As more people filled the tavern, a young woman approached, carrying a platter of steaming bowls, and a basket of rolls and butter. Her long brown hair cascaded over her shoulder as she set the food down, along with two foaming mugs.
"Your first round of drinks is on us tonight, to celebrate you waking up." She glanced at Cyrus with a small smile. "Will you need anything else?"
"Not at the moment," Cyrus said, picking up his fork. "Thank you for the meal."
"Of course," The woman bowed her head, and then hurried back to the counter.
"Would you look at that," Berrodin said, stirring his mead. He took a sip, then grinned. "It seems they popped open a new keg for us. You're quite fortunate."
"I'm more excited about the food. I've been starving all day," Cyrus said. He blew on the brisket, then took a bite. The salted beef and fresh broth warmed his body, chasing away the chill from outside. An array of peas and corn deepened the flavor, and filled his stomach. As he ate, a lute played from across the room, filling the air with a soft melody.
"Looks like Osyras favors us tonight," Berrodin said, lifting his head. There was a spark to his gaze as he gazed across the tavern. "It's not often that Halbert plays for the tavern."
Cyrus peered through the crowd. An old man stood beside the fireplace, the flickering flames outlining his wrinkles. Despite his age, the old man's knotted fingers danced softly between the strings of a rosewood lute, while a low song slipped from his scarred lips. The lyrics spoke of a long begotten time, when the first group of settlers discovered the bountiful lands beneath the mountains, after crossing the burning sands of the Ereth desert.
Cyrus struggled to hear over the clatter of forks and knives, and the low mutter of those around him. He scowled and glanced around, yet no one was talking. Frowning, he turned to the window, and scanned the streets outside. A sharp gust blew through the village, shaking the trees and rattling the shutters, but the village itself was empty.
'Tap, tap… tap.'
Cyrus shifted his gaze to the corner of the window, where a small brittle vine knocked against the glass. Its bristles dug into the sill, splintering the wood as the whispers drowned out the tavern clamor.
Cyrus winced, and covered his ears. The mumbling grew to a roar, crashing into his skull like a waterfall. Calling for him, shouting at him to do something, anything.
Then… it stopped, returning the tavern to its previous ambiance. Cyrus looked up. Halbert was finishing his story, ending on a grand note about the founding of Withro. Around the room, the villagers clapped and cheered, a few even tossing coppers onto the bard's table. Berrodin joined them, waving his mug in the air.
"Quite the storyteller, wouldn't you agree?" Berrodin asked, grabbing a roll. When Cyrus didn't respond, he glanced over and furrowed his brow. "Say, are you alright? You look a bit pale."
"I- I'm fine," Cyrus said. He shook his head, and glanced back outside. The vine was gone, leaving only a crack in the wood behind. Beyond, the village continued peacefully into the night, muffled by the patter of rain. "It's nothing."
"If you say so," Berrodin said. His cheeks grew rosy as he down the last of his mead, then gestured for the barmaid for another mug. "More mead over here, Gaila. If you don't mind."
…
As night fully set in, Cyrus and Berrodin retired to the old man's house, where they bid each other good night, before heading to their separate rooms. After shutting his door, Cyrus hung his soaked cloak next to the door, then pried off his boots and climbed onto the straw cot.
The wool blanket scratched his legs as he pulled it up, but he ignored the urge to itch them. Through the window, he watched as the surrounding homes went dark with each snuffed candle. Overhead, the clouds flickered as a crack of lightning tore across the sky. A moment later, a low rumble swept through the village, sending the last of the tavern stragglers scurrying through the streets.
Beyond the village limits, the fields of yellow reeds swayed in the wind, while the cattle all huddled beneath a thick elm tree in the distance. Their tails flicked back and forth, while their ears were pressed back.
'They look afraid,' Cyrus thought, leaning forward.
A flicker of light pulled his gaze to the forest line, nearly a league away. A moment later, three men stumbled through the thick brush, fighting against the heavy gusts of wind. The one in the lead carried a broken spear and a lantern, while the two behind him dragged a strange beast through the grass.
Cyrus squinted, but his view was blurred by the rain streaming down the glass. Still, he managed to make out a bit of coarse hair, and two jagged tusks before the men stumbled into the stables and slammed the doors shut behind them. He frowned, and shifted his gaze to the mountains, whose high peaks disappeared into the clouds above.
'I wonder what that could be.'
The following morning, Cyrus woke to three raps on his door. Goosebumps ran up his legs as he walked across the cold floor to open it, only to find Berrodin on the other side, already dressed in his grey cloak. Cyrus glanced outside, and winced as a torrent of rain beat against the window.
"Still planning on leaving today?" Cyrus asked, raising his brows.
"Better now, than later. We don't know when the storm might pass, and I'd like to head out before the roads become any worse," Berrodin said. He handed Cyrus a pack of jerky, and an apple. "Here. It's what I have for breakfast."
"Better than nothing, right?" Cyrus said. The apple crunched between his teeth as he followed Berrodin to the door.
The old man tightened his cloak before stepping out onto the front stoop. Raising his hood, he scowled at the canopy of dark clouds. "Hopefully the weather will clear by the end of the day. By the Halls of Osyras, we'll be miserable if it doesn't."