The tavern was dimly lit, and crowded but not bursting. A light whiff of stew and beer soaked the place in a homely atmosphere. It was perfect for Bevere.
He sat at a table further away from the little wooden stage, nursing his tankard of ale. It was a Grendwick Pale Ale; nowhere near the best, but well worth the cheap price. The candle at his table had been snuffed out, and he wanted it that way. It matched the darkness of his mood.
Out on the stage, the golden-haired bard was drawing a fair share of attention, and for a multitude of reasons. She was easy on the eyes, and easier on the ears: her shimmering laughter could make a man forget his worries far better than any pint of liquor could. And her soothing voice was a perfect complement to the cheery strumming of her lute.
With a generous amount of verve, she launched into her next song, and the patrons nearest to her clapped along:
I am struck down, but I arise,
If you think you can fell me,
You are sorely mistaken…
Bevere drank deeply from his ale. The melody was cheerful, dancing in the brisk evening air. And yet, the words sounded serious, like a challenge from a vengeful knight. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the mismatch as he leaned back in his chair.
And then it struck him – of course! Today was the Day of Rebirth. Had the bard chosen that song with this in mind, he wondered? It was an odd pairing, for the song had no relation whatsoever to the holiday. And yet, the themes of revival, of arising from a tragic situation… perhaps her head was not as far up in the clouds as he had been led to believe.
The bard finished her set, and Bevere took the opportunity to signal for another pint of ale. As he began to drink from it, he noticed that the candle on his table had been lit again. Had the server who brought his drink lit it up out of habit?
He licked his thumb, and was about to put out the flame again when he noticed that he had a visitor, of sorts. A golden-haired one.
“I hope you don’t mind, I wanted to get a look at the face of my most… melancholy patron tonight.” The bard’s voice was just as smooth when she spoke as when she sang.
“And have you gotten your look? Because I do mind,” said Bevere with some irritation. She glanced at him for a bit longer before nodding, and he snuffed out the flame.
“Your performance was enjoyable,” he added; Bevere did not want his desire for solitude to be mistaken for rudeness. “This tavern is fortunate to have you grace them with your performances.”
“Thank you, lone stranger,” replied the bard with a chuckle. “You may call me Gwenneth.”
“I am Bevere.”
“Most people celebrate the Day of Rebirth in these parts, Bevere.” Gwenneth’s features were radiant even in the darkness. “And I always seek to put smiles on the faces of my listeners. Your aura of sadness… my apologies, but it intrigues me. Is there a story behind it that you would share with me?”
Bevere stared at his drink for a bit. And then asked Gwenneth: “I hail from Taroban. Do you know of it?”
“Taroban? The island to the south? I have, yes. You have journeyed far – oh!”
“The Taroban Massacre! It happened on the Day of Rebirth, did it not?”
“It did,” replied Bevere sadly, “and to answer your next question, I am one of the survivors.”
For once, the chirpy bard looked a little downtrodden. After a brief silence of acknowledgement, she got up again.
“My next set begins soon. I shall dedicate the first ballad to Taroban.”
“Please, do not,” said Bevere a little too abruptly. He then recovered: “I truly appreciate the gesture, but I do not wish to draw attention to myself tonight.”
“I still intend to give voice to the horrors that befell your people. But, for your sake, I shall leave out the dedication itself,” suggested Gwenneth. But Bevere’s eyes were elsewhere. She followed their gaze.
A group of heavy-set men in robes were making their way roughly towards the front door. Gwenneth recognised the robes; the men were members of the Islorian Hunting Party, an off-shoot of the kingdom’s military forces who had a reputation for engaging in… violent activities. The kind that the kingdom worked very hard to hide from the public eye.
Gwenneth faintly recalled rumors that members of the Islorian Hunting Party were behind the Taroban Massacre. When she saw the flames burning in Bevere’s eyes though, she knew that the rumors were true.
As he stood up, she saw a familiar glint emerging from near his belt, before he drew his cloak in. And then she knew the reason that Bevere had come to this tavern in the first place.
She gently placed a hand on his arm as he made his way out.
“I know where you’re going now,” she said quickly, seeing that he was in a hurry, “and I understand why. I have just one request to ask of you.”
“For a bard, you have an odd notion of the direction of requests,” commented Bevere.
“Once you have found what you seek from your… quarry,” continued Gwenneth, “I would like you to return here, and tell me if it eased the pain.”
Bevere found a surprising amount of depth in the look she was giving him. Her smile was too faint to be genuine, and her eyes too swirling to be simply showing concern. He gently moved his arm away from her.
“If I am able to, I will,” he said, before making his way out into the shadows of the night.
