Chapter Text
The stories of Mondstadt were common across all of Teyvat. In fact, the Bard had memorized the most stories—thus, songs—about the kingdom, more than any other in his repertoire. Such songs were always light and airy, happy and fun—the land of Mondstadt was one of freedom, and the tales told in rhyme and melody would not betray that epithet so easily. In fact, many of these were his favorite to tell, to sing, and to wax poetic about. Even when he wasn’t performing, there was a fair chance he was humming the melody to one. New lyrics about the kingdom were easy to come up with—many just needed simple rhymes and a recycled progression he had used for a dozen other songs with just one or two notes changed paired with common themes that evoked the imagery of Mondstadt: Dandelions, windmills, and wine.
Despite the fondness for the music of Mondstadt, the Nameless Bard had never set foot in the capital town since he was a lad; in fact, he much didn’t go back to the kingdom at all, preferring to skirt around the borders, staying in the nearby Liyue the most. If asked about this, he wouldn’t be able to give you an answer—and that’d be the full truth. He didn’t know why he avoided Mondstadt. Certainly, he had a love for it somewhere deep in his heart, but...
Well, simply put, he felt like something terrible would happen were he to stay in Mondstadt longer than “just passing through”. But he wouldn’t be able to tell you what that “something terrible” even entailed. Perhaps it was intuition, or maybe just plain old superstition, that made the idea of entering Mondstadt impossible to him.
Whatever the reason would end up being, the Nameless Bard stayed away.
... Until today, that is.
The bridge was well-kept. A boy sat on the railing, tossing seeds to the pigeons that seemed to all have names, as he called for them individually. He paid the Bard no mind, other than a quick glance out of the corner of his eyes. The Bard’s gaze hopped from one pigeon to the next, and he almost got distracted when he felt the intense urge to scare them all away. He was better than that, though, so he refrained—but just barely.
Turning his green eyes forward again, they traveled up the stone masonry of the rather formidable, stone wall that surrounded the capital town. This was in even better condition than the bridge itself. This thick wall, which had to have been at least several centuries old, looked as if each stone piece was lovingly polished by hand once a week. Light green flags bearing the royal crest hung from the sides, flapping gently in the kiss-upon-cheek breeze. The famous windmill imagery made the Bard’s stomach churn, which, again, he had no explanation for. He pressed on despite this.
The gates, large and imposing, attached to the wall were open, welcoming—no, beckoning the Bard to pass the threshold and enter the oversized fortress that was the capital of Mondstadt. A single knight, acting as guard, was posted outside, though she only nodded and smiled pleasantly to the Bard as he curiously, quizzically, hesitantly, passed through the gates and into the town.
He heaved a sigh of relief exactly seven and a quarter steps in. This wasn’t so bad. What was he so scared for, anyway?!
Half expecting something to prove him wrong that very moment, his gaze turned skywards again in order to take as much of his surroundings in as possible before that happened, landing on one of the windmills that lazily turned around and around. He counted about three of them altogether, though the one in the very back, closer to what seemed to be the spires of a cathedral, could only be seen if he was on his tiptoes. The Bard tilted his head to watch the windmill closest to him turn its blades, almost hypnotically.
After a while, he took to squeezing his eyes closed tight before he could get too entranced; he shook his head, reopened his eyes, and glanced at the surroundings closer to the ground.
He had seen these buildings in his dreams before. Though his travel destinations oft showed up when he slept, it was Mondstadt that showed up the most often, despite having not set foot beyond these walls since he was one years old—a full twenty-two years ago. Perhaps because many of these dreams turned to terror was why he was scared to come back to this kingdom at all, let alone the capital. When they didn’t turn into nightmares, a dragon, shimmering with blue-green scales, consistently made his presence known to him in his dreams—he never spoke to the Bard, and more often than not, the Bard simply rode him as he flew around above Mondstadt. Even just recalling such a vision made the wind fluttering in his hair give him a sense of deja-vu—while, at the same time, provoke a strange sense of nostalgia for something he had never had within him.
