It is early in the afternoon that the va Caplina Caravan makes port in Irritea. Renalt, gives a deep bow to Larano va Caplina. “It has been an honor and a pleasure, friend,” he says to the man who let him aboard ages ago.
“Until our currents cross once more, musician who should not be so humble,” Larano replies with a nod.
“May your sails be filled and your journey true,” Renalt responds with a friendly farewell he remembers from one of the historic songs he heard when last he traveled by caravan.
Larano is clearly pleased by this, and with a smile, Renalt disembarks the ship and takes his first steps onto solid ground in days. Stopping at the market on the edge of the docks, the musician tries to remember the layout of Irritea’s dock and dock-adjacent districts. He can think of a couple bars, but he decides it would be best if he did some chatting with the people on the docks. Get his bearings straight, figure out where would be most likely to provide room and/or board to an entertainer. Slouching slightly, Renalt slides into the crowds around the dock.
It takes some time and a lot of tangentially related information, but the meandering musician does find his tavern. The Craven Wolf. Not a nice place, by any stretch, but good enough to rest his head. It’s at the edge of the docks, near their border with the kinslums. Kinslums, a terrible concept that the United Cities uses to control it’s populous. Not that other nations and cities were necessarily better. At least in these mostly Elfish cities of West Vyrroltea origin, the slums aren’t near as bad as they often get in the cities of Tolfirin origin. Shaking his head, the bard straightens his back and mentally clears his throat, then walks into the tavern.
The owner of the establishment seems like she is expecting Renalt. He heads over to where she stands quickly, but not seemingly in a hurry. With a smile and a flourish, Renalt begins. “Might I have a moment, my lady?”
In a rather rude turn of events, she replies abruptly, “You must be the bard. I heard a rumor you were looking for a place to play. That about right?”
“I’m no bard,” Renalt says with a smile and a nod, “I am but a humble musician. And yes, I would much appreciate the opportunity to play for your patrons.”
“Mmhm,” she replies, then shaking her head, adds, “And what would you, oh humble musician, be wanting in return for that?”
“Simply a place to rest the night, and whatever tips they provide,” he says smiling.
After thinking a moment, the owner agrees. “Fine, but you need to sing thirsty songs.” Thirsty songs, a favorite of tavernkeeps and bar-owners everywhere. Songs involving drinking frequently, or journeys through vast deserts, or others in one of those veins. Songs that make people thirsty just listening.
“Very well, my dear. You may call me Renalt,” the bard assents to her request.
She smiles slightly. “Eraglim Tolrogimdat,” she replies.
Renault bows his head. “Allow me a moment to inform some friends of the venue,” he says, “Then I shall commence the song.” Heading outside, he heads to a nearby alley where a beggar is seated. “Hello, good ser,” the musician tells the beggar, “I was hoping you might be of aid? Could you run over to the fourth dock, where the caravan va Caplina is moored, and tell them that Renalt is performing at the Craven Wolf, if they be interested.”
The beggar nods. “Long as you remember me afterwards,” he says before standing and hurrying off into the crowd.
Renalt returns to the tavern, and with a nod to the owner, he begins with a flourish, sliding out of his coat with the same pirouette that he uses to swing his lute around his body. As the spin is finishing and the coat is falling to the ground, he strikes his first chord. Then, he strikes a pose. “I am Renalt,” he says as the people at the tavern look towards him, “And it is my honor to perform for you this eve.” Then, he begins to play his personal favorite thirsty song for lower class drinking establishments, Allansero’s Grand Folly. An allegorical story about an elf wandering a desert, satirizing the Kingdom who Rages with a sharp wit. He also likes it because it is repetitive without feeling repetitive, so it can last as long as he feels like it lasting.
As Renalt plays quite well for the crowd, a large Elfkin walks in. He feels there might be trouble. The Hopper of Tolfirin just docked this morning, and rumor says its crew has a low view of locals. Not that this Elfkin is a local. He’s hiding from something. But that’s no bother to Renalt. Plenty of folk, good and ill, are hiding from things. Who is he to judge?
Renalt gets halfway through his song before trouble begins to pop off. One of The Hopper of Tolfirin’s crew, a rigger by his hands callouses, approaches the table the rather large Elfkin is seated at. Renalt can’t quite make out what he’s saying, but his demeanor is definitely of the threatening variety. The bard begins to make his way over towards that section of the tavern. The Elfkin’s response is quiet, too quiet to hear from afar. Renalt just makes out the ending. “Maybe enjoy the ambience while I eat,” the Elfkin tells the rigger. Clearly a man of culture, this guy who’s trying to keep his head down.
One of the other sailors, whose hands have seen less intense work, says to his buddy from the bar, “Hey, let him be.” Someone who has some modicum of authority, maybe?