He sat at a table further away from the little wooden stage, nursing his tankard of ale. It was a Grendwick Pale Ale; nowhere near the best, but well worth the cheap price. The candle at his table had been snuffed out, and he wanted it that way. It matched the darkness of his mood.
Out on the stage, the golden-haired bard was drawing a fair share of attention, and for a multitude of reasons. She was easy on the eyes, and easier on the ears: her shimmering laughter could make a man forget his worries far better than any pint of liquor could. And her soothing voice was a perfect complement to the cheery strumming of her lute.
With a generous amount of verve, she launched into her next song, and the patrons nearest to her clapped along:
I am struck down, but I arise,
If you think you can fell me,
You are sorely mistaken…
Bevere drank deeply from his ale. The melody was cheerful, dancing in the brisk evening air. And yet, the words sounded serious, like a challenge from a vengeful knight. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the mismatch as he leaned back in his chair.
And then it struck him – of course! Today was the Day of Rebirth. Had the bard chosen that song with this in mind, he wondered? It was an odd pairing, for the song had no relation whatsoever to the holiday. And yet, the themes of revival, of arising from a tragic situation… perhaps her head was not as far up in the clouds as he had been led to believe.
The bard finished her set, and Bevere took the opportunity to signal for another pint of ale. As he began to drink from it, he noticed that the candle on his table had been lit again. Had the server who brought his drink lit it up out of habit?
He licked his thumb, and was about to put out the flame again when he noticed that he had a visitor, of sorts. A golden-haired one.
“I hope you don’t mind, I wanted to get a look at the face of my most… melancholy patron tonight.” The bard’s voice was just as smooth when she spoke as when she sang.
“And have you gotten your look? Because I do mind,” said Bevere with some irritation. She glanced at him for a bit longer before nodding, and he snuffed out the flame.
“Your performance was enjoyable,” he added; Bevere did not want his desire for solitude to be mistaken for rudeness. “This tavern is fortunate to have you grace them with your performances.”
“Thank you, lone stranger,” replied the bard with a chuckle. “You may call me Gwenneth.”
“I am Bevere.”
“Most people celebrate the Day of Rebirth in these parts, Bevere.” Gwenneth’s features were radiant even in the darkness. “And I always seek to put smiles on the faces of my listeners. Your aura of sadness… my apologies, but it intrigues me. Is there a story behind it that you would share with me?”
Bevere stared at his drink for a bit. And then asked Gwenneth: “I hail from Taroban. Do you know of it?”
“Taroban? The island to the south? I have, yes. You have journeyed far – oh!”
Bevere would have smiled at Gwenneth’s gasp of recognition if he had been in better spirits.
“The Taroban Massacre! It happened on the Day of Rebirth, did it not?”
“It did,” replied Bevere sadly, “and to answer your next question, I am one of the survivors.”
For once, the chirpy bard looked a little downtrodden. After a brief silence of acknowledgement, she got up again.
“My next set begins soon. I shall dedicate the first ballad to Taroban.”
“Please, do not,” said Bevere a little too abruptly. He then recovered: “I truly appreciate the gesture, but I do not wish to draw attention to myself tonight.”
“I still intend to give voice to the horrors that befell your people. But, for your sake, I shall leave out the dedication itself,” suggested Gwenneth. But Bevere’s eyes were elsewhere. She followed their gaze.
A group of heavy-set men in robes were making their way roughly towards the front door. Gwenneth recognised the robes; the men were members of the Islorian Hunting Party, an off-shoot of the kingdom’s military forces who had a reputation for engaging in… violent activities. The kind that the kingdom worked very hard to hide from the public eye.
Gwenneth faintly recalled rumors that members of the Islorian Hunting Party were behind the Taroban Massacre. When she saw the flames burning in Bevere’s eyes though, she knew that the rumors were true.
As he stood up, she saw a familiar glint emerging from near his belt, before he drew his cloak in. And then she knew the reason that Bevere had come to this tavern in the first place.
She gently placed a hand on his arm as he made his way out.
“I know where you’re going now,” she said quickly, seeing that he was in a hurry, “and I understand why. I have just one request to ask of you.”
“For a bard, you have an odd notion of the direction of requests,” commented Bevere.
“Once you have found what you seek from your… quarry,” continued Gwenneth, “I would like you to return here, and tell me if it eased the pain.”
Bevere found a surprising amount of depth in the look she was giving him. Her smile was too faint to be genuine, and her eyes too swirling to be simply showing concern. He gently moved his arm away from her.
“If I am able to, I will,” he said, before making his way out into the shadows of the night.
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