Though dragons from all over the world were the subjects of songs way older than the Bard, not a single legend, song or otherwise, contained the dragon that permeated his dreams. Dragons had, as a species, died out five hundred years ago, anyway; the Bard would not be meeting a real one anytime soon, and he doubted he ever did in a past life.
Taking a deep breath, the Bard relaxed his shoulders. He adjusted the bag on one of them, and with a smile on his face, he set off to find a place to stay for the night—or however many nights he found himself in the town of Wind. Unfortunately for him, though, he took no more than three steps up the stairs in order to enter the town proper before hearing a most troubling rumbling coming from his stomach. Time all around him seemed to stop for a minute or two, then he continued up the stairs as if nothing had occurred at all. He really was hoping he could put off a drink and a meal until later; after all, there were only a few mora jingling around in the coin purse tucked safely away in his bag, and his lyre needed tuned after all that travel before he could begin a performance (which, admittedly, didn’t take all that long; he was simply being dramatic, as usual).
In the end, he decided to get a drink and a light snack, and then with a clear head, he could begin his work in earnest. As the Bard’s heels clacked lightly on the cobblestone roads, searching for a place on the cheaper end (but not too cheap) that also served the famous Mondstadt wine, his eyes darted to and fro. If someone later on were to ask him his personal opinion on Mondstadt, or whether or not the real Mondstadt differed from the tales that he spun, or something else to that effect, the Bard would only be able to answer that Mondstadt, the capital town, would be best described as domestic and adequate. People laughed in the streets as they passed him by and he passed them, paying him no mind. Shopkeeps chatted for what seemed to be forever with regular customers, as if old friends rather than client and supplier. Children played around the fountain, making up games and stories that made perfect sense to them, even if they were nonsense to everyone else around them.
The Capital of Mondstadt was, by far, not particularly stunning. The Bard had definitely seen and heard better. But on what scale? What frame of reference was he comparing the town, and the kingdom as a whole, with? The people of Mondstadt, even outside of the walls, were happy—the people of Mondstadt were free to be as happy as they wanted, to do what they wanted, to laugh and to play and to even get angry or be sad. This freedom pleased the Bard greatly, a little bit of the enchanting atmosphere all around him welling up in his own chest. He, himself, even began to laugh and be merry, for no specific reason other than the fact everyone else was, so he wanted to be as well. Were his lyre already tuned, he’s certain he would’ve performed as he walked and skipped, as if he were the piper that spirited away children, only using strings instead.
He had been walking for some time now, having gone up stair after stair (that was his one complaint for this town, to be quite honest), eventually arriving at the space just before the cathedral he had spotted right after entering through the gates. The cathedral was quite large, and the Bard wondered just how large a building of worship was allowed to be before it became excessive. He supposed it made sense, however: According to the songs and poems he played most often, Mondstadt’s capital town was founded by the god that the people would come to praise as Barbatos. And, of course, it made even more sense that across from the cathedral was a statue most immodest, presumably fashioned after the aforementioned deity, surrounded by another plaza where many people simply spent their time daydreaming or catching up with old friends.
The Bard stared at the back of the statue for quite some time, the arms of Barbatos outstretched as if in offering to the skies themselves just barely in his vision. The jovial atmosphere he had been feeling before began to dissipate for a reason unknown to him, and the knots in his stomach had returned in almost full force. The Bard felt as if someone was watching him, and he was almost certain it had to have been Barbatos Himself, which was quite a silly notion that the Bard didn’t want to entertain for very long. Still, he dared not approach the statue in any manner, continuing to view it from the back like a deer spooked and frozen. Something much like a bird, though perhaps not really (it was quite far away, and his head was pounding, and so he couldn’t quite get a good look at all), perched atop the statue’s shoulder, and the Bard realized that this is what was staring at him so intensely, even from so far away.
Perhaps it was just a trick of the light, though, for when he blinked, the bird-like creature was gone—more importantly, all at once, the feeling of surveillance was instantly gone. In fact, it was as if he had never felt it in the first place, despite the sweat that rolled down his back and the way his hand trembled when he brought it up to shield his eyes from the sun beginning to set solidifying the experience as a whole. No one had seemed to notice this small misfortune of his, and he wasn’t entirely sure how long it had actually lasted. He sighed, legs feeling like jam after that immense pressure had been lifted from his shoulders, and turned away from the statue, towards the cathedral once more.
