The Tales of Tora, Master of Masks
"A Dark Wind in Windhlow Tavern"

Tora stepped through the oak door of the Windhlow Tavern. The wood was aged but solid, its grain visible beneath layers of varnish, as though it bore the memories of countless hands that had pushed it open. The hinges groaned softly, a sound that lingered in the warm, quiet room. Candles in tarnished brass holders flickered on the walls, casting restless shadows that swayed to the rhythm of the crackling hearth.

The room’s air was rich with the scent of aged wood and smoke, a comforting mixture that seemed to embrace him as he entered. Tora’s boots creaked against the worn pine floorboards as he moved toward a corner table. There, an elm surface, polished to a soft sheen, awaited him. Its knots and swirls caught the low light like frozen storm clouds beneath the waxed finish. Around it stood three ashwood chairs, their sturdy frames tapering elegantly, each joint crafted with care. The chairs bore faint wear along their edges, marks of a tavern that had seen years of stories unfold.

As Tora sat, his gloved hand rested on the table’s smooth surface. He carried something with him—a mask, carved from dark rosewood. Its intricate patterns of flowing lines and ripples seemed almost alive under the flickering firelight. The carvings on the mask depicted a winding river, its grooves so fine they seemed to shimmer with movement in the low light. The mask absorbed the glow, its presence heavy and enigmatic, as if it held more than mere craftsmanship. Along its edges, faint cracks had begun to form, like the first fault lines on an ancient relic.

Behind the bar, Sarha, the tavern’s proprietor, noticed him. Her short black hair gleamed like polished onyx in the candlelight. She carried a walnut tray rimmed with brass, her steps smooth and practiced from years of tending to her patrons. Sarha had known Tora since childhood, though his unchanging appearance always unsettled her. He had been the same—a figure untouched by time—through all her years of growing, changing, and aging. His tales of distant lands had once filled her dreams, but now, she felt a peculiar heaviness when she saw him. Time seemed to pause in his presence.

She approached his table with a practiced smile, though her gaze betrayed a flicker of unease as it brushed the mask in his hands. “What can I bring you tonight, Tora?” she asked, her voice steady despite the sudden chill that seemed to cling to the edges of her thoughts. “A home-brew from Dhor,” he replied, his tone low but deliberate. “The best you have.”

Sarha hesitated for a brief moment, her brow furrowing slightly. “Coming right up,” she said with a nod. She turned toward the bar, her steps soft against the floorboards. Behind her, the bar stretched like a centerpiece of the room, built from polished mahogany. Shelves above it held bottles of various shapes and colors, their glass refracting the candlelight into fractured rainbows. Sarha cast a final glance at Tora and the mask before busying herself, her movements just a touch slower than usual.

Left alone, Tora turned the mask slowly in his hands, feeling its weight, the rosewood warm beneath his gloves. He ran his thumb along the intricate carvings, tracing the river’s lines. The sensation was almost hypnotic, the grooves drawing him in as though they led somewhere beyond the physical. A strange sensation crept over him—a charged stillness, as though the air itself were holding its breath. The cracks along the mask’s edges seemed deeper now, jagged and glinting faintly under the firelight. Then, a voice. Low and resonant, it emerged as if from the mask itself, cutting through the room’s ambient hum. The air around Tora thickened, the firelight dimming as shadows deepened. The warmth of the hearth gave way to a faint chill, and even the soft murmurs of other patrons seemed to fade into silence.

“You have lived many lives,” the voice murmured, ancient and knowing. “Which is truly yours?”

Tora stiffened, his gloved fingers tightening around the mask. His heart quickened. For years, he had been the Master of Masks, the Conjurer of Identity. Yet never before had one of his creations spoken to him.

“What are you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The mask did not move, yet its presence felt alive, as though it waited for him to grasp its meaning. Before he could respond, Sarha returned, her presence breaking the spell. She set a tray on the table with the precision of a craftsman fitting a puzzle piece. The earthenware mug she placed before him was speckled ochre and cream, its glaze reminiscent of sunlit sand dunes. The spiced aroma of honey and citrus wafted up as she set it down.

“Here you go,” she said softly, her gaze lingering on him. Her eyes flicked to the mask again, then quickly away. She straightened, nodded, and moved to another table, though her steps were slower now, as though her thoughts had grown heavier.

Tora wrapped his fingers around the mug, letting its warmth seep through his gloves. He took a sip, the drink’s flavors unfolding in earthy, sweet, and tangy layers—like a melody for the senses. Yet even this masterfully brewed drink could not pull his thoughts from the mask.

“You have worn the faces of others,” the mask spoke again, its voice cutting through the room’s ambient sounds. “But have you ever glimpsed your own?”

Tora leaned back, his grip faltering on the mug. “I am Tora,” he said, his words steady but hollow.

“Are you?” the mask countered, sharper now, like the edge of a blade. “Or is that just another guise?”

A faint creak of the wooden floor drew Tora’s attention. A figure emerged from the shadows, stepping into the firelight’s glow. Serro. Tall and deliberate, his long dark coat swayed lightly with each step. A faint scar traced his jawline, the firelight rendering it half-seen, half-hidden. His movements were unhurried, each step deliberate.

“The mask speaks to those who listen,” Serro said, his voice smooth, each word measured. “But not everyone is ready to hear.” Tora’s gaze snapped to Serro. “You hear it too?”

Serro nodded, his lips curving into a faint smile. “It speaks to anyone who has worn their masks too long. But understanding its voice? That takes more than just hearing.”

