“There’s been another sightin’” John said, entering through the tavern’s great oak doors. All heads turned to him, confusion and feared understanding stifling the air as he strode to the bar, a trail of muddy footprints in his wake.
“Where?” asked Timothy, nervously wiping his hands on his bloody apron, realizing too late that it was covered in drying fish guts. Grimacing, he pawed for a handkerchief.
“South of Heziur.” John replied. With bated breath, he glanced around the room, building suspense as he peered at his audience, “Ten dead, an’ the rest lost to sea, I heard.”
“Is it clear what killed them?” asked the barmaid, refilling tankards.
John nodded. “Hmhm. Their hearts were torn clear out, an’ their bodies covered in scratches. Still smilin’ all wide.”
“You… You don’t mean-”
“I do.” He interrupted, earnesty laced through every word, “Sirens.”
Rhea curiously peered around the tavern, measuring the reaction of the townsfolk. Confusion dotted most of their expressions, with the exception of a select few. Including Tom; the village skeptic.
“But that’s just a children’s tale!” spluttered Tom. His chair clattered against the pine floor as he abruptly stood, slamming his fists on the table. He faced John, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”
Rhea frowned. Of course John was serious. He'd made his beliefs apparent when the attacks had started the prior month, and hadn’t allowed anything to sway him. But the deathly pale face of Tom’s son flashed through her mind.
They’d found him among the scattered remnants of his fishing boat, scratches along his arms and back, an enamored smile on his face and in his eyes. She felt for Tom, she really did, but since the attack he’d lashed out at everyone, and the townsfolk, who had all lost someone, were over dealing with his behavior.
“What do you think he is, if not serious?” She asked elegantly. Heads turned to her, befuddled. It was apparent why they were confused. She hardly spoke, knowing that her well versed speech and prim accent were odd in a small, rural town such as this. But she couldn’t leave poor John to deal with this matter himself. Not after watching how they’d mocked and berated the lithe man.
“His beliefs are his own, and should not become subject of such ridicule for being stated. We should voice our own instead. For instance, I think that it could be any number of creatures that caused this, but the evidence does favor John’s theory.”
Tom was the first to speak. “You believe him?”
Rhea turned her grimace to Tom, then sighed as she caught the time from the grandfather clock behind him. Knowing the sun would wait for no one, she stood, sympathetically gazing down at the old skeptic.
“Of course,” She could understand why he didn’t believe. Most commoners didn’t at his age, having had their dreams beat out of them through years of poverty and hard labor. But if she were to help the townsfolk in any way, she would need to leave now and not turn back until her mission was complete. “I’ll be going now. Farewell.”
* * *
Beginning to lose hope, she’d turned away from the last official harbor, headed back toward the inn when a remarkable voice stopped her in her tracks. Loud enough to be heard with clarity despite the empty harbor, the voice was deep and gravelly, resembling a landslide.
“How’d you plan to make it past the dock, Sher?”
“I plan on going to the Mortem Maris. They’re taking cargo to Thronte, and I heard they’re taking on a couple passengers.” A second voice answered, quieter than the one before.
