The road stretched out before them, winding through the heartland like a ribbon, weaving past fields and ancient groves. Morning fog clung to the earth, curling around the trunks of trees and stretching across the road in thick, gray wisps. Erik led the way, his eyes scanning the horizon as they moved forward, the chill of the morning air sharp in his lungs.
The land around them seemed different from the villages they had passed earlier; unsettled somehow, as if the very soil held its breath. Erik’s senses were heightened, picking up subtle shifts in the landscape: worn-down cottages, abandoned waystations, and clusters of makeshift guard posts stationed at the crossroads. Farmers worked in silence, casting wary glances toward the travelers on the road, their gazes lingering on Erik’s sword and Vesper’s gleaming shield.
“This place is too quiet,” Vesper murmured, breaking the silence. “I’d expect more travelers, even this far out.”
“Agreed,” Berndhardt said, his voice low. “People look at us like they’re expecting trouble. Like they’re afraid of what might follow.”
Erik nodded, but he didn’t respond, his gaze fixed ahead. They were miles from the nearest town, yet he felt the weight of something more pressing than distance bearing down on them. He didn’t want to alarm the others, but the abandoned farms and uneasy looks told him enough: something was wrong, and the tension in the air felt heavy with an unspoken threat.
As the morning wore on, the road opened into a bustling trade city. Braemar was a mix of stone and timber, its streets filled with merchants peddling wares and travelers moving in every direction. The city’s heart was a sprawling open-air market, vibrant with color and the scent of spices, though there was an edge to the air, an unease that clung to the crowds. Above the market, the city’s famed clock tower loomed, tolling midday with a resonant chime that echoed across the square.
Despite the activity, Erik noticed a distinct wariness in the way people moved, as if the liveliness was a mask covering their nerves.
“This is a trade city,” Vesper said, observing the streets. “People should be more open, but everyone seems on edge.”
They continued into the square, their presence attracting a few curious glances. Erik felt himself relaxing slightly in the city’s livelier atmosphere, but the relief was short-lived as he began to pick up snatches of conversation; a few words here and there, barely enough to grasp, but ominous enough to make his shoulders tense again.
“…another lot heading north…”
“…saw them in the night, strange armor…”
“…not our kind… but why are they here?”
Erik exchanged a look with Vesper, both of them sensing the uncertainty that buzzed beneath the chatter. As they moved past a group of traders, Erik caught a merchant’s low voice as he warned another, “… heard whole villages abandoned overnight. Just gone, with only an incense smell left behind.”
Berndhardt frowned, listening intently
Erik felt a shiver run down his spine. The words “abandoned overnight” clung to him, each word feeling like a warning.
Needing rest, they entered a nearby tavern, the air inside warm and filled with the faint scent of ale and roast. The tavern was crowded, voices overlapping in a mix of conversation and nervous laughter. A bard strummed an old tune in the corner, his voice just audible over the hum of the patrons.
They took seats near the back, and soon a tavernkeeper approached them, an older woman with eyes that seemed to see more than they revealed. She took their orders with a polite nod, but before leaving, she glanced at Erik with an appraising eye.
“Strange days, aren’t they?” she remarked, her tone casual but her gaze piercing. “Not as safe as it once was, even for a place like Braemar.”
“Strange indeed,” Erik replied, leaning forward. “We’ve heard talk of… unusual movements on the roads.”
The tavernkeeper nodded, lowering her voice as she continued. “Aye, more than unusual. Strangers come and go in the night, all wearing strange clothes, speaking languages I haven’t heard in years. They don’t look like our kind, and they keep to themselves. Some folks say they’re mercenaries, but for whom, no one knows.”
Vesper glanced at Erik, concern flickering in her eyes. “And do you know where they’re headed?”
The tavernkeeper shrugged, but there was a wary look in her eyes. “South, east, north; no one can tell. But wherever they’re bound, it doesn’t bode well for the rest of us.”
With that, she moved on, leaving them to digest the information in silence.