Tora’s fingers tightened on the mask, his gloves creaking softly under the strain. “What does it want from me?” he asked, his voice tight and low.

Serro lowered himself into the chair opposite Tora, his movements unhurried but deliberate. His hand brushed the table’s edge, tracing its smooth finish as though testing its craftsmanship. “It wants you to uncover the face beneath the mask,” he said, gesturing toward the object in Tora’s hands. “Masks aren’t just tools of concealment. They are mirrors. Sometimes prisons. You’ve wielded them masterfully, but their weight has obscured you.”

Tora frowned, the tension in his jaw evident. He lifted the mask slightly, studying its intricate carvings as though they might hold answers. “The masks are my art. They define me.”

“Do they?” Serro asked, his tone probing but kind. “Or have they become your refuge, shielding you from truths you’re afraid to face?”

The mask seemed heavier now, its warmth pulsing faintly. Tora’s gloved hand trembled slightly as he held it. Serro leaned forward, his voice soft yet firm. “Every mask reveals something—a fear, a desire, a fragment of the self. You’ve spent your life inhabiting others. But have you ever truly inhabited yourself?”

Tora’s thoughts swirled, a storm of memories and questions. He had lived as kings, thieves, sages, and beggars. Each life left its mark, yet none had stayed. His voice faltered as he looked at Serro. “And if I don’t know who I am?”

Serro’s faint smile deepened, a quiet understanding in his eyes. “Then that is where you must begin. You were born on four Tabhilt, under the stars of Dhac. Not to wear masks, but to be. Every role you’ve played, every face you’ve donned, has been a step away from the truth of who you are.”

Serro’s words lingered in the air, heavy with meaning. As he rose from his seat, he delivered his final thought with calm resolve: “The journey ahead is not one of masks, but of faces. Find yours, Tora, before it’s lost forever.”

Tora’s gaze lingered on Serro as he strode toward the bar. The soft clink of a coin into Sarha’s tip jar marked his departure. Serro’s hand had just touched the tavern’s door when a sudden, piercing crash shattered the stillness of the room.

The sound rang out like a blade striking stone, silencing all movement.

Sarha froze, her eyes darting toward Tora. Serro stopped mid-step, his expression sharpening as his gaze swung back to the corner table. Tora, however, remained eerily still, his eyes fixed on the floor.

The mask—his mask—lay shattered across the tiles. Its intricate rosewood carvings were splintered into countless jagged fragments. The firelight danced over the shards, their sharp edges glinting like pieces of a broken mirror. The weight of the moment pressed heavily on the room, silencing even the faintest murmurs.

Sarha, hesitant but practical, finally broke the silence. “Should I—”

“NO!” Tora’s voice rang out, startling everyone. His hand shot up, commanding stillness. “Don’t touch it. Leave it as it is.”

He crouched low, his gloved hand hovering over the shards. His voice softened, carrying an almost reverent tone. “It’s speaking,” he murmured. “Not in words, but it’s speaking.”

His gaze moved intently across the broken fragments, as though searching for meaning hidden within the jagged edges. Slowly, he began circling them, his movements deliberate, his expression unreadable. The other patrons watched in uneasy silence, knowing better than to interrupt him when his focus sharpened to this degree.

Then, a sound broke the tension—a low chuckle. It started soft but grew, rising into a full-throated laugh that echoed through the tavern, shaking the stillness.

“Hahaha! Oh, this is rich!” Tora straightened, his grin wide and unrestrained. His laughter subsided into a quiet chuckle as he turned to Sarha, his eyes alight with a strange intensity.

“That mask,” he said, his voice calm but tinged with exhilaration, “it wasn’t just any mask. It was me. My voice. My identity. I’ve been screaming all along, but I was too afraid to listen.” His smile softened, turning introspective. “And now it’s broken. Scattered into a thousand pieces.”

Sarha hesitated before crouching to collect the shards into a small leather pouch. Her hands trembled slightly as she worked. “What will you do now?” she asked gently, her voice barely above a whisper.

Before Tora could answer, the tavern door burst open. A gust of cold air rushed in, carrying with it the blur of a figure moving too quickly for anyone to react. In an instant, the pouch of shards was snatched from Sarha’s hands, and the door slammed shut behind the figure’s retreat.

The room froze. Even Serro, always composed, seemed momentarily startled. His sharp intake of breath broke the silence, his eyes narrowing with recognition.

“I should have known,” he muttered under his breath.

Sarha turned to him, her voice trembling with confusion. “Who was that?”

“That,” Serro said grimly, “was Thizo Plit. You might know him as Shad—the Darkwinder. If he’s here…” His voice trailed off, the weight of his unfinished thought lingering heavily in the room.

Tora’s grin returned, sharper now, his eyes glinting with anticipation. “Darkwinder,” he repeated, savoring the name. “So, the pieces of my mask are his prize? Interesting.”

Serro’s gaze met Tora’s, a faint smirk curling at the edges of his lips. “You’re not seriously thinking of chasing him, are you?”

Tora’s chuckle deepened, his tone light yet full of determination. “What else would I do?”

Without another word, Serro turned and opened the door, the cold night spilling into the tavern. “Then let’s not waste any time,” he said, stepping into the darkness.

Tora followed, his steps measured but purposeful. The door swung shut behind them, leaving the Windhlow Tavern abuzz with murmurs. The patrons exchanged uneasy glances, their curiosity and apprehension filling the space.

Sarha remained by the counter, staring at the door, the faint chill of the wind brushing against her skin. Her thoughts lingered on the stolen pouch, its weight—and the mystery it carried—now gone. Or not...?