The bard was being held in a maximum security holding cell, her arms, legs, and neck bound. Her mouth was muzzled, gagged, and a thick leather strap wrapped around her jaw and the top of her head, locked in place by a heavy buckle. Her head was held in place by thick plastic plates.

The bard could not speak, or even wiggle, and was being fed intravenously. At least her eyes weren’t covered, which was good enough for her. Her cell was made up of place white walls, a single lightbulb set into the ceiling, a strange, steril scent, and a heavy, wrought iron door set across from her.

The shapeshifters didn’t know how the bard got her power, or how her power worked, or what her power did. What the shapeshifters did know was that her power was extremely dangerous. Her every word intoxicating, changing minds with a bat of her eyelashes, to hear her song was to live, to be ignored was death.

The four guards outside the bard’s cell had been told that they were, under no circumstances, allowed to interact with the bard in any way. They were not allowed to look at her, talk at her, gesture to her or acknowledge the bard in any way. The guards were even fitted with explosive collars, just to be sure.

Four new guards had be he stationed there after the first team guessed that the collars were a bluff.

They were making it a challenge for the bard, which was fine because she liked challenges. The best bard in all the realms didn’t get that way by just practicing. She became the best by adventuring, by continually testing herself in life or death scenarios.

While the bard couldn’t communicate with the guards, there was the occasional prisoner who looked down her hall as they were escorted by, the bard would insinuate towards them. A subtle shift of her eyes, the only part of her that could express. Her soulful eyes cast their gaze at any prisoner that happened by, beckoning to them. Almost speaking to them.

Come hither, the bard’s eyes would beckon.

It was slow, but the shift in attitude was certain, that was what the bard needed.

The prison the bard was held in was called Jotunheim, located far to the north in Greenland. The prison was surrounded by tall, jagged mountains, with blizzards drifting through the peaks. The prison itself had no roof, instead there were large heaters set throughout the prison. The message was clear: if you want to leave, you’re allowed to. You’re allowed to escape to a freezing tundra, to wander a wintery waste till the elements finally take you and you feel warm for the last time.

If there was a riot, the heaters would be turned off until peace was restored. The guards wore heavy, insulating armor, a stark contrast to the thin, orange jumpsuits that the prisoners wore. While the prisoners would freeze on their metal tables, bed frames, cell bars, chairs, utensils, the wardens would be warm. Sometimes, that was all they needed.

The prisoners knew this well, and planned carefully before they tried anything. The idea slowly spread through the prison.

“If we could free that prisoner,” whispers came in the dark, “We could be free. We could run this place.”

Whether or not it was true didn’t matter. What mattered was that the few prisoners who caught that fleeting glance from the bard struggled to forget her.

And so, a plan began to form. Around the lunch table, some of the prisoners were talking.

“You want to start a prison riot,” Mistress Mayhem said, “And for what. To rescue what? A hero?”

“She doesn’t belong here,” Strider whispered.

“Doesn’t belong here? Doesn’t belong here!” Mistress Mayhem said, “None of us belong here. We’re in prison!”

“She’s a work of art!” Huntress said.

“A work of art?” Mayhem seethed, “Are you hearing yourself? We try this, and we all freeze.”

“Well what are you planning?” Huntress asked.

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“Why would I be planning anything?” Mayhem demanded.

“You saw her,” Howitzer Helga said.

“So?” Mayhem demanded.

“So, everyone who saw her is planning something,” Helga said, “I don’t like it.”

“Just because-” Mayhem said.

“I don’t like it,” Helga said, “I’ve hurt too many people already.”

“Why do you think we need your help?” Huntress demanded.

“Because I have super strength,” Helga grumbled, “And I could throw her out the roof if you could get her free, and then we would freeze. And! Whenever there’s a plan, any plan, they want my help. Because-”

“Because you have super strength,” the table groaned.

“Honestly,” Mayhem said, “We could free her without your help.”

“So you’re in?” Striker asked.

“I- ugh,” Mayhem groaned, “Yes, if it means we can finally stop talking about her.”

“There’s something wrong with her,” Helga said.

“What do you mean?” Striker asked.

“No new prisoner was talked about this much,” Helga said, “Everybody cares about her too much.”

“We saw her,” Huntress said, “If you saw her, you’d understand.

“Tch, understand you didn’t have a choice,” Mayhem said.

Come hither, the presence of the bard called, deep in the heart of Jotunheim. Come hither, the words echoed through the minds of the prisoners. Come hither, echoing silently off the walls.

The bard waited. In all seriousness, there wasn’t much else for her to do.

The prisoner who saw the bard couldn’t sleep, and sleep came fitfully for the prisoners who had been told of her.

It took nearly a week, but the infectious beckoning had spread all around the prisoners. The wardens had noticed, and it was hard not to. The prisoners had become irritable, bordering on outright hostile, but all their anger was focused on the wardens. No fights were breaking out, despite how much the prisoners obviously wanted one. Meal periods were one long, frustrated shouting match. Patrols needed to be doubled during sleeping hours. Through the rising chaos, the bard waited, and the guards to her cell were starting to hate that. They could feel her smug mood.

It happened early in the morning, as soon as cell doors had been opened. Howitzer Helga came charging down the halls, a mob of villains behind her. The broad, brawny woman kept her hands forward in some desperate attempt to push through the guards, all twenty that now held the bard’s door. The guards opened fire with riot shotguns, hastily switching to live ammo as they spotted Helga.

More guards filed in behind the charging mob, catching the prisoners in a pincer strike. Tear gas

Filled the hall as Helga slammed through the bard’s cell. She took one look into the bard’s eyes, and she understood. She understood that it wasn’t just that she didn’t have a choice, but the mere idea of choosing to ignore the bard was nonsense.

Helga ripped the bard off the wall, making quick work of all the restraints that had been put on the bard.

The bard stood before the chaos, pushring authority and command into her voice.

“Stop!” the bard commanded, and where once there was chaos, now order.

The bard approached a warden, looking deep into his eyes and asking “Are there roads leading away from this place?”

“No,” the man admitted, “We receive supplies via a cargo plane. The next one isn’t due for several months.”

That, the bard decided, would not do.

“How can I leave this place?” the bard inquired.

“I can throw you,” Helga said, “Out from the mess hall.”

“And where would I land?” the bard prompted.

“Wandering through a freezing, desolate tundra,” a warden said.

The bard shrugged, she had wandered through worse. She allowed Helga to lead the way, waving away wardens that tried to get in her way. Helga stood in the middle of the cafeteria, arm cocked back and ready to throw, and the bard took a seat in Helga’s palm.

Helga launched the bard through the air, watching her sail through the arctic wind. To Helga’s relief, where once the bard demanded order, there was now chaos, where there was warmth, there was now cold, but where she had no choice, freedom had returned. Helga surrendered, wanting nothing more than to return to her cell.

The bard watched the world stretch out before her, seeing the harsh mountain range unfolding before her. The bard knew she would survive the fall, it would only take a bit of song to stop her from being torn open on the jagged rocks. But, as the bard touched a dainty foot to a mountain edge, she found the snow collapse beneath her weight and sent her plummeting to a rough landing.

The bard dug herself out of the snow, feeling a sting in her foot as she stood up. To think she had actually twisted her ankle. The bard was almost glad the rest of the adventurers weren’t here to see that. Touching a hand to her head, the bard felt smooth skin and realized they had shaved her.

Now the bard was definitely glad to be alone.

A twisted ankle, no hair, minor setbacks the bard told herself. She hummed a warm tune and decided to follow the setting sun.