After the tavern, they ventured back into the square, where traders shouted their wares and townsfolk bustled about. Erik watched the crowd, his instincts prickling with unease. Something felt… wrong, but he couldn’t place it.
As he scanned the crowd, he noticed a figure in a dark hood standing at the edge of the market, watching them intently. The figure was tall, cloaked in shadows, their face hidden, but Erik could see a strange insignia; a faded symbol sewn onto the edge of their cloak.
Before Erik could move toward them, the figure disappeared into the throng, blending seamlessly into the crowd. Erik’s hand tightened on his sword hilt, the memory of the figure’s gaze lingering.
“Did you see that?” he muttered to Vesper, who nodded, her own eyes narrowed.
“Not just a curious onlooker,” she said. “There was… something else in that gaze.”
Berndhardt joined them, his expression grim. “I caught a glimpse of that symbol on their cloak. It’s old, from stories I heard back north. It belonged to mercenaries said to be bound to a dangerous dark magic clan. They’re brought in when someone’s pulling strings far beyond what they can handle.”
Erik’s heart pounded, his mind racing with questions. “But who’s pulling those strings here? And why?”
No one answered, and a dark silence settled between them.
The sun dipped below the horizon as they prepared to leave the city, the marketplace winding down as lanterns flickered to life along the narrow streets. But just as they reached the gates, a new group of travelers arrived, their armor mismatched and their faces hidden beneath strange masks. They carried no identifiable banners, yet the aura they exuded made the townsfolk wary, parting around them like water around rocks.
“They’re not from here,” Vesper whispered, her voice barely audible.
Erik nodded, watching as the group passed, each of them moving with a quiet purpose. They didn’t look like ordinary mercenaries; they moved as if they were bound by something beyond duty, something Erik could almost feel.
They arrived at the inn just as dusk settled over Braemar, casting long shadows across the cobbled streets. The inn was old, built from large blocks of moss-covered stone and boasting a crooked, whimsical sign that hung above the door: a wooden carving of a pig, a cow, and a dragon, each looking thoroughly disgruntled. The lettering beneath read: The Adventurer’s Refuge: Rooms, Roast, and Respite.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and old wood smoke. The walls were lined with tapestries depicting ancient battles, some of them fraying at the edges. A warm, flickering glow filled the room from several iron chandeliers, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls. Long wooden tables were crowded with patrons; travelers, merchants, a few guards laughing over mugs of ale or quietly exchanging rumors.
The innkeeper, a broad-shouldered woman with an apron dusted in flour, showed them to a table near the fireplace. Erik sank gratefully onto the bench, breathing in the rich, savory scents that filled the room: roast pork, baked bread, and the faint hint of dried herbs.
“Now this,” Berndhardt said, grinning, “is a place that knows how to treat travelers.”
They settled in, and soon enough, a steaming platter of roast meat, fresh bread, and a jug of ale was placed before them. As they ate, Erik found himself unwinding, lulled by the warmth of the fire and the steady murmur of voices around them.
But as he looked around the room, his gaze caught on an old man sitting alone by the hearth. The man wore a dark, threadbare cloak, and his eyes, sharp as flint, were fixed unblinkingly on Erik. The firelight played over his weathered face, casting deep shadows that made his expression difficult to read. Erik frowned, feeling a faint prickling along his spine.
“Do you see him?” he muttered to Vesper, nodding slightly toward the old man.
Vesper followed his gaze, her brows knitting together. “I do. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since we walked in.”
Berndhardt glanced over and shrugged. “Old folks are strange sometimes. Probably thinks you remind him of someone.”
But Vesper’s gaze lingered, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “Maybe I should go talk to him. See what’s going on.”
Before she could rise, Erik put a hand on her arm, shaking his head. “No, I’ll go. I have a feeling he wants to talk to me anyway.”
She nodded, though she looked slightly disappointed. Erik stood, his boots making soft thuds against the stone floor as he approached the old man. The man’s gaze remained steady, following Erik’s every step with an intensity that was almost unnerving. When Erik finally stopped in front of him, the man’s thin lips curved into a slight smile.
