The Gull’s Roost was nestled in the heart of Lamprey Port’s middle-class district. It was a sturdy structure of wood and stone with wide windows and a welcoming aura. The scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread wafted through the air, mixing with the saltiness of the nearby sea. Its main room was spacious, filled with well-crafted tables and chairs. A large fireplace dominated one wall, casting a warm glow that added a cozy ambiance.
Patrons sat at their tables, engaged in animated conversations, their faces reflecting relief and burgeoning hope. They were the town's tradespeople, merchants, and artisans, not impoverished but not overly affluent either. Their clothes were practical yet well-made, indicative of their status.
That they were here rather than cowering in their homes so soon after the town’s conquest spoke well of the kind of place the Hero was building. Indeed, Sigurd could see that many of them were fully relaxed, as if there hadn’t been a violent battle in these very streets just a few weeks ago.
In the corner, Sigurd stood on a small, raised platform. His silver hair shimmered under the light, and his androgynous appearance gave him an ethereal, almost otherworldly presence. As he strummed his lute, a hush fell over the room, and the patrons turned their attention to the bard.
image [https://i.postimg.cc/dQhg5nZG/persimmon0-bard-with-long-silver-hair-androgynous-medieval-fidd-529839b3-42f2-4579-a9ab-63377e1d7650.png]
“And I'll break my chains just to follow you,
And to feel freedom coursing through my veins.
When everything's torn, and the lies they have worn
Are just shadows that hide from the truth.
And I know there's a Hero among us,
Breaking through the dark with a guiding flame.
And though the world never sees what he does,
His heart beats for us all the same.”
The song had an upbeat tune, and Sigurd could see several people picking it up as he strummed, tapping their fingers on tables or stamping their feet. It wasn’t his usual repertoire, but he was being paid well to get the people going, and he’d do his job.
“And I’ll break my chains just to follow you,
To see the light that you shine through the pain.
The high lords wore crowns, but they let us all down,
Now your love lifts us up once again.
When the walls of the fortress were shattered,
And the maiden was freed from her chains,
We tasted our food, felt the joy in our mood,
For our lives were no longer in vain.”
His fingers were almost a blur as Sigurd worked his trusty lute hard to confer his words a building gravitas.
“And I don't want the world to deceive us,
For we’ve seen through their lies and their pain.
When the high lords fall, we’ll remember it all,
How your courage brought hope once again.
And I'll break my chains just to follow you,
To see the light that you shine through the pain.
The high lords wore crowns, but they let us all down,
Now your love lifts us up once again.
And I’ll break my chains just to follow you,
To see the dawn that you bring through the night.
For the Hero you are, is the light in the dark,
Guiding us, you free us from the blight.”
The applause he got was a bit overenthusiastic, but given that these were recently conquered people still trying to adapt to their new circumstances, Sigurd didn’t complain. He was vain enough that he even appreciated it.
Looking around at the crowd, he thought few were putting up a pretense. The Hero’s rhetoric of freedom for all was useful in that.
These people were still the ones with the most to lose, after the nobles, and they were waiting for the axe to fall on their heads after seeing what happened to the ruling class. In time, they’d relax. Once they understood it wasn’t just greed that brought Leonard Weiss to their quaint little town.
Still, for the moment, Sigurd did his part, ensuring that the good word was spread and that the populace could begin the integration process.
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Songs might have seemed like a minor thing in the grand scheme of a military campaign, and Sigurd certainly wouldn’t dare march to Minister Dortmund and tell him he needed to hire more bards for his troops, but he was glad someone in the new government understood how important the arts were. Especially when they were in the process of building up a new national identity.
It’s not even particularly subtle. The priests keep bleating about true freedom and how everyone will now be able to walk into the Light. It’s a good strategy to build support quickly, but it gets repetitive. Oh well, it’s working well enough.
To someone like Sigurd, who lived and breathed freedom every day, seeing the revolutionary government push such an ideal was a welcome novelty. It also made him wary, as it sounded too good to be true, but for the moment, he’d cooperate. He could always skip nation if the winds changed.
It’s unlikely to happen soon unless they start losing on the battlefield. Which is always a possibility, but given what I know of Hetnia’s nobles, it’s unlikely they’ll pull their heads out of their asses in time to mount a significant resistance before the momentum turns against them.
Making the rounds around the tavern, Sigurd received many gestures of appreciation. He clinked his mug full of pale ale with several men, tipped his feathered hat to all the ladies who paid him attention, and dropped a fair tip to the servers for their hard work. The people who worked at the Gull’s Roost were paid a decent wage, but getting the waitstaff on his side was always a good idea.
Given the early hour, he didn’t need to keep performing constantly, and the owner had been open to the idea of taking breaks in between shows. Thus, Sigurd slipped out into the cool air of the evening and observed the last vestiges of light disappear behind the horizon.
It didn’t take long for the person he had sensed earlier to join him.
“That was a lovely song. You must have worked hard to write it so quickly.” The man’s voice was silky and smooth, but Sigurd was experienced enough to recognize the steely undercurrent. Light save him from overeager children.
“Why thank you, vicar. I have to admit that I was given a head start, so to say.” There, that should be open enough.
The priest blinked in surprise before calculation overrun his features. Just as quickly, they smoothed out in a mask of perfect calm. Scary.
