The town of Varan had many superstitions. Their chieftain, traditionally a very fat man with many creature comforts, would always toll the town bell each day three times: once at sunrise, once at noon, and again at sunset. The traditions said that striking the bell helped to ward off evil spirits, a warning sign that their evil machinations would have no influence over those who heard the clarity and power of such a noise.
RING
It was one such day, the light of the sun peeking just over the horizon, that they found twenty-three partridges dead in the town square. Each of them had their necks broken, and each was laid out in a series of concentric circles surrounding the bell. The younger folk spoke to each other in hushed voices, discussing the strangeness of it all; Why them? Why today? What was the significance of the number or the arrangement?
There were those who spoke of demonic influence, their eyes glittering with tales they've heard the gleemen tell. Young boys would be seen chattering and brandishing weapons made of air, each boasting about how they would slay the monsters, how they would solve this problem.
Older men and women discussed how this could have happened when the bells were tolling each day. They kept that tradition for a reason, and if that reason wasn't true anymore then what has it all been for?
All of this was superseded by the chieftain's booming voice, his domineering presence causing some of the less-confident members of the congregation to scatter like doves. He cried for them to becalm themselves, to find peace. There had been no attack, merely some boys playing pranks. Some approached to help clean up the mess but he warded them off, claiming that he would leave the mess until the troublemakers confessed or were brought before him.
No one came forward, and no one dragged any boys in, and so the town went about its business. Most of them did their best to avoid the square, with those oddly contorted birds and their porcine guardian. The mayor never left his post, save for at noon to take his lunch and perform his duties.
RING
As the day wore on, those who had finished their choring on the farms and in the nearby forests, came in from a long day of work for a drink and a bite. It was then they noticed that the birds were now much closer to the bell. Angry and confused shouts brought the chief back out from his house, who had to tersely explain how he had not done this, and how he had come out to ring the bell at noon and they had simply... *been* closer. There was no movement or shadows or clue as to their movement, but he certainly didn't do it.
The workers were scared and unsatisfied, assured their chief was trying to assure his power, to create unrest so he could solidify his control. It was mere murmurings at first, but fueled by drink and community, the rage and unrest grew among the people. Certainly, he had taxed them too much this year. Yes, he had been rude to one man's wife when she was merely passing by. DAMN HIM, he had touched another woman's son one night in the tavern!
This sentiment grew and grew until it could not be contained by the quaint inn, and by that point they had been worked in to a froth. Torches were gathered and lit, drinks were downed, knives, forks and clubs were brandished. They would march out from this place and take the town for the common man, take back what was theirs and spread the wealth among the people. The sun was nearly set as they mobbed together and marched through the streets laden with righteous intent.
It did not take long to reach the square, and by then the sun was nearly hidden by the forest and the horizon. They found the chief in the square, once more ready to fulfil his daily duties. His hand was at the bell when they approached, and it fell away when he saw the malice in their eyes. Warding them off, he decried how he had always cared for this town, how he had tried to do his best by them. They had none of it and instead of raging or rushing, they merely surrounded him, keeping clear of the tight circles of birds. Illuminated by the torches and the slimmest light of the sun remaining they merely watched as he withered under their gaze.
RING
The bell tolled again, it's tone seeming to vibrate the earth and the sky itself. Curiously, the chief wasn't anywhere near the bell... his hands cover his head from the assault of gazes. Some began to whisper, others began to step back in fear, their eyes wide with fright as they realized that the birds which once circled the bell were gone, but so was the bell. There was nothing left of it but the post it was mounted on, severed clean near the top, and a flurry of feathers. The chief stood slowly once more and instead of launching a bevy of commands, or insults or rebukes, he merely smiled. His smile grew and grew, glowing evilly in the torchlight until it reached inhuman proportions, his face darkening into shadow along with the rest of his body. They watched as he unfurled into something wavering and dark, formless. The only thing that remained was that smile, and when the process was done, even that was lost as every torch and lantern was snuffed in an instant.
RING
The sun was gone, their guardian bell was gone, their anger and indignation extinguished with their torches. Now, there was only darkness and confusion and *something* else. From all around them in the surrounding forests there came a great braying and bleating and growling. A dozen-dozen noises of animals and beasts and other unknowable creatures surrounded them as night truly fell in Varan.
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