“Mind if I sit?” Erik asked, nodding toward the empty chair across from him.
The old man gestured to it with a gnarled hand, his smile widening. “Be my guest, young man. I’d been wondering when you’d come over.”
Erik took a seat, studying the man up close. He appeared frail, but his eyes were bright and calculating, each movement deliberate, as though he weighed the significance of every gesture.
“You’ve been watching me since I walked in,” Erik began, his voice steady but cautious. “Do I know you?”
The old man chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “Perhaps not by name. But you’d know of me, I reckon. You’re from the southern province, aren’t you?”
Erik’s brow furrowed. “I am. But you..”
“I serve on the High Counsel in the adjacent eastern province,” the old man interrupted, his smile fading as he regarded Erik with a knowing look. “My name is Oswin. And I’ve been watching you because I came here seeking… well, I wasn’t quite sure until I saw you, Erik Marlow”
The mention of his full name sent a chill through Erik. He forced himself to remain calm, but his mind raced with questions. “What brings a member of the high counsel all the way to Braemar? You’re a long way from your home.”
Oswin leaned back, his eyes never leaving Erik’s. “Research, you could say. I’ve been following the threads of a rather interesting phenomenon; one that involves certain… corruptive energies.” He paused, his gaze sharpening. “And I heard a rumor of someone who might be uniquely positioned to counter them.”
Erik’s chest tightened, his thoughts flashing to the Prismatic Core and the power within him. But he kept his expression neutral. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I’m not exactly aligned with anyone’s cause.”
Oswin’s gaze flickered with amusement, his lips curving in a slight smile. “Oh, I’m well aware. After all, I heard that you were disowned by your father, the great governor of the southern province himself. And, if I recall, it wasn’t just disownment; I believe he even ordered you to be sold into slavery.”
Erik’s jaw clenched, his hands tightening on the table’s edge as memories surfaced, raw and unwelcome. “That’s not something I care to discuss.”
“I imagine it isn’t,” Oswin replied, a note of sympathy in his voice. “But it tells me a great deal about you… and about what you’ve endured. People in your position either crumble under such betrayal or rise from it stronger than ever. From what I can see, it appears you’ve chosen the latter.”
Erik held his gaze, his voice tense. “And what exactly does that have to do with this… phenomenon you mentioned?”
Oswin leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Simply put, it makes you unpredictable.”
Oswins gaze drifted briefly to the sword at Erik’s side. “You’ve dabbled with darkness yourself, haven’t you? That blade speaks volumes about what you’ve sacrificed along the way.”
Erik felt a pang of unease. The way Oswin spoke, it was as if he could see into the darkest corners of Erik’s past.
“What do you want from me?” Erik asked, keeping his tone even.
“I’m here because I want to know if you’re willing to fight; not just for yourself, but for a cause that could very well shape the fate of this land.” Oswin’s gaze was steady, his voice resolute. “You have the strength to combat these forces. But if you can’t harness your power fully, then you may be consumed by them.”
Erik’s hand drifted to the sword at his side, feeling the faint pulse of the demon’s presence within it. “So you want me to be some kind of hero? To stand against forces even he fears?”
Oswin’s eyes glinted, a mix of calculation and concern. “Precisely. You, are already a threat to these forces, but only if you choose to be. And that choice was placed upon you, I’d wager, the very moment your father cast you out.”
He leaned back, his gaze turning distant before it returned to Erik, sharp and probing. “Tell me, Erik, what do you know of your homeland? Of your father’s fate?”
Erik’s heart pounded, a surge of memories flooding back: the governor’s sudden resentment, the blame heaped on him after Lucian’s death, and a shadow in his father’s eyes that Erik could never quite place. “Last I knew, he was still ruling. He blamed me for Lucian’s death, but… it was more than grief. There was something wrong with him, something I couldn’t put my finger on.”
Oswin’s expression darkened, his voice lowering. “Then you’ve seen the effects of what I feared.” His gaze flicked around, ensuring they were alone, and then, with practiced care, he drew a small glass vial from his cloak. Inside, a strange, reanimated worm writhed violently, its pincers snapping and green fangs gnashing against the enchanted glass that held it. “Do you know what this is?”
