The tavern hummed with warmth. Lanterns swayed gently, the scent of roasted meat mingling with spilled ale. At the center, a bard strummed a lute, his voice carrying a story older than anyone in the room.
Thalor sat in the corner, tankard in hand, jaw tight. The poem reached him, cutting through the chatter:
"Two pair of hands, one can paint the world, one paints what is in the world and past it.
Eyes that see all things, one blind but with a sight of a child.
Together they built what one cannot create."
Thalor muttered under his breath, voice tense:
"If only that could happen…"
He drained his tankard, eyes scanning the room, uneasy. The words clung to him—a reminder of the connection he could never have. The painter sees all, static, the world as it truly is. The author sees differently—alive, chaotic, biased, driven by hope. Thalor knew both, yet could touch neither.
The tavern doors shifted. Shadows moved faster than the eye could follow. Drifters slipped inside, silent as the night.
Blades flashed. Chaos erupted—tables overturned, mugs shattered, the bard's lute screeching against the floor. Thalor dodged, parried, but they were relentless.
"Who sent you?!" he shouted, fear and rage twisting his voice.
No answer came. Pain lanced through him, his tankard clattering to the floor.
"If… if only that could happen…"
A shadow struck, and he fell, the firelight catching the last flicker of his expression—anger, fear, and the faintest memory of longing.
The tavern went silent. Smoke and splintered wood hung heavy. From the shadows, a group stepped forward, hands pressed to his temples, drawing out memories, knowledge, connections—everything linking him to Gulbob.
One finally spoke, calm and certain:
"Selkaria awaits. Gulbob must answer."
Thalor's eyes, now lifeless, seemed to whisper:
"Past and future… hollow in hands…"
The bard's poem lingered faintly, a ghost of creation and hope—of two hands separated by fate, yet bound in what they could build together.