The spires he had originally thought to belong to the cathedral were actually part of the building behind it, though “building” was a bit of an understatement. The Bard had been wondering where the royal family must stay, though in hindsight, right behind the cathedral was the obvious choice. He tiptoed towards the cathedral, not wanting to go up any more stairs, but just trying to get a better view of the castle. Like the town itself, the castle was surrounded by a wall, though it wasn’t as tall as the outer wall. The gates, however, seemed to be closed, and knights of some sort seemed to be patrolling the perimeter lackadaisically but seriously all the same. Though the placement of the castle made sense, the Bard couldn’t help but wonder why they had hidden it as much as they did, though he wasn’t too knowledgeable about the ins and outs of nobility for quite obvious reasons. He did, however, know that rich people often made choices on a whim, and most of them were terrible choices in the end.
Hopping down the few stairs he had to climb, he put both the cathedral and the statue to his back. That plaza was the highest point in the town he could get to that wasn’t restricted, so at the very least, he could only descend stairs now, which was quite a relief as his stomach began to growl and ache and whine more fervently.
He eventually came across a tavern tucked away on the penultimate lowest level of the town. A few tables were out front, and a couple of men were seated at one, cups in their hands and the scent of alcohol on their breath. At last, the Bard had found what he was looking for, and after glancing quickly at the title of the establishment—Angel’s Share—he opened the door and ducked inside.
The first thing he noticed, before his eyes adjusted to the dim, warm light of oil lanterns, was that there was already a bard present, for the man’s string work was not all that good, yet his mediocre tune filled the air nonetheless. The Nameless Bard clicked his tongue, turning up his nose and adjusting the pack on his shoulder in such a way to make the lyre on his back a little bit more noticeable. The second thing he noticed was that everyone was having fun, just as the people outside but perhaps even more so—but the third thing was, unfortunately, the lack of seating.
Every table, it looked like, was filled up with at least two patrons, and the bar itself was lined from end to end. As the Bard contemplated simply getting something to go, with a pout on his lips, a woman in holy clothing seated against the wall at the bar stood, bidding farewell to her companion (who begged her in a teasing manner to have just one more, “on the house”, which she ignored) and moving to leave. The Bard shuffled off to the side to let her pass, and as she paused for a split second after she had done so but before she left, the Bard wondered why a nun would be at a bar—drinking at that. Still, she kept moving on a few moments later, the door creaking behind him, and he realized he should absolutely be not wasting any time just standing there when the one, singular seat was now ripe for the taking.
The Bard took his hat off as he approached the stool, replacing his coin purse by stuffing it in his pack, which he set down on the floor before the seat he then took. He kept the lyre on his back for safekeeping—after all, he wouldn’t know what to do without such a priceless memento. He glanced down the bar, which wasn’t terribly long, but what it lacked in length, it more than made up for with busyness. As such, the lone barkeep, a man with a brown goatee, chatted with the customers on the other end, not even looking down at the drinks he was mixing confidently. The Bard knew he’d be in for a delightful drink based on this observation alone.
As he waited for the bartender to free up, he felt eyes on him once more—unlike that strange feeling earlier, the gaze lacked a pressure that caused him to sweat and his heart beat fast. On the contrary, as the Bard lowered his own gaze to the man beside him, the one who had been asking the nun to stay, the Bard thought that perhaps just eye was a more fitting description. The man’s smile beamed at him from beneath an eye so blue it could only be described as “abyssal”, an eye patch that matched the rest of the man’s color scheme covering the other. He swirled the cup in one hand, elbow against the bar counter, lazily, as he took the Bard in. That abyssal, lone eye seemed to dig into the Bard’s very soul, and for a moment, he wondered if the man was actually the person watching him earlier.
The Bard was about to open his mouth and ask him if something was the matter, but the man turned away, leaning halfway over the counter and waving a hand towards the bartender. “Charles!” he called above all the other din in the tavern. “We’ve a traveler, so why don’t you come and give him Mondstadt’s finest? Put it on my tab.”