Erik leaned forward, studying the vial. The creature inside was like nothing he’d seen before, its movements unnatural, almost possessed. Its flesh was slick, an unnatural sheen coating it, and its eyes, tiny and venomous, seemed to glare back at him. Around the neck of the vial, Erik noticed an official insignia with runic inscriptions evoking sealing magic, marking Oswin as the High Magus of the Eastern Province.
Oswin observed Erik’s reaction, then spoke in a quiet, measured tone. “This, Erik, is the parasite I fear has taken root in the halls of power across the provinces. Not just in your homeland, but beyond.” He paused, his expression grim. “This little beast is not your average creature; it’s a conduit, a carrier for a corruption that bends the will and clouds the mind. Those infected become… malleable, suggestible to forces beyond even their own understanding.”
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Erik’s fists clenched as he looked up. “So my father…?”
Oswin nodded, his face shadowed. “Your father may very well be under its influence or worse. We’ve seen similar symptoms in other high-ranking officials. First, they withdraw, growing distrustful, then they surround themselves with mercenaries or ‘advisors’ of dubious loyalty. And eventually, they isolate, their motives warped, their allegiances shifting toward… unknown goals.”
“Unknown goals,” Erik echoed, his voice tight with barely contained anger. “So he’s… a puppet?”
Oswin’s face grew grim. “A puppet, yes, and a dangerous one. If it came to light that the governor himself was being controlled by such a force… imagine the chaos it would unleash. The people would lose trust in their leaders, alliances would crumble, and old factions would rise in the power vacuum. Politically, the ramifications would be devastating, and the provinces would become vulnerable to all manner of hostile forces, both seen and unseen.”
Erik’s mind whirled, trying to comprehend the implications. “And you’re certain this… thing is responsible?”
Oswin tapped the vial, the worm snapping its fangs as it lunged again against the glass, meeting the enchanted barrier with a flash of green energy. “We’ve captured a few of these parasites. They’re rare, difficult to detect, and nearly impossible to extract once they’ve taken hold. This one was removed from a minor official who… lost himself to madness in the end. By the time we found it, his mind was nearly destroyed, but this little creature persisted, as if it were still carrying out orders from some distant master.”
Erik’s stomach turned as he absorbed Oswin’s words. “And this is happening in my homeland?”
Oswin nodded gravely. “Your father’s paranoia, his alienation; it’s all consistent with the corruption we’ve been studying. It’s likely he’s a pawn in a far greater game, being played by forces that remain hidden, even to those of us who’ve studied them for years. That’s why I came here, to gather information and, perhaps, to find someone strong enough to counter it.”
He fixed Erik with a piercing stare, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You may be that person. If the reports are true, you’re immune to corruption in ways we barely understand. It places you at a unique advantage, and if you can stand against this force… you may be the only one capable of saving not only your homeland, but others.”
Erik felt the weight of the old man’s words pressing down on him. He looked again at the writhing creature, its green fangs snapping against the glass, and a fierce determination ignited in his chest. For the first time, he understood the true scope of the battle he was being drawn into, a battle that reached into the highest circles of power, threatening to tear apart not only his homeland but the entire continent.
He met Oswin’s gaze, his voice steady. “I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll find out who’s behind this… and I’ll put an end to it.”
Oswin nodded, a spark of approval in his eyes. “Good. But know this, Erik: those who control these creatures are skilled in hiding their true intentions. You’ll need every power at your disposal… and perhaps you could explain to me what exactly happened to you, to be thrust from a mere Lethri to a… demonic maelstrom of death, as one of the captured Paladins reported from Ebonfield.”
