The sun shone down on the docks of Esgaroth, and the town was bustling with the activity of spring. Fishermen loaded their boats, the market rang with the calls of the merchants, and families strolled together in the wonderful weather. One such family stood on the docks, the lake-birds soaring above their heads and the masts of fishing ships. A young boy and his mother stood there, peering out towards a ship in the distance. A man stood upon that ship, waving cheerfully back towards the docks and his family.
The weather changed, the soft, white clouds above changing rapidly into storm clouds and driving winds. The mast beam of the father’s ship was blown free of its ties, crushing the father’s waving arm between the mast and the beam. A cry of pain was heard, then nothing could be seen or heard but the driving rain.
The rain subsided, giving way to mists as the standing water was evaporated once more in the spring sun. A crying child could be heard through the eerie silence, one lost and alone. The child from the docks had lost his mother’s hand in the storm, and he now ran through the mists in search of her. But he found her not. Instead, a one-armed form loomed in the mists behind the child, a bottle in his hand. He grabbed the child by the shoulder and spun him around, then bashed his head with the bottle. The child had just enough time to recognize his father before he was blinded by a stream of blood.
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Thinthil lunged up from his sheets in a cold sweat, slashing at his sheets with his dagger as he fled in fear from the dream. He finished waking up, then rubbed the sleep out of his right eye with the heel of his hand. His vision went out for a few moments while he did so, then he stood up and walked to his cask of brandy. He wouldn’t be getting back to sleep this night.
