle has also received a vision—"
"Two visions," came a voice so velvety and sharp at once that it pierced the room like a dagger.
All three heads turned simultaneously toward the sound. There, behind the old sailor, stood a figure in a long, dark gray cloak, their head shielded by a hood. None of the sailors had noticed the new arrival. The figure was drenched from the rain, and mud clung to their tall black leather boots, yet they still gave the impression that the storm had scarcely touched them.
A golden, intricately adorned mask concealed their face almost entirely, with delicate patterns and sparkling crystals absorbing the faint candlelight. Only smooth red lips and the outline of a slender face remained visible.
Immediately, the old sailor's eyes narrowed. "I know you."
"The Bard..." whispered the youngest, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped his mug tighter. He sat up hastily, scarcely able to believe who stood before him.
"What does she want here?" the old man growled, shifting uneasily in his chair as if her mere presence had made the room heavier. He muttered something unintelligible into his beard.
The sailor with the crooked nose couldn't take his eyes off her face. He stared as if any words had caught in his throat. A faint scraping of chairs echoed through the room as the other two tried to compose themselves, but he remained still.
The Bard let their glances and reactions pass by without a stir. With an elegant movement, almost like a well-rehearsed dance, she drew a chair close and settled into it as if the room had always been her domain. She smoothed her damp cloak, ignored the tense looks from the men, and smiled slightly as she took in the room.
"What boldness, to let your tongues stumble over him," she began, her voice like a gentle river flowing through the dreary room. "Do you just speak his name, or are you inviting him to perform his own tale? They say words carry more weight than deeds themselves." A smile remained on her lips as she regarded the sailors.
The old man snorted loudly and leaned forward. "We never mentioned his name, Bard." But the Bard waved off the remark, causing an audible grinding of teeth from the old sailor.
"You're lucky I'm here." She leaned back further into the chair, pulling her feet back as far as possible. "Without me, your stories would hardly find the right tone."
"That's enough now," the old sailor declared. "Eirik, Vigo, we're leaving!" He was about to stand when Vigo grabbed his arm.
"Wait a minute, old man. How often do you get to speak directly with a Bard? And not just a bard, the bard! Look at Eirik—he's bursting with amazement. Besides, the storm is still raging." Then the sailor turned to the Bard and gave a brief nod, though in his rough manner it looked more like a jerk of the head.
He pointed to his younger companion. "This lad here is Eirik," then gestured toward the other. "And that's Roran. I'm Vigo. So, Bard—what shall we call you?"
The flickering candle on the table cast trembling shadows over the Bard's face, while the storm outside raged ever more fiercely, as if it wanted to bring down the tavern itself. A lightning bolt struck so close that the thunder scarcely delayed.
"Bard will suffice," she finally replied, smiling as if she hardly noticed the turmoil outside. "What a pleasant surprise to hear you speak, Vigo." At the remark, Vigo seemed a bit embarrassed and scratched the back of his head.
Meanwhile, the old sailor, Roran, had settled back into his seat and sipped from his now nearly empty mug. He avoided direct eye contact with the Bard, letting his gaze wander over the other tavern patrons instead. Now and then, however, when a strong gust of wind made the windows rattle, he cast a sinister glance in her direction, as if she were the cause of the storm's intensification.
The young sailor, Eirik, slowly emerged from his awe and asked, "What are you looking for here?"
The Bard tilted her head. "Well, what indeed? I seek many things. Sometimes I don't know even know what I'm seeking. Other times, I've already lost it." As the three men began to look at her askance, she fell silent and smiled again. "But at the moment, I seek only, like you, shelter from the Thunder Lord."
Roran gasped, and Eirik's eyes widened. "So you also believe the Thunder Lord sent the storm?"
"Of course he did. This tavern is nearly torn from the ground, and you truly believe a storm like this comes on its own?" Then she looked into the young sailor's eyes, but he saw only the darkness of her mask. "You yourselves mentioned that the Thunderfront is opening up. That's what they say in Sheshir, isn't it?"
The boy nearly choked. But before he could answer, Roran interjected. "The people in Sheshir have lost their wits along with House Saranis. Even the fish crap on their banners." The Bard studied the old man for a moment.
"When were you last in the port city?" Roran hesitated, then averted his gaze from the Bard again.
"Last month..." he muttered unwillingly. The Bard smirked.
"Then it must be quite evident by now. Would you take me there?"
Vigo and Eirik's eyes lit up, and something within Roran wanted to agree as well. He shook that strange feeling off. This time he would not be swayed by the others. "No. We know who you are, Bard. Stay at the table if you wish. But for no amount of gold will I take you on my ship." He said these last words with such conviction that he allowed no contradiction from his younger comrades. The Bard remained silent in response.
Then she leaned forward, revealing more of her face beneath the hood. "And what if I tell you why the Thunderfront is vanishing?"
"Pah," the old man spat, "a woman knowing anything about the sea? Might as well have the rat set the sails." Roran earned a stern look from his two companions, causing him to frown. He looked in the Bard's direction and blinked several times, as if he didn't understand something.
The Bard took the silence as an invitation. She crossed her legs under the cloak and leaned back comfortably, her voice drifting softly through the room as if she were intoning an old, forgotten song.