The name struck a chord deep within Erik, and a flood of recent memories surged through him; the villagers at Ebonfield, torn from their humanity by eldritch corruption, their bodies twisted and eyes hollow, a mirror of the darkness he’d fought within himself. He could still feel the dirt on his hands, gritty and cold, as he’d buried each of them, even the mother and child he’d once saved from another threat. He’d seen their faces, blank and empty, knowing they hadn’t deserved the end they met. A slow, simmering anger stirred in his chest, shadowed by something darker; an understanding, growing clearer with every word Oswin spoke.
Ebonfield had only been one piece of the pattern.
Erik’s hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, feeling the faint pulse of the demon’s presence within, a reminder of his own strange journey from Lethri exile to something far darker. He thought of the day he’d been disowned, the sentence handed down as if he were nothing. He thought of his capture, the forced implantation of the demon, the trauma woven into every fiber of his being by those who had sought to wield him as a weapon.
A realization crept over him like a shadow unfurling; a connection he hadn’t made before. His exile, his enslavement, even his transformation… had all of it been orchestrated? A string of choices forced upon him, leading him precisely to where he was now?
“Someone wanted this,” Erik murmured, his voice barely audible. His eyes grew hard, darkening with an unshakable resolve. “All of it. My father’s rejection, the demon, the curse of Ebonfield… everything.”
Erik’s fingers tightened around the sword hilt, his mind racing as he pieced together fragments of memories and encounters. Every twisted turn, every near-death experience, every moment that had stripped him down to his core… had all been woven into some greater tapestry, one that Erik now saw was crafted by a hand far beyond his reach.
The demon pulsed within the sword, almost in recognition of Erik’s thoughts, as if it too knew more than it had ever revealed.
Erik’s voice was steady, each word deliberate. “Then I’m not just fighting for myself. I’m fighting to end this…”
Erik took a deep, measured breath, his resolve hardening. He’d buried his past in the earth alongside the villagers of Ebonfield, but now he understood that the past was not something to bury; it was something to conquer.
Erik’s gaze turned thoughtful as he processed everything Oswin had revealed. Despite the shock and growing tension, a fierce resolve took shape within him. “I need to go home. Back to the province, to my father, and find out how deep this goes.” He met Oswin’s eyes, his voice steady. “But how did you even come here, Oswin? With forces like the ones you describe… they aren’t easy to outrun.”
Oswin’s expression softened, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I came by official provincial transport. A ship well-guarded and marked with our provincial crest.”
Erik’s eyes widened “Wait. A ship with the crest of a… mermaid who sings?”
Oswin nodded, a glint of amusement in his gaze. “Exactly that. A mermaid, yes, singing at the bow; only those on official business are permitted to travel with that emblem.”
Erik felt a flicker of relief and determination. “Then that’s our way forward.”
Oswin inclined his head, his voice resolute.
The conversation was interrupted by a sudden presence; a figure cloaked in deep green materialized at Oswin’s side without a sound, startling Vesper and Berndhardt into immediate action. In an instant, both had leapt to their feet, drawing weapons with a readiness that commanded the attention of everyone in the inn. Erik’s hand instinctively went to his sword, the Prismatic Core within him beginning to pulse in response, channeling a hint of his growing power into his fingertips.
The inn’s lively chatter ceased, patrons falling silent as they watched the scene unfold. The tension was thick as Erik locked eyes with the cloaked figure, his focus narrowed and his senses attuned. But before anything escalated further, Oswin raised a hand, a faint smile touching his lips.
“Hold, all of you,” he said calmly. “This is my scout.”
As the figure lowered her hood, a beautiful woman with piercing eyes and an unshakable composure revealed herself. She knelt beside Oswin, bowing her head slightly and whispering something into his ear. Vesper and Berndhardt exchanged glances, each letting out a breath they didn’t realize they’d been holding, but the innkeeper was not as forgiving.
With a loud, resounding voice, the innkeeper bellowed from across the room, “You two! I swear, if anything’s destroyed in here, you’ll both be in the back plucking chickens and scrubbing pots till dawn!”
A ripple of laughter spread through the inn, and Vesper and Berndhardt quickly sat down, glancing warily at the innkeeper, who shot them a look that could fell a mountain. Erik noticed the woman’s commanding presence and realized there was more to her than met the eye. Her movements were precise, and her aura was faint but potent; a protective barrier that felt akin to the enchantments on the relics he’d encountered before.