The barkeep turned at once, even before he had heard what had to have been his name, and looked at the man who had called out for him with something that was a mix between fondness and annoyance. Charles glanced at the Bard, which is when the look on his face softened, especially when the Bard gave a rather large wave and even larger smile. The barkeep sighed, made a motion that implied he’d be down there next, and then made another motion that was like a shooing one. At that, the eye patched man slid back down onto his stool, taking a sip from his glass, eye still on Charles.
With his eyebrows furrowed slightly, the Bard tilted his head, still wearing a smile, albeit smaller than before but still quite genuine. He leaned forward a bit in order to try and catch the attention of the man to his left, which proved quite troublesome considering the eye that was covered with the eye patch was the man’s right. Eventually, he had to press his cheek to the wooden counter slightly in front of the man, who finally caught his gaze and then laughed. The Bard puffed out his cheeks indignantly, leaning back up with a light flush on his features.
“Are you mute?” the man asked, though it was still mostly laughter.
“I would hope not, or else I’d be out of a job!” The Bard crossed his arms over his chest. “But never mind that! Why on Teyvat did you buy me a drink?” Even though he questioned the man’s motives, the Bard hoped he would not rescind his offer, as it would allow him to solve that pesky dilemma from earlier extremely easily. Money solves all problems, truly.
The man’s laughter subsided, though it was clear he still found this whole encounter amusing by the tone of his voice. “What’s wrong with doing a good deed for a stranger? Kindness makes the world go ‘round!”
Charles, still finishing up some drinks further down, snorted.
“After all,” continued the man, “you’re a stranger to Mondstadt, and I’d sooner offer you the best we have so you don’t immediately turn tail and leave our most gracious town.”
“All wine is good wine,” the Bard replied, his brief annoyance already fully dissolved, his smile wider than before, “though, of course, some wine is better than the rest. How did you know I’m not from here, though?”
The man took another sip of his drink, longer than his previous ones, setting the now empty glass next to three other empty ones in front of him. He looked at the Bard again with that piercing eye, only for a moment, then clapped the Bard on the back lightly. “I’m friends with all of Mondstadt. In fact, I’m on a first name basis with everyone, from children to elders! Speaking of, I’m Kaeya. And you?”
The Bard chuckled. “I have no name. Feel free to refer to me with any sort of reference to bards or songwriters! After all, that’s what I am.”
Kaeya squeezed the Bard’s shoulder gently, then let his hand slide off his back, bringing it to his chin in thought as he leaned against the counter once more. “No name? Is that so? A choice of your own, or—”
“Master Kaeya, I’d be delighted if you didn’t add so much to the noise of this place.” Both of them turned to look at Charles, clearing the empty glasses in front of them, who, despite his friendly smile, glared daggers at the Bard’s new friend. “And also if you didn’t bother other patrons you’ve just met!” Charles pulled out two clean glasses, setting one in front of each of them, and added ice.
“Come now, Charles, my old friend,” said Kaeya, almost pleadingly, “I’m only making small talk. Regardless, I’ll try to keep my voice down. What’s gotten you so irritated? Surely it can’t be business—you’ve handled worse on your own before.”
The Bard stayed out of the conversation. He knew neither Kaeya nor Charles beyond their names, so it’s not like he could offer up even a little bit of his own two mora without it coming across as condescending. Though he listened to them speak, he focused on watching Charles make the drink—he recognized the sparkling white wine that went into the glass over the ice, but not the other one, so it really must be Mondstadt’s finest considering the fact there wasn’t a wine he didn’t know. Charles stirred both glasses with a metal stick before offering them up, writing down on a notepad to keep track of Kaeya’s tab (from what the Bard could see, he was almost running out of room).
“I received a letter from Adelinde this morning,” Charles said, beginning to rinse and wash the glasses from all the customers in the sink in front of the Bard. Kaeya took a sip of his new glass, glancing at the Bard to see what he liked of the drink, though the Bard simply marveled the drink’s composition for now, not wanting to interrupt the conversation with what he was certain would be awe. He couldn’t help that he was a little nosy.
