"The old man is harmless, it's whatever he's got under that cloak of his that has me curious. You couldn't see it from over here, but he's got a worn leather satchel with him and he clutches it feverishly to his chest, as if it were made of solid gold and blessed by the gods themselves." Vyndran says with a snort as he takes the coin purse and looks into it, taking out a few coins and setting them on the table as payment for the bartender. There was more to it than just what he could see though. The elven blood that flows through his veins allows him a small part of their emotional apathy, the elves natural ability to pick up and read the emotional state of people around them. This only happened when he was playing music. "His soul didn't sound right. Whatever that thing he carries is, it is very important, to him at least. He's probably risked his life for it..."
Lifting his goblet of mead he lets out a sigh before draining it in one long swallow, and as he does so he eyes the crowd again. The tavern was beginning to fill up, either from the dark or the cold outside he suspected, and the night was just getting started. Now that there was a decent crowd he would be able to make another performance, this one paid.
Once every year around this time Vyndran comes to Marhorn Glen and plays at this tavern. The first few times were for free, then he started to get paid if the crowd was large enough. Because he was somewhat famous the patrons would turn out in drove if it was known he would be in town, so the tavern owner had decided to share his wealth. He had been playing for an hour before this break, and as he played he had watched people enter the tavern, and a very few leave. Such as now, when a group of dwarves entered The Lucky Horseshoe.
"Dwarves never have been good at being able to see anything past their beards." Vyndran remarks with a smirk, quickly ordering another goblet of mead before the dwarves had the chance to drink it all. He had never seen this bunch before, but they seemed familiar to the villagers and so he had no reason to question why exactly a group of dwarves would venture so far out from under their rocky home. "No wonder they are always digging, it's much easier for them to look down than the rest of us which is why they are so good at their trade." The half-elf was joking around. He had no problem with any of the races that inhabited Elemnaira, only a few individuals. "I think I'll play a few more songs and then we can get something to eat and call it a night. In the morning we'll make our way to Giant's Pass, to that little village I was telling you about earlier." He says, talking to Fran once more while the rest of his words had been to the air itself, or anyone who could be bothered to listen.
The bard got his second goblet just before what looked like a wolf on his hind legs threw a table across the room. He was about to comment on this when what appeared to be a small...girl? He wasn't able to tell if it was a boy or a girl, but it didn't matter much. The child was sweet, giving him a few berries and one large one to Fran. Vyndran smiles at this and looks at the berries. Most of them were common, but one, the pink one with spikes he knew came from farther south and were rather odd as to the side effects. They tasted amazing, but they would also turn the whites of your eyes a bright pink for three days if you ate a handful of them. Before he could thank the child the wolf man, a Veer he thought they were called, made a song request.
"Thank you little one, these are most appreciated." Vyndran says, standing and grabbing his mandolin before making his way to the stage, leaving the berries for Fran to look after. Once at the hearth again he positions the mandolin and closes his eyes, moving his mouth so that it looked as if he were whispering to the instrument, and in a way he was. The magic of the bard, no matter the race, had to do with sound, and what he did now was cast a spell on the instrument so that it would sound not only like a mandolin but several other instruments as well. "As it so happens, my furry friend, I do indeed know one of your Veeran songs. Perhaps it is not the one you would like me to play, but let your ears decide if it does your people justice."
Strumming his mandolin, Vyndran begins to play
The Wolf and the Winds. This is a tale rewritten again and again, with nearly every race having their own version, which tells of how they came to the shores of Elemnaira. This particular one was about the Veer, though it lacked more of the details that some other versions had. (found the song on youtube)
Vyndran was not half way through the song when there was a scream heard from somewhere outside the tavern. He stops playing and ends the spell, looking from the crowd to the door, then over to Fran. Slipping the mandolin onto his back he gives her a nod and takes off for the door, hoping from table to table with just enough elven grace that only two mug of ale were knocked over. As soon as he opens the door the smell of burning wood and flesh and the screams of the innocent begin to fill the room. The patrons go silent, a few of the braver ones standing up as if to fight, though no one makes a move.
"We've got demons..." Vyndran says in a hiss, however his magic causes everyone in the room to hear him as if he were standing beside them. "Fran, it looks like we'll be leaving Marhorn Glen early, but not without a little exercise first."
Demons were pouring out of the mountains to the north and surging towards the village like a flood of hell fire. They were terrible things, varying in size and shape. Some were tall and thin, with long black talons and wings, while others were tiny, the size of a gnome, with claws and tails like lizards. But standing in the center of the chaos, watching over it, was one who looked more human. He was tall, wearing blood red armor, with skin black as coal and glowing yellow eyes. His horns were like those of a goat, and on his back he carried a huge sword. It would only be a few moments now before the mass of demons were upon the tavern...
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"Sir, we have reports that a horde of demons have been spotting moving through the mountains to the south." A man wearing chainmail armor and a steel breastplate with the royal symbol of a shield with a griffon on it on his chest says to his superior officer. "Scouts have been sent out, this doesn't look good. Should we do anything?"
"Do we have any idea where they might be headed?" Asks the superior officer, a man by the name of Samuel Ashworth, grandson of the famous general. "And how many scouts have you sent out?"
"They seem to be heading for Marhorn Glen, sir, and five scouts have been dispatched. We should hear back from them within the hour...but, sir, if I may point out..." The soldier hesitates for a moment, looking away, then back to Samuel, looking him in the eyes, "Sir, they may not last that long down there Perhaps if you were to go there in person you could save lives..."