“It seems our hostess is no stranger to power,” Berndhart whispered to Vesper, who nodded in agreement, her eyes wide. They shared a silent understanding that this was not a place to test boundaries.
The scout finished her report to Oswin, who nodded thoughtfully before gesturing to Erik’s companions. “Allow me to introduce my scout and trusted companion, Lia,” he said, his tone relaxed but respectful. Erik noticed that Lia’s sharp gaze took in each of them in turn, noting every detail, every weapon, every bit of gear with practiced efficiency. She was clearly someone who’d spent years on the road, and her poise spoke of both experience and loyalty.
Oswin then turned to Erik with a curious expression, “tell me, how did a Lethri manage to gather so much power? The high courts knew of the relics within the mansion, yes, but I’d never expected to find you in possession of something as… profound as that sword.”
The statement was as much a question as it was an observation, and Erik felt the weight of Oswin’s curiosity. He had a feeling this was as much about learning what Erik was as it was about the blade itself.
“This?” Erik replied, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “It’s not just any blade, no. The sword… carries an echo of something much darker.” He hesitated, knowing he was revealing more than he’d intended, but Oswin’s piercing gaze left little room for evasion.
Oswin’s eyebrows raised, a spark of intrigue glinting in his eyes. “A demonic presence, yes? I felt the signature the moment you walked into the room. Yet, there’s something else, something… unique that isn’t entirely demonic. You hold a power that feels almost… foreign to this world, if I may say so.”
Erik shifted slightly. “The sword was a gift, or maybe a curse. It’s tied to… let’s just say a presence that doesn’t leave easily.”
Vesper and Berndhardt leaned forward, their curiosity piqued, while the innkeeper watched from a distance, hands on her hips, making it clear that one wrong move would land them in the back kitchen.
***
As the night settled in, the inn grew warm and rowdy, filled with the hum of laughter, music, and the clink of mugs. Oswin, his expression growing thoughtful, stood to retire for the night. “Rest is important, especially with what lies ahead,” he said to Erik, who nodded in agreement. Erik himself had little interest in lingering with the raucous crowd, his thoughts drifting to the journey ahead and the weight of the day’s revelations. He was about to follow Oswin’s lead, his hand already resting on the hilt of his sword, when the familiar voice of the demon flared to life.
“Oh, come on, fun-sucker,” it sneered. “They’re over there, throwing back mugs and laughing, and you’re going to skulk off to bed? Pathetic. Go over there and drink till you drop; I want my shot at that new and improved body. You think I’ve been quiet for nothing?”
Erik ignored the demon’s mutterings, giving a slight shake of his head, but a glance back at Vesper and Berndhardt softened his resolve. The two of them were deep into their drinks, mugs piled high on the table as they shared a rare moment of mirth, letting the cares of the world slip away. They’d had more drinks than they’d likely had in months, the stress of recent battles melting away with each mug.
With a resigned sigh, Erik finally joined them, taking a seat as Vesper cheered. “I knew you couldn’t resist! I haven’t seen you smile in ages,” she teased, sliding a drink toward him.
Berndhardt gave a grin, already looking delightfully drunk, and dug into a pack he’d apparently stashed under the table. With a sly grin, he pulled out a flask etched with runic designs, slapping it onto the table with a proud flourish.
“Viking Blood!,” he announced, “Stronger than any watered-down drink this place serves.”
The innkeeper’s eyes narrowed at the sight, her stance as sturdy as Berndhardt’s and her presence suddenly commanding. “Oi! No outside food or drink. If you want to drink here, it’s the inn’s ale, or none at all.”
Berndhardt’s drunken grin only widened. “Oh, so you think your ale can match Viking blood?” He leaned forward, his tone both challenging and playful. “I say we settle this properly; with a drinking contest.”
The innkeeper’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes glinting with both irritation and amusement. She gave a sharp nod to a young server, who scurried off and returned a moment later with a large keg, heaving it onto the table with a resounding thud.