“What did it say? Oh dear, have you been fired?”
Charles paused, shaking his head. “... I hope not. But I can’t even tell you no with certainty.” He went back to washing the glasses and other dishes. Kaeya brought his cup to his lips, though he didn’t drink yet, waiting on Charles to continue. “The master of the estate is to return to the town. Tomorrow morning, at that.”
Next to him, the Bard felt Kaeya freeze—every single muscle in his body, every single bone and layer of skin, was instantly coated in ice, unable to move. In fact, the Bard might have even said the actual temperature dropped a few degrees! A few long moments passed before Kaeya lowered the glass to the counter without drinking. He no longer smiled.
“Diluc is returning?”
Charles hesitated before nodding. “Correct. It’s been four years since... Well, you know.” Kaeya had to have known, but the Bard didn’t, and he was aching for an answer. Something told him he shouldn’t ask, however. “All matters pertaining to Angel’s Share are usually handled through Adelinde. Master Diluc hasn’t left his estate, according to her, in all these years, and all of a sudden, right after that nasty quarrel in here the other day, he’s coming out personally?”
Kaeya stayed quiet. The Bard finally took a drink of his wine, his throat instantly feeling hot as it traveled down to his stomach, though Kaeya was no longer eagerly awaiting his opinion. Kaeya stared at his own glass, and then he raised it to his mouth, throwing its entire contents back in an instant. He shivered, grimacing for but a moment before his smile returned; the Bard, being an expert himself in the perpetual smile, knew that he didn’t mean it this time.
“No need to fret, Charles! If your job is in danger, I’ll personally beg him to reconsider.” A beat, then a chuckle. “Though that may, in fact, make it worse... I’m only teasing! Don’t give me that look!” Charles slid a glass of water towards Kaeya, who shook his head. “The letter didn’t say the reason for his sudden return?”
The Bard took another drink. In his mind’s eye, he was slowly creating a relationship chart for the people involved so far. He surmised that Diluc must be Charles’s boss, but a hands-off one, considering he hadn’t stepped foot in the town, let alone the Angel’s Share, for four years; Charles and Kaeya were on amicable terms, and Charles’s annoyance with him today was unusual; finally, something had happened between Kaeya and Diluc in order to make Kaeya, who seemed carefree for the most part, tense up like that. He took yet another sip, confident in his reading of the situation, as if he were watching a play unfold before him.
Charles glanced sidelong at the Bard, then at Kaeya. “No. Adelinde only said he had left in the middle of the night and is en route.”
“Haha, quite like him to not tell anyone anything... But let’s talk later, alright, Charles?” Kaeya turned fully to the Bard. “I want to make friends with the bard who has no name!”
Grateful that he was no longer being asked questions, Charles ducked his head, setting up some glasses to dry. He moved to answer some other customers further down the bar, leaving Kaeya and the Bard alone once more.
“You’re not far off.” The Bard raised his glass to his lips, taking a long drink, but not enough to finish it yet. “Most people do end up calling me ‘Nameless Bard’.”
Kaeya downed the glass of water Charles had given him in pity. He set it down as quietly as he could, looking over his shoulder discreetly. “Is that so? Permit my curiosity, good bard, but why is it you don’t have a name?” Continuing to look over his shoulder, waiting for Charles to turn fully away, Kaeya reached over the counter, felt his way around a few bottles beneath on the other side, then sat down most abruptly with his spoils: A single, unopened bottle marked dandelion wine. He uncorked it, pouring it into his empty water glass (at this moment, the Bard realized that this was the other half of the drink he had been made), topping off the Bard’s now mostly empty glass, and then setting the bottle on the floor beneath his stool.
The Bard amended his relationship chart: Kaeya thought it better to ask for forgiveness than permission with Charles.
“I simply don’t have one,” the Bard explained with a grateful wink. Now he could get started drinking—entirely forgetting about his hunger. “My parents didn’t, either. In fact, everyone in my performing troupe didn’t.”
“Oh!” Kaeya was already mostly done with his glass. “It was a gimmick then?”
