The bell, when rung, could be heard loud and clear, but no one whose ears worked, could hear it. Only those who had magic. When it was rung, it caused all other bells in hundreds of miles to ring as well. The louder it rang, the louder they did. And only Amatu could ring it. For the bell was his, it formed the day of his birth. -- Adventure
[AN: Big thanks and love to DaniAndShali who provided the link to the preceding story]
It certainly looked like an old bell. Ancient and weathered, rich with patina. As a bell, it was certainly useless. It didn't have a tongue and, upon further investigation, never had and never would. The general consensus around Baumkyn farm was that it was either an apprentices mistake or some kind of strange food covering.
Amatu rather liked it, for the bas-relief on its outside. "Maybe it's a bell for ghosts," he joked, swinging it like a watchman. "Five o-clock, and all's haunted!"
Every bell in Paxdale sounded at the same time. Every clock rang their carillon. Every music box played their tune. Amatu, still a very young man, instantly put the bell down and backed away, anticipating a matronly lecture.
Dellaise Baumkyn took it all in amazing stride. "Well. That's a weird one. Best to ask around and be sure nobody came to harm."
The only one remotely put out by the chaos was a visiting Wizard and hir reformed Ogre ally. Wraithvine the Eternal took one look at the rather mortified Amatu and said, "Ah. It was you. Destiny is getting a little on the insistent side, I think. What happened?"
Amatu, already unusual, kept staring at the Ogre, who was wearing a frilly strawberry-print dress. "I found a bell? And it'd never ring 'cause of... no tongue? And I played at ringing it?"
"I heard that," said Wraithvine. "Startled me out of my meditations."
"That happen before all bells," objected the Ogre named Pondermoore[1]. "You make Pondermoore worry."
"I would like to have a look at that bell, all the same." When ze did, the wizard muttered a spell to make a third eye open on hir forehead.
Pondermoore, watching through a window[2], whimpered a little. "Don't blow nothin' up," she cautioned.
"You should know I'm generally cautious by now," crooned Wraithvine. "Interesting. It looks like a relic. It feels like a relic... but it's only twenty years old." Three eyes turned to Amatu. "Just like you. And..." ze swung the bell.
Three other people nearby simultaneously shrieked, "Don't!"
Silence there, and nothing more.
"It only works for him. Fascinating." Anyone who knew Wraithvine for long enough would know this as a sign of interesting times about to happen. "Honestly, you couldn't have more destiny happening if you'd pulled a sword out of a stone." Ze handed it to Amatu. "You should keep this handy. Research into its true properties are definitely warranted. I need to consult the portents."
Pondermoore watched Wraithvine storm off into the groves. "Gonna need spiced cider 'n' sweet cakes 'n' cream," she rumbled. "Ze hates prophecies."
"But... destinies are fine?"
"Wraithvine says destinies is plastic. Ze can work with that."
There was a distant cry of, "Chosen ones! AAAAAUUUUGH!"
"Lots of sweet cakes," said Pondermoore. "An' the strong cider."
[1] For those of you who are curious, Pondermoore was written for a different group in which I also cement Wraithvine's technically-immortal status. Enjoy.
[2] Though Halflings do have a reputation for hospitality, they also make their homes for Halflings. The inns, on the other hand, are enormous.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / BackyardProduct]
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