The bell, when rung, could be heard loud and clear, but no one whose ears worked, could hear it. Only those who had magic. When it was rung, it caused all other bells in hundreds of miles to ring as well. The louder it rang, the louder they did. And only Amatu could ring it. For the bell was his, it formed the day of his birth. -- Adventure
[AN: Big thanks and love to DaniAndShali who provided the link to the preceding story]
It certainly looked like an old bell. Ancient and weathered, rich with patina. As a bell, it was certainly useless. It didn't have a tongue and, upon further investigation, never had and never would. The general consensus around Baumkyn farm was that it was either an apprentices mistake or some kind of strange food covering.
Amatu rather liked it, for the bas-relief on its outside. "Maybe it's a bell for ghosts," he joked, swinging it like a watchman. "Five o-clock, and all's haunted!"
Every bell in Paxdale sounded at the same time. Every clock rang their carillon. Every music box played their tune. Amatu, still a very young man, instantly put the bell down and backed away, anticipating a matronly lecture.
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