The Bard nodded, also already mostly done. “Something like that! It made us appear as the wind, not announcing when and where we’d be. It wasn’t good for business, but we mostly just had fun.”
“What brings you to Mondstadt, then—is the rest of your troupe here as well?” asked Kaeya, refilling their fully empty glasses.
The Bard paused, then shook his head, absently reaching behind him to touch the lyre’s frame on his back. “No. I was the youngest of the troupe, so I’m the only one left.” He smiled happily again. “But the songs of Mondstadt are my favorite to play, and to sing, and to write! I’ve come for new inspiration—and the wine. Is this it, then, what we’re drinking?” The last sentence was said quieter, as if Charles would catch on if he were too loud.
Kaeya laughed, filling their glasses once more. “Yes, yes. Everyone comes to Mondstadt for the wine—this is dandelion wine, the specialty of Dawn Winery, the jewel of Mondstadt. Is it everything you expected—or is it everything and more?”
With a nod and a drink, the Bard grinned. “It is! Hehe, I should’ve come to Mondstadt a lot sooner—no wonder so many songs and ballads are written about the wine alone.”
“How many? Do you know any of them by heart?”
“Of course! Who do you take me for?” The Bard set his glass on the counter with a clink, pulling the lyre from his back and crossing one leg over his knee. He looked the instrument over, tuned a few strings as if he intuitively knew what to do (which he did, in part; it depended on how taut the strings were, and this thing was always in his hands, so he was quite familiar), and began to play, irregardless of the other bard on the upper floor, who still only played a mediocre melody.
Kaeya continued to fill their glasses as soon as they were nearing empty in the slightest. The bottle itself was large, and their cups were on the smaller side, so they essentially nursed it. When this bottle was empty, though, even though they were sufficiently inebriated already, Kaeya requested another one. Charles refused, especially when the Bard let slip that they had already had one so they ought to have another. Even though they weren’t drinking any more at some point in the night, the sun having long left the windows, they continued to joke and carouse about as if they were, with the Bard playing songs written by others as well as making some up on the spot. Kaeya listened in earnest, suggesting lyrics when words failed to come to the Bard. Other lingering customers came to listen, too, joining in on the merrymaking, and the Bard’s coinpurse began to grow fat.
Eventually, however, the night wound down to a peaceful close. Many of the others had left, including the sorry excuse of a bard early in the night, and the Nameless Bard could barely keep his eyes open. Charles had just finished taking stock of the remaining items and washing the dishes when he announced it was closing time to the stragglers. Kaeya groaned, head on the counter. The Bard slipped off his stool and repacked his things, intending to count his profits later from the comfort of his inn room.
“Kaeya, thank you for showing me how fun Mondstadt is,” the Bard said, patting Kaeya on the shoulder. “I’ll be here tomorrow night, too, hehe, so be sure to drop by and get me more drinks!”
Kaeya looked at him from underneath his arm, folded across the counter, a grin on his face from what the Bard could see. “I think I have some work to do, but I’ll try and make time in the evening.”
“Even with Master Diluc here?” Charles asked without thinking, shoving at Kaeya so that he could clean the counter. “Have you two even spoken since—”
Kaeya shot up at once, jumping off of his stool and shrugging his furred jacket back on. The Bard eyed the winged shield symbol on the back, having not noticed it before, though he paid it no mind at the moment. “Diluc! That’s right. Oh, no, no, that’s right. No, in fact, tell him I’ve died in the line of duty, Charles. Try and make it sound very heroic. Make me sound handsome and capable.”
“I’ll be sure to tell Master Diluc that a goose got the best of you, then.”
The Bard snickered, hiding his sly smile behind his hand.
“Will you help me clean up, Master Kaeya? I know it might be a lot to ask of you at this hour, but...” Charles looked at the Bard, who put his hat back on after fluffing it back up. The Bard saluted.
“No need to make an excuse—I’ll be taking my leave now anyway.” The Bard bowed dramatically. “Thank you for the fun evening, gentleman. I’ll be back tomorrow!”