“All right then, big man,” the innkeeper said, her voice like steel. “Let’s see if your Viking blood holds up against the real stuff.”
Erik and Vesper watched with fascination as Berndhardt cracked open his flask, pouring a generous amount of the thick, dark liquid into a mug. The innkeeper, undaunted, grabbed the viking blood from the flask and poured herself an overflowing amount from the biggest tankard Erik has ever seen and and raised it to her lips, eyeing Berndhardt with an arched brow. Without missing a beat, she downed the entire drink, never backing down.
Berndhardt’s expression shifted from pride to awe, his cheeks going red as he stared at her with something close to admiration. He didn’t even bother hiding the flush that spread across his face, while Vesper leaned over to Erik, chuckling. “I think he’s just found the love of his life.”
The innkeeper’s brow lifted, her gaze piercing as she put her mug down and nodded. “Not bad,” she conceded, smirking. “But I’ve had worse. Try to keep up, lad.”
Red-faced but not about to back down, Berndhardt poured another mug of Viking blood and raised it, his grin widening as he let out a hearty cheer. “Then let’s drink to strong women and stronger brews!”
Erik and Vesper joined in, raising their mugs and clinking them together with a sense of ease they hadn’t felt in ages. The demon in Erik’s mind grumbled, interjecting every so often with sly encouragements. “Just let me in for a moment, Erik, won’t you? Imagine what I’d do with that strength. Nothing bad, I swear. I’ll just have a peek.”
Erik ignored it, laughing as Berndhardt continued his boasting, only to suddenly pull out a lyre from seemingly nowhere. He strummed the instrument with surprising finesse, his fingers deftly plucking out a haunting melody that seemed to echo through the inn.
As the inn quieted, Berndhardt began singing in a deep, resonant voice. The words were in an old language, one Erik had never heard; a blend of consonants and flowing vowels that somehow struck a chord within him, as though it held the weight of history.
As the song continued, Erik felt something shift in the air; a vibration from Berndhardt’s voice that seemed to fill every corner of the inn. And then, as if by magic, the lyrics transformed, echoing in every language spoken by the patrons, each person hearing Berndhardt’s words as though sung in their own tongue. The crowd gasped, exchanging awestruck glances as they realized the song had shifted to their native languages.
Vesper turned to Erik, eyes wide with realization. “He’s… a bard?” she whispered, half in shock, half in admiration.
Erik stared, the pieces suddenly falling into place. Berndhardt’s quiet strength, his mysterious presence, and his seemingly endless knowledge of drinking songs and lore. He was a bard; a powerful one, it seemed, if his music could resonate so profoundly with everyone in the inn.
Berndhardt’s voice rose as he spun tales of their journey; trials and tribulations, battles fought and friendships forged, painting vivid pictures with each verse. His eyes found the innkeeper as he sang of love found in unexpected places, and a flicker of understanding passed between them, her own hardened expression softening just a bit.
Vesper leaned over, whispering to Erik with a grin, “Seems like our quiet Berndhardt has a thing for powerful women.”
Erik chuckled, raising his mug. “Apparently, and he can sing too. Who would have guessed?” as they both listened into Berndhardt the Bard.
Far I have wandered, through fire and frost,
With sword and shield, for battles lost.
On trails unknown, with friends beside,
In lands where shadows seek to hide.
In the halls of stone and mead’s embrace,
We tell the tales of every place,
From Ebonfield to Braemar’s shore,
We’ll sing till night can hold no more.
The inn erupted into applause as Berndhardt finished, his final note lingering in the air, leaving the patrons awestruck. The demon in Erik’s mind grumbled one last time, muttering, “Can I at least come out for a few minutes, Erik? Just for the fun of it. What harm could it do?”
Erik shook his head, smiling despite himself as he watched Berndhardt bask in the attention, his eyes lingering on the innkeeper with admiration. He exchanged a glance with Vesper, who seemed equally amused and impressed.