"The Oracle's vision revealed the future to her." Her words seemed to dim the flickering candles, and the room suddenly felt colder. "The Dark One, the eternal liar, Saidan, or whatever you call him—it's always the same. He is returning. His lies have never entirely ceased to whisper—in all corners of the world, in the dreams of those who still believe in the old power, at the cradles of the innocent, in your stories, here in this tavern."
The sailors exchanged nervous glances. Roran, the old sailor, snorted quietly, but even he seemed unable to suppress his curiosity. Eirik, on the other hand, couldn't take his eyes off her; his hands clutched the table as if to hold on tight.
"He will come through a broken Thunderfront," she continued, "He will tear a rift in the horizon and step through." The Bard slightly raised her hand and traced a line in the air with a finger. "And with him, his army. An army of lies so cruel they become the new truth. An army that knows no weapons but poisons the hearts of men."
The wind howled outside, making the windows rattle.
The Bard's voice grew softer, yet everyone at the table heard her clearly. "He will overrun these lands. Cities will weep, and those who remain will serve him—not bound by chains, but by their own fear. And it begins here... in Shqarad."
Eirik's breath caught as she said that. He stared at her. "Here? With us?" he whispered.
"Yes, here. Well - not here in the tavern of course, that would be ridiculous." She paused, chuckling when she saw the others reactions. "And on the day his foot touches this earth, his story will be the only one that remains." A faint smile played on her lips, but it was as cold as the wind that blew through the tavern's cracks.
"By the Goddess..." said Vigo. Roran tried to say something, but no sound came out. His lips trembled, and he avoided the Bard's gaze, as if fearing her words had already become an unstoppable truth.
She absorbed the men's reactions, practically drinking them in. Then she turned her head slightly toward Roran. "Well then? You said I have no idea. If it's not him, do you know why the Wall of the Thunder Lord is fading?"
The old man remained silent, taking only the last sip of his beer before setting the mug this time gently and silently on the table. Then he hesitated for a while.
"You mentioned two visions," he said, now looking at the Bard, "what is the other?"
"Oh," said the Bard, trying as best she could to show a surprised expression under her mask, "you've been paying attention. Unfortunately, gentlemen, every story has its time. And this one is finished for today."
The heavy wooden door of the tavern swung open, and an icy gust blew in. A group of three entered in white, pristine armor, as if the storm had polished them. On their breastplates shone the symbol of a pierced tongue, and everyone in the tavern immediately recognized the Tonguekeepers. Their faceless helmets had narrow eye slits and pointed crests, giving them an executioner-like presence. One carried a long, sharp sword, another only black daggers.
The three sailors gasped, their eyes widening. The Bard stood up and gave the three men another glance.
"But don't worry. The Nurakahn will appear will appear with him."
Conversations in the tavern instantly fell silent. One of the Tonguekeepers, the tallest among them, stepped forward. His eyes scanned the room, and an impenetrable silence settled over the tavern. The open door slammed against the wall in rhythm with the howling wind; rain lashed through the entrance, extinguishing several flickering candles.
The sudden cold crept into Eirik's bones, and his breath caught as the iron gaze of the Tonguekeeper rested on him. The armored figure stomped toward their table with thunderous steps. His helmet nearly grazed the ceiling, and the floorboards groaned under his weight as his boots pressed deeply into the wood. The Tonguekeeper marched forward and slammed his armored fist onto the table with such force that the mugs shook and the entire room froze.
"You dare to utter the story of Saidan?"
Vigo and Eirik remained silent, their gazes fixed on the table. But Roran pointed with a trembling hand to where the Bard had stood. "Her! It was the Bard!"
All turned—but the spot was empty. No sign of her, only a faint scent of damp cloak remained, along with the gentle sound of her voice in the sailors' ears.
The Tonguekeepers exchanged brief glances, then their leader straightened up again. "You understand," he said only, and suddenly something glowed through the slits of his armor on his left arm.
A battle-axe, as large as the giant himself, crashed with brutal force onto the tavern floor. The wood splintered, and the blade remained deeply embedded in the ground. The Tonguekeeper effortlessly grabbed the axe, ripped it along with a shattered plank from the floorboards, and swung it with alarming ease.
The sailors paled. Not just the sailors—all the travelers in the tavern. The innkeeper said not a word. Only another clap of thunder was heard.
And then, a gentle voice.
"How unfortunate. Loud men simply don't appeal to me."
A moment of bewilderment passed—and then the Tonguekeeper's head jerked back. Blood oozed from the narrow slit of his helmet, a knife that hadn't been there before protruded outward.
Like a falling rock, the giant crashed to the ground, his armor clattering loudly in the muddy room.
Before the other two could even react, improvised weapons were also lodged in their helmets: a knife, a fork, and a wooden splinter torn from the floorboard. Both sank to the ground almost simultaneously.
Vigo stared at the lifeless body of the giant, his mouth half-open as if suppressing a curse. Roran rubbed his eyes vigorously, as if he couldn't believe what he had seen. Eirik looked at his hands as if he himself had thrown the knives, turning them over several times as if to make sure they were still his.
"How... how did you do that?" stammered Vigo.
The Bard suddenly stood there, amidst the bloodbath, elegant and calm, as if she had never left the room. She stepped lightly and almost playfully over the lifeless bodies of the Tonguekeepers, without her boots ever touching their armor.
"Well, my brave sailors," she said, "how about you accompany me to Sheshir?"
And something within Roran moved again.