Without waiting, even as Kaeya called after him to ask if he knew where the nearest inn even was, the Bard slipped out of the Angel’s Share. The alcohol in him was still at a pleasant level, his cheeks flushed and full, and he felt as light and airy as a cloud. Perhaps a rain cloud would have been more apt, though, as his legs felt heavy, especially when he was faced with his mortal enemy: Stairs. Triumphant, the Bard would sooner or later find himself back at the highest point he could reach in the town, as if drawn there by some unseen force.
This time, he stood not in front of the cathedral but in front of the statue of Barbatos. Squinting up at the face of the god, the Bard frowned. He felt no pressure or paranoia, much less any to the extent he had felt earlier in the day. With the full moon behind Barbatos’s head, it illuminated His form, suggesting a facsimile of a halo.
It was silent.
The Bard’s stomach stirred once he realized this, twisting into knots. He was certain that until this point, there had been soft ambient sounds all around him. Now, though, he couldn’t even hear the fountain below, or the quiet splash of the water surrounding the statue itself, or the creaks of the windmills’ blades turning dutifully. His body and heart did not wait for his brain to process every available sense—thrown immediately into a panic, the Bard contemplated running. He had no idea where, though, as he still hadn’t found an inn, despite being so confident in his sense of direction earlier.
The silence pressed on, and the Bard’s feet remained cemented to the ground. He looked from side to side, pleading silently for someone, anyone, to show up, to free him from this mental prison, and to send him on his way. No one came, though.
It began subtly. A gust of wind, soundless, ruffled his hair, the length of which was down past his shoulders. The moon hung behind Barbatos’s form still, yet it seemed to wax and wane depending on how the Bard looked at it. His gaze traveled from the face and the makeshift halo, down the god’s shoulders and to His hands, palms up, and he swore, for a split second or less, that he saw someone sitting upon His fingertips, their legs dangling casually, though upon second glance, there was no one there. His eyes continued downward, slowly, until he was level with the ground once more, and that same, small, bird-like creature from earlier on in the day hovered along the breeze near the base of the statue.
It didn’t disappear this time, even as the Bard blinked and blinked. The sounds of the water splashing in the fountain nearby slowly came back to him, as did the tell-tale chirps of crickets and the coos of owls. The Bard attempted to take a tentative step forward towards the creature, which seemed to be cloaked in some manner, and found that he could, albeit shakily. He took another, and another.
When the Bard was around twenty feet away, the creature stopped hovering in place and began to flee, turning away and floating past the statue. The Bard was about to curse his slowness, as he did desperately want to know what it was or if he had just had too much to drink, but the creature, seemingly sensing the Bard no longer following it, turned around and watched him.
Did it want him to follow it?
With shaky steps, the Bard did as he thought it wanted. The creature floated up the stairs of the cathedral and then along its side, leading him towards the wall that surrounded the castle. Every so often, the creature would stop, turning back to make sure he was keeping up, though there was always at least twenty feet between them. Driven by his intense curiosity, and accepting that this wasn’t just a product of a drunken stupor most likely, the Bard padded along the cobblestone as quiet as possible, and then the grass and brush when the creature turned to the right, following the length of the wall from a distance and taking him into the trees surrounding the castle. This languid chase went on for some time, though the castle was always in view on the Bard’s left, until the creature stopped suddenly. It circled around a certain area that looked different from the rest, as if it had been disturbed recently, before descending towards the foliage and disappearing entirely. Once the creature was gone completely, the Bard approached, brushing away the leaves that had fallen in preparation for the upcoming winter and other natural debris, unearthing a wooden door. Pulling the handle of the door, its hinges creaking with age and weather, he revealed a ladder, leading down a tunnel where the moonlight didn’t reach the bottom.
This was when the Nameless Bard hesitated and considered the possibility that this may be a trap of some sort. He contemplated leaving and going to find that inn bed he craved the comfort and security of, but after looking at his surroundings, he realized didn’t know where he was save for the rough stone of the castle wall. He had come this far, and he still wanted to know what that tiny, cloaked creature was, anyway.
Steeling his nerves, the Bard puffed out his chest and entered the darkness, descending into the abyss.