NIGHTINGALE: THE BLACKHEART BEATS
The room is full of bodies, people laughing and jostling, others trying catch the barmaid’s eye to order another round and those who have already had to much and are using each other as support to even remain standing. The atmosphere is one of laughter and indulgence, but if you look carefully, you can see an undertone of desperation and the threat of violence. Nowhere has been the same since the riots, so many are overcompensating for the time lost. Weaving through this sea of unwashed humanity is Nightingale, having just finished a rather successful meeting to organise another performance of “Calli E-K” he moves his way to a table towards the back of room, its previous occupants lie upon the saw dust coated floor snoring softly. Taking his seat, Nightingale leans back against the wall managing to flag down one of the serving maids he orders a beer and studies the people of Korvosa: the innocent, the guilty, and everything in between.
Around the stage a small crowd has gathered as a man spins a tall tale of the heroes of the past, from the reaction in the crowd it’s a tale he has told many a time as they finish lines in unison, whooping and hollering as the story reaches its crescendo. “And thus the wall was saved, and none were the wiser... Apart from one hero who was never found, he is said to have stayed in the now instead of returning to his past. We all know his name, so raise your voices with me-”
The crowd as one respond, “Vlad, the time weaver!” There is an eruption of laughter and cheers that accompanies the story teller as he leaves the stage. But as quickly as the stage is empty another man steps into fill the space. The man weaves slightly, struggling to stand with out the assistance of the wall, unidentified stains cover what would have once been a nice shirt. His head shaved is covered in tiny scrapes and cuts. Every one gives this new comer space on the stage and around it, his aroma creating his own protective barrier driving back the clientele of the bar.
“You speak of heroes of the past… Let me tell you of one from now, From our very own city! A man who is here not for the wealth but will help even the lowliest of us.” The man is clearly a drunk and has fallen on hard times, but his voice is powerful and cuts through the din, quieting those around the stage, the silence ripples out spreading through the bar as he captures the attention of his audience.
“I speak of The Blackheart of Korvosa.”
From inside the crowd a mocking voice booms “You mean Blackjack, you drunk jack ass!” A small flutter of laughter follows the heckle.
The drunk bard staggered on the stage and turns towards his heckle. “My dear friend If I meant Blackjack I’d have said Blackjack… Now as I was saying before the rude interruption. No, I don’t speak of Blackjack, the gentleman of the people, the protecter of us all. I speak of a man or a wild beast or even a spirit of Vengeance. A defender of the helpless. Some one or some thing that will do what the guards wont.
Where Blackjack might leave you tied up with a note to be found by the guards, The Blackheart is more likely to leave you tied in your own intestines as a warning to those who should fear his visit.” A silent hush had fallen over the crowd as they listened captivated by his words. “But why have you never heard of him? That I can not answer, but I can swear he exist as I saw him with my own two eyes.”
“Bullshit…” the hecklers voice cracks through the air “Your drunk eyes probably can’t tell the difference between your prick and a stick.” a few of the tavern patrons chuckle, but the laughter and support is shadow of earlier. Most the crowd seem annoyed the story has been interrupted again.
“Now my friend.. please.. Allow me”
“I mean, why should we listen to a drunk washed up failed bard… It’s pathetic. Every one knows you just go begging from bar to bar coz you ain’t got no talent!” Silence follows this last heckle, and finally the bard turns his full attention to his nemesis, his eyes burning into the man so fiercely the crowd actually pulls back, leaving the heckler standing alone.
“Now listen here, you rancid little man, I am trying to regale these fine folks with..”
“Yeah bullsh…”
“No.. no I have allowed you your say three times now, that is more than my nerves can take. If I have to hear another ill-formed attempt at wit pass from your lips who knows what could happen.” The drunken bard drops to his knees, collapsing his hands together and looks to the sky, “By the god of this world, please I impeach you: if I could be blessed with the power of Vlad the time weaver, so I could return to the moment of this fool's conception. I could explain to his parents what a waste of humanity they were creating, I could expand upon his failures, I could paint a picture of his pathetic existence. They would stop mid fornication, his father would take a blade and make himself a Eunuch and his mother would forswear men and join a nunnery to make sure there was no chance they could bring such a pathetic bag of human flesh into this world.” With each word the man flinches, pain flashing across his face as if he is being struck. Bruises begin to grow on his skin. But the bard continued his vicious mockery of his heckler, “Dear Sir, I hear there are other establishments.. Maybe The Cracked Weasel is more in line with your standards… No sorry that was truly unfair of me… The Cracked Weasel is FAR too good for the likes of you. Why don't you take yourself to the sewers where the rest of the human excrement floats and if we are lucky you can dine with an otyugh.” The sound of bone breaking fills the air, blood streams down the face of the heckler, his nose now stands crooked and broken. He opens his mouth to speak but is cut off. “No. don’t try and form a sentence, you have been wasting oxygen enough. Why don’t you do us all a favour and just fuck off?”
The hush hangs in the air and then the crowd erupts into cheering. The heckler, his hand clasped to his bloody face, storms past the crowd, shouldering through them and out into the cold night.
The bard stands slowly, brushing dust from his filthy clothes, he turns to the crowd and smiles. It is a truly dazzling smile, his entire demeanour is changed, the shambling drunk has become a shadow as the performer has stepped forward into the limelight.