“Ah, so you must be Amelia’s. It’d be good to know beforehand, but I suppose her work is hard enough without coordinating with me on every little thing.” Having neatly slotted him in a category, the young vicar seemed perfectly happy with himself. “Seemed” being the working verb because Sigurd could still sense wariness and mistrust.
“I was invited here by the Minister, yes. She heard of my work in the capital and how I was just about chased away from there because of the songs I spread praising the Hero, rather than vilifying him.” All true, even. If he had stayed a day longer, Sigurd was sure he would have rudely been waken up by Duke Hetnia’s guards and made to disappear in a grimy cell, never to be seen again. Well, if he decided to allow it.
The vicar gave him another long look; this time, the sky had become dark enough that Sigurd could catch the spark of Holy Magic in his eyes. Ah, so this one is the guard dog the Hero chose to clean up after him, huh? Kids these days. Very scary. To already be an Expert at less than twenty-five is a significant accomplishment. He could have become someone in the main Temple.
It wasn’t a surprise that the Hero had built up a base of talented young eccentrics before beginning his rebellion. Sigurd had only seen the man from afar, but by all accounts, he was a valid military commander and a terror on the field. Someone like that would know very well the value of high-quality assets.
Having ascertained that there was no falsehood in his words, the priest seemed to finally accept he wasn’t there on some nefarious mission. Oh, Sigurd doubted he wouldn’t be followed for at least a month, but he had passed the initial inspection.
He had the good sense not to poke the owlbear and kept his mouth shut despite the itch he felt. Teasing the young priest would be fun, but it wouldn’t get him what he wanted, and Sigurd had enough self-control to hold back for a greater payoff.
“Very well. If you’ll follow me?” And with that, the still unnamed vicar stalked off. Sigurd hurried to follow, allowing himself a smile at the show. Had the man hoped to find a spy he could relieve his frustrations upon? Or maybe he simply didn’t like the idea of his rival in all things sneaky getting one over him.
That sounds more plausible. I don’t doubt the Hero can be ruthless when needed, but it’s still too soon to build up a surveillance state. Ah, what I wouldn’t give for the ability to peek at people’s minds. I really have to convince Eketerenthriduil to teach me the next time I wander that far north. The overgrown lizard certainly wouldn’t mind if I found something to pay him with.
Too curious for his own good, Sigurd followed two steps behind the man. Soon, they left the neighborhood, entering the more affluent upper-class district, which he had yet to map out fully.
It didn’t take long to realize where he was being taken. The Magic Tower stood out among the nearby buildings like an overgrown tree.
Sigurd could admit to being surprised that the thing was still standing. Usually, it was one of the first things to go during an attack of this scale, given that the local mages tended to use its height to rain death and destruction down on anyone who got too close.
As they reached its base, Sigurd’s guide was met with crisp salutes by the four men guarding the entrance. They didn’t bother to stop them for identification, adding another notch to the man’s importance in the new government.
They were met by much more activity inside the building than he would have expected, given that he had heard the story of a third of the local Experts being vaporized by the Hero upon entering the town.
At least two dozen mages bustled around the atrium, and now that they were inside and the active wards didn’t stop Sigurd’s senses, he could tell that many more were working tirelessly on the upper floors.
“I have to say, I appreciate the tour of the facilities, but I’m supposed to hold another round of my show in half an hour, and getting back will take fifteen. Is this going to take long?” He finally asked once they stopped before the - elevator, wasn’t it? Magical artifacts of this size were a rare sight outside noble households and Magic Towers, and while Sigurd frequented the former occasionally, he wasn’t left to roam nearly as much as he would have liked. No one trusted bards to resist temptation, after all.
His guide sighed but didn’t seem too annoyed with the question, “You’ll be able to return to your mission soon enough. I just needed a third-tier bard to check on something. You’ll be paid, of course.”
Brightening at the prospect of earning more money and being allowed to look at bardic magic - why else would they need him? - Sigurd followed the priest into the elevator.
The ride up was smoother than expected, and he caught the man's amused look as he stared at the runic circles in fascination.
“That’s our work. The locals could maintain the artifacts, but not much beyond that. We put it back into working condition.” Ah, so the revolutionaries had access to talented artificers, too? It seemed Sigurd would need to raise their chances at victory a notch.
A minute later, after navigating the surprisingly busy corridor, they arrived at what looked like a perfectly average study. The kind that professors would receive upon achieving their tenure and use mostly to entertain students and keep their less-sensitive research.
“Almost everything in this place was within the expected parameters. They had only one Master, who wasn’t even the one who made this. But somehow, the damn thing has managed to stump us all.” The priest said, gesturing at what looked like a perfectly average Cold Iron lockbox.
Oh, that’s a beauty.
There was no other way to describe it. The box was made of nonreactive material and was worth a lot on its own, yes, but it was also so much more. A thousand and one threads of bardic magic covered its exterior, and Sigurd couldn’t even begin to guess what was inside. The spells were made in such a way that they overlayed the Cold Iron but didn’t come into contact with it at any point. Trying to force it open would automatically cause them to cascade on top of each other in what Sigurd would bet was a pretty significant set of defenses. No wonder even the powerhouses he could sense around the town hadn’t been able to crack it open.
He felt a grin worm its way on his face and decided that if he got to see such things occasionally, he wouldn’t mind the over-the-top behavior the revolutionaries tended to engage in. I could stick around for a while.