The Ardent and The Bard

Chapter 1: Of Blade and Chain

The Iron Bugle was the kind of bar that people die in. The tavern had seen countless deaths. People dying from bleeding out from a broken bottle to the throat. Dying as the result of being skewered from wooden stakes made from chair and table legs. Once, a gnome was drowned in a keg. It didn't matter of course. Death on the plane of Mourning never mattered. As long as you were supposed to be there.

It was a type of afterlife, the plane of Mourning. The name was a complete misnomer. The result of some bastardized translation of Draconic to Elven then to Common. The original draconic term for the plane translated roughly to "Place of the gloriously lived". This was later turned to "Realm of those we regret the loss of" because elves can't state anything simply. That word sounded like the common word for "The expression of deep sorrow for someone who has died" and so the plane was named Mourning.

It was the realm of war. The righteous souls of the valiant who died in glorious battle. The collected military might of every age, every race, was gathered here for eternal war. That's why the deaths in the Iron Bugle didn't matter. If you die in the realm of Mourning you were reborn back to your respective camp to rejoin the battle at your leisure. Again, that was only if you were meant to be in the realm of Mourning.

That day two patrons walked into the Iron Bugle who were not meant to be there. One was an anomaly of time, the other an anomaly of faith. The first was tall and slender. Hallmarks of a half-elf. His outfit consisted of a dyed-green leather vest, a white shirt, a cloak that concealed most of this, and his favorite hat. The pack on his back was slack, as if only a few objects lay within it. The second outsider was slightly shorter. He wore a hooded-uniform of blue cloth, a cross between the outfit of a high-ranking soldier and a sage. Symbols of his chosen god glinted from his chest as well as both his shoulders. The hood was pulled up, covering his round head which swiveled every which way to fully take in the bar.

Those in the bar were taken aback by the appearance of the second patron. He had the build of a man, but was clearly not that. For starters he lacked a nose. Secondly his face was made of grey cloth. It was too tightly stretched around the head to be a mask. He looked like a living scarecrow.

The scarecrow's companion paid them no mind. He had already taken a seat at the bar. He was writing something down in a leather-bound journal. It looked weathered and old. He ordered a drink for himself. The house special of Berserkers' grog. When the order came he didn't drink it. Too busy scribbling in his journal.

Scarecrow stood by him facing the rest of the bar, his red eyes darted from person to person. An elven duelist with one eye. An Orc with a massive bow on his back. A Halfling sporting a Warhammer that had the word "Hobbler" carved into the head. The scarecrow wasn't just seeing them, he was also feeling them. His natural clairvoyance for emotion made the inner feelings of these warriors as plain to him as the features on their faces. The elven warrior was tense at the arrival of the two strangers, as unexpected visitors usually meant trouble and he preferred the bar remain neutral territory. The orc welcomed the idea of new targets. The Halfling was drunk, which made reading his emotions like trying to discern shapes in oatmeal.

"Take a seat"

The scarecrow's head snapped to his companion. He had finally set down the notebook and began sipping his grog. He was examining the large horn above the bar. Probably the place's namesake. His eyes shifted to the scarecrow.

"I'm not tired. I prefer to stand"

The scarecrow spoke honestly. There was too much activity in this one spot for him to remain idle. Too many swirling and complex emotions emanating from its dead populace. It excited him.

"You unnerve them" The half-elf said between sips of his drink.

"So do you" The scarecrow said.