“As I was saying, this isn’t a half-heard whisper of a story made up by milk maids to scare children or a fantasy whispered in hushed tones. No. I, Anton Orwell, witnessed this with my own eyes. For it was a dark moonless night when I stepped from a tavern not far from this fine establishment. I needed fresh air and to relieve myself. I strode into an alley, where to my horror I discovered two cutthroats, they had their victim and were beating them within an inch of their life, the sounds of their boots crunching into the curled body will haunt my nights. But what I saw next will stay with me for my every waking hour. The shadows themselves seemed to come to life creating a portal to another realm and stepping into the torch light was a creature in the shape of a man, clothed in a black mockery of a duelist uniform. A black heart beat upon its chest where a humans heart should be. Its lower face was covered by a half mask, I assume because its mouth was so misshapen with fangs and teeth. Long lank hair the shade of pitch framed its face, but the most terror inducing thing about this beast was its eyes. Even from my hiding place I could see nothing of humanity in its gaze. There was no compassion, no mercy, and no doubt.” Anton cast his own gaze over the crowd, pausing to drink in the silence as his enraptured audience cling to his every word. A rye smile plays over his lips. And sitting in the shadows of the once boisterous tavern Nightingale sits, his full attention on the man on the stage.
Taking a breath Anton continues his story. “Now I can see your doubts, this could just be a man… but cast those doubts aside my esteemed listeners. For as I watched from the shadows, The beast stepped forward and clutched its fist, and before my eyes its arm changed, vines of metal grew from its flesh, twisting around its hand creating a cage of steel. Two long prongs of metal erupted from either side of its hand and a long rapier like blade leapt from between its knuckles, it glistened in gore and dripped a green noxious acid that splashed onto the floor. I can only assume the green liquid the creature’s blood. And then... the Beast spoke…”
A gasp was heard in the room followed by the clattering of cups crashing to the floor as one of the serving maids collapsed to the floor in a faint.
“I warn you now, the rest of this tale is not for the faint of heart. If you are easily shocked, I would recommend retiring now. But for those brave souls... listen to my voice and take this tale with you.” Anton pauses to see how many would leave and was gratified to see not one person moved. “The beast he spoke. a voice like the sound of metal on metal filled the air, it sounded like it was a torture to the creature to speak our tongue. I couldn’t hear all the words… but I heard it said, “...your souls have been judged wanting…” A small frown of bemusement creases Nightingales brow, “and with that, the creature leapt into an action, it moved faster than a lighting strike, lunging out it drove that horrific glistening blade into the first of the attackers’ chests. I’ve never heard more blood curdling sounds then those of the would be mugger. His head thrown back to scream but those sounds are cut short and become a gurgling choking noise as erupting from his open mouth was a geyser of The monsters Acidic blood.”
“Imagine dear listeners: the agony suffered by our mugger as that green liquid burned its way through his body, erupting from him, covering him in burning viscera.” The sound of retching cuts into the story as one of the drunks accidentally recreates the scene into one of his cups.
“Our other attacker turned to run, and he did, moving quickly, but the nightmare didn't move, it turned, flinging its swordless arm forward… and its arm… its arm stretched… I could hear the bones and ligaments snap and break as the arm extended, grabbing the mugger by the back of the neck. It dragged him back towards it and with a long powerful thrust, drove the blade through the mugger's body from behind. It held him close whispering something into its victim's ear, the mugger squirming impaled on the blade. Then the green acid once again began to foam across the blade, and I watched in horror as this spirit of vengeance dragged its blade through the flesh and up towards the sky, the acid melting a path through.”
Horror can be seen upon the faces of the crowd, the thought such a beast could lurk in their streets sends shivers of terror through the audience.
“I watched with fear in my throat, as The Blackheart turned towards the curled victim on the floor. The sword retreated into its arm as it knelt by the victim. I stood rooted to the spot, unsure what was happening as the creature reach into a pouch and removed a potion which it gently, almost tenderly got the poor innocent to drink. Now I know not for sure what this concoction was. but it looked like nothing more than a potion of healing. Then, satisfied its work was done, the creature retreated back into the shadows and its own realm. As it left the spell broke and I ran forward on unsteady legs to the man curled on the floor. To my shock he sat up, his wounds retreating from his skin. I stood agape, looking at the massacre around this man and regaining my wits. I asked him, “What was that beast…” and he replied, “that was no beast… That was the Blackheart… and he saved me.”
“Now my friends, we are blessed to live in a time where two heroes lurk in Korvosa. One known to all as Blackjack, the man of the people for the people. But in the darkness, lurking in the shadows of our own souls is another hero. One who isnt afraid to meet blood with blood and will unleash hell upon those deserving. Who will judge the souls of the impure and destroy them. You now know its name and its tale. So remember the name The Blackheart. And know if you are pure and good you are safe. but those who inflict evil upon the innocent should run in fear as The Blackheart beats for your deaths…” The silence hangs around them like a fog, touching every one, but this silence is brought crashing to the ground as one man stands up and begins clapping, slowly at first but growing in pace as more and more of the tavern join in the clap. Before long cheers erupt amongst the audience and Anton is gathered in a wave of support and carried to the bar. People gather around him in chance of hearing snippets of his tale again. As the crowd surges forward, unnoticed by every one in the bar, Nightingale is heading away from the crowd and back out into the night. A small smile playing over his lips as he steps outside, he looks into the sky and laughs softly, “Well that was different to how I remember that night…”