The tavern still bore the scars of the storm, its wooden beams damp with lingering moisture, the scent of overturned earth and lake brine clinging to the air. A few lanterns, guttering like dying embers, cast long dancing shadows that mimicked the unease in the room. A single bucket was stationed beneath a leak in the thatch, catching the last sullen drips from the rafters: the mournful plink of rainwater a somber rhythm in the thick silence.
Near the hearth a gangly young town crier, his voice hoarse as a raven’s croak, held court. The wind was a howling dervish the night before and had taken its toll on the lad. His usual confident bellow had a tremor now, his gaze roving and wild as he relayed his message to whoever would listen.
"A silvery shade in the mist, and shapes… unnatural shapes. Those who saw…" he paused. Swallowed.
" Those who saw it, they say they felt eyes on them. Something… watching! And.. and.. and the Waygate… it bore light!" he babbled on in a quick burst, bordering on incoherent as he pushed out the rest of the words as quickly as possible.
A ripple of disquiet pulsed through the tavern and tankards stilled mid-raise. A few guffawed, seeking solace in disbelief, while others huddled closer, their eyes wide with a morbid curiosity. But the seasoned folk with the wisdom of years etched on their faces exchanged grave glances and instinctively tensed, a deep-seated worry darkening their eyes.
A tempest of wind and rain was one thing, but something meddling with the forces that dwelled within the once dormant Waygate… that was a transgression of a different order.
The crier swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat and he seemed to shrink in upon himself, as if his shoulders have grown heavy with the weight of dread.
He managed to continue on in a halting pace “The watchmen on the ridge… they gave ear to sounds carried on the wind, strange hisses, long, thin, bleeding through the storm. They called out lest it be one of the lost, but no answer came."
The young criers fingers, gnarled and calloused, tightened around the worn leather of his belt, as if seeking an anchor in a world that had suddenly tilted on its axis "The Waygate, it shimmers even now...”
The storm had abated, yes. But something else had been unleashed in its wake.