Berndhardt swayed on his feet, his towering frame balanced precariously on the table. His deep, rumbling voice filled the room, the glowing runes across his arms and chest casting a warm, pulsing light that intensified with each verse. The inn’s patrons, their eyes wide with awe, watched as the strange, ancient marks shimmered across his skin. The innkeeper flushed, fanning herself as the invisible power of Berndhardt’s song radiated through the room, the magical aura bringing with it a sense of shared strength and renewed vitality.
As the song continued, bruises faded, aches lessened, and tired eyes grew brighter. Berndhardt seemed to grow taller, his presence even more commanding as he gestured grandly, pulling the crowd deeper into the tale he spun. Suddenly, he staggered, one foot slipping on the table. Erik darted forward, catching him by the arm just in time to keep him from toppling.
Berndhardt grinned down at him, his eyes shining with the excitement of the moment. In an unexpected show of affection, he pulled Erik into a crushing embrace, laughing heartily as he clapped Erik on the back. Erik couldn’t help but laugh too, a broad smile lighting up his face as he looked past Berndhardt at the crowd, which seemed frozen in time, caught up in a moment of pure camaraderie and joy. For the first time in a long while, Erik felt a deep warmth, a sense that he’d found real friendship, real kinship on this journey.
Releasing Erik, Berndhardt took a hearty gulp from his mug and tossed it to Erik, who caught it with ease, chugging the rest and grabbing another drink for Vesper. She raised her mug to him, a spark of mischief in her eyes, and they settled back into their seats, watching as Berndhardt’s enthusiasm soared to new heights.
With a determined gleam, Berndhardt switched his tune, the melody picking up into something more lively, more raucous; a song about grand voyages, terrifying beasts, and unstoppable friendships. His voice boomed, carrying through the rafters, and the patrons leaned in, captivated by the tales he wove.
There was a lad cast out, noble in name,
But they stripped him bare, called him nothing but shame.
Yet on his path, where shadow did dwell,
He found strength in fury and dark magic’s spell.
With allies of steel, and fire and might,
They fought through the storms, to banish the night.
Through demons and eldritch, they never did yield,
For friendship’s the armor, the sword, and the shield!
Berndhardt’s grin widened, and he started swaying again, holding his mug aloft as he spun tales of battles fought against towering beasts, storms on the open sea, and fortresses guarded by ancient magic. Each verse brought laughter, cheers, and the occasional gasp from the crowd.
The innkeeper herself leaned in, her eyes alight as Berndhardt gestured grandly, moving from tale to tale with a lively rhythm.
And there in the night, ‘neath the stars cold and bright,
We laughed in the face of our foes, every fight!
With axe raised and shield in hand,
We sailed through danger to distant lands!
For friendship’s the armor, the sword, and the shield!
With good will and courage, our fate is revealed!
As Berndhardt sang, the crowd joined in, the repetitive chorus easy to pick up, each line reinforcing a sense of unity that bound them together in the moment. Vesper clinked her mug against Erik’s, both of them grinning as Berndhardt’s energy spread like wildfire. The atmosphere became electric, the patrons now swept up in the song as they sang along, voices echoing through the inn.
Berndhardt continued, his deep voice weaving a tale of hope and victory to come, promising that no matter the trials they faced, there was strength in the bonds they’d built, in the friendships forged in the fire of battle.
So raise up your mugs, to the trials we’ve passed!
Through shadow and light, our bonds hold fast!
For as long as there’s laughter and courage to wield,
Friendship’s the armor, the sword, and the shield!
Berndhardt’s final note reverberated through the room, his glowing marks dimming as he finally stepped down from the table, flushed and beaming. He met Erik and Vesper’s gazes, his expression warm and proud as the crowd erupted into applause, cheers, and laughter, all of them brought together by his song.
Erik and Vesper exchanged a look, each of them marveling at the man who had just, with nothing but a song, pulled together a room full of strangers. For that night, in the midst of grand adventure and daunting threats, they found something precious; a moment of true companionship, woven together by song, courage, and the knowledge that whatever lay ahead, they would face it together.