Berrodin led the way through the house, nimbly stepping around baskets and bushels of different herbs. The living room itself was stocked from the floor to the ceiling, with a cot pushed up to the wall, and a basket of stained rags beside it.
"Please forgive the mess. I haven't had much time to clean up ever since the fishermen brought you here. You were in quite the state when you arrived."
"From what I can tell, you did a good job tending my wounds," Cyrus said. He pulled his cloak tighter, and raised the hood as Berrodin opened the door.
The cold rain stung his cheeks as they stepped outside, and the salty wind ruffled his hair. Berrodin snapped the door shut, before gesturing down the road.
"This way."
As they slipped around the forming puddles, Cyrus noticed an old hut beside the house. A crack of lightning revealed a cracked forge, and rusted anvil, covered in a layer of soot.
"Is that yours?" Cyrus asked.
Berrodin glanced at the hut. "It is, but I haven't used it in a long time. To tell you the truth, I hardly remember how it feels to hold a hammer anymore."
They turned down a side road, before coming to a stop before a spacious building. The windows glowed with a brilliant golden hue, and the clamor of people could be heard through the walls.
Cyrus followed Berrodin through the tavern's door, and was met by the mouth-watering aroma of beef and fresh loaves. Inside, the tables were packed as the villagers piled in, shouting over one another for food and drink. A few glanced in their direction, before turning back to their tables.
'I didn't expect it to be this busy,' Cyrus thought, pulling back his hood. He stepped to the side as a group of men came barging in behind them. A few muttered apologies as they swept past, before making their way to the crackling fireplace.
"Come on. Let's get away from the door before we're trampled," Berrodin said. He guided them to a sleek counter along the far back wall, careful not to bump into anyone.
A lean man waited for them, wiping up a puddle of spilled mead. He glanced up with a smile, and slipped the rag into his belt loop.
"Berrodin. It's good to see you again." The man glanced at Cyrus. "I take it you're the one they found lost at sea? The name's Morlen."
"Cyrus." He nodded to a few men sitting further down the bar.
Morlen scratched his chin. "Cyrus, huh? I haven't heard that name before. Sounds northernish… Hmm, did you come from Railvyn?"
"I'm afraid I don't know. My name is all I can remember," Cyrus said.
"A bit of memory loss, huh?" Morlen asked. He frowned. "That must be tough. I've always wondered what it'd be like to lose my memories. Was it strange to wake up in an unfamiliar place?"
"Enough of your questions, Morlen," Berrodin said, tapping the counter. "We're hungry, and don't have time for your badgering."
Berrodin glanced around the room, then gestured towards a booth in the corner, beneath a circle glass window. "We'll take two mugs of mead, and some food. We'll be sitting over there."
Morlen arched his brow, then nodded. "Very well. I'll have Gaila bring it out to you. Just let her know if you need anything else."
"Thank you," Berrodin said. He guided Cyrus away from the counter, and muttered beneath his breath. "I apologize for that. Morlen is a good man, but once you get him started there's no knowing when he'll stop."
"Do you think he was right? Could I be from the north?" Cyrus asked.
"It's possible. There are a total of thirteen human kingdoms, four of which are north to us," Berrodin said. He slid into the booth, and Cyrus settled on the opposite side. "You have Faldersel, Cilthrin, Delrein, and finally Railvyn. Do any of those places sound familiar?"
Cyrus thought about it, before shaking his head. "I'm afraid not."
Berrodin furrowed his brow. "Well, there's still time to remember. I wouldn't worry about it just yet."
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 your waking." She glanced at Cyrus with a small smile. "Will you need anything else?"
"Not at the moment," Cyrus said, picking up his fork. "I appreciate 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.'