“Why should I?” the rigger asks. So no, the other must be someone who thinks they have authority but does not have the crew’s respect, like a quartermaster or a navigator. “It’s not like anyone would care if I start to beat on him.”
Renalt awaits the Elfkin’s response. “You would,” he says quietly, sitting up straight and emphasizing the massive size difference between the pair.
Renalt can tell the tension is thickening in both belligerents’ bulging brawns. Rather than let the encounter escalate excessively, Renalt decides it is time to take a break from his song and step in. “Gentleman,” he says with a friendly manner and flamboyant flourish, “I see no need for anything uncouth or unpleasant to happen here.”
The rigger is less than pleased with the musician’s interference. “Mind your business, bard,” he practically spits at Renalt in reply.
Rather than take offense to the man, Renalt chooses to lean in and offer a tad bit of quiet clarification. “This is my business, ser. I for one, would prefer the guard not come by. And, given the company you keep, I suspect you would as well,” he whispers, hoping the rigger will take the hint. The local authorities in most of the United Cities despise foreigners causing trouble in their streets, and because of how the Vyrroltea is and where the United Cities happens to be situated, belligerent sailors will always take the blame for troubles.
The rigger, though clearly upset, understands Renalt’s meaning well enough and returns to his fellow crew. Renalt, thinking sorrowfully on the tips he just lost, seats himself across from the large, hiding Elfkin. “I apologize for that man,” the musician says. After the server gives the Elfkin his meal, Renalt introduces himself. “The name’s Renalt.” He sticks out his hand to be shaken.
A beat of silence, then the Elfkin replies, “Kravlo,” and takes up the musician’s hand. From how long it took to remember, to the unfamiliarity with how he says the name, to the fact that he’s hiding, Renalt knows that this man is lying to him. But that’s this not-Kravlo’s business.
“Sure it is,” the bard replies with a chuckle. Taking a breath to stop the laughing, but still smiling, he adds, “Well, enjoy your meal, I have a performance to finish, if I want a place to stay tonight.” And with yet another flourish, Renalt stands and returns to playing. This time though, as he prances about the room, the good musician keeps a closer eye on not-Kravlo. And notices the hiding Elfkin is likewise keeping an eye on him.
As the sun finishes its descent to the horizon, Renalt decides it is about time to finish his tale. He switches from the rotating verses to the final one. Dancing about the tavern, table to table, group to group, he gets people into it. People tip him as he passes, as that is oft what the final verse walkaround is for. While he doesn’t earn as much as the tavern undoubtedly did from the song, he earns enough. “And with nothing left to do, to lose, he falls onto the sand,” he sings as he plays the final notes of the song.
He bows and says, “It’s been a pleasure,” to no one in particular but everyone in general. Pushing his lute back to his back, he kicks his coat from the floor. With another spin, he catches it and slides it on, walking out through the back into a nearby alley. Heading around the building, he meets back up with the beggar’s seat. The man is still seated there. Renalt's song was a long one, and since he left the beggar, the man seems to only have earned an extra copper. Renalt gives him a nod. “Your aid is appreciated,” he says.
The man looks up at the speaker, then seeing Renalt, smiles. “It was nothing,” he replies politely.
“And yet, it was appreciated,” Renalt replies, and tosses the man a silver.
The man looks quite pleased at that. It was food for a week, after all. But he deserves it, Renalt figures. The man did him a favor on faith that he’d repay. And Renalt always repays good faith. He hopes that, eventually, such a fact is well known, and so more take him on faith. He sees out the corner of his eyes the large figure of not-Kravlo exiting the door. Holding up a finger to his lips so the beggar doesn’t say anything, Renalt slides out from the alley. Keeping low and to the shadows, he follows not-Kravlo towards the kinslums.
He notices not-Kravlo suddenly stops, as the Authority guards round the corner and start heading his way. So that’s who the Elfkin is hiding from, Renalt thinks to himself. The guards make it to the Elfkin and begin to hassle him. After giving himself a bit of a mystical pep talk, in the shadows, Renalt steps out from the alley. “Good Kravlo,” he says, letting his voice boom across the street, “Are these men bothering you?”
“Renalt?” not-Kravlo replies, concerned, “It is nothing.”
“Don’t you have anything better to do than harass my bodyguard, good sers?” he says to the Authority, ignoring Kravlo’s protestation.
“Bodyguard?” the captain of the patrol says, “And who are you?”
Renalt takes a deep bow. “I am Renalt, a humble musician. A pleasure. I came to your fair city with my friends on the caravan va Caplina. This is Kravlo, of your nation, though not your city. He’s my body man.”
“And why would you think you need a bodyguard?” the captain says suspicious.
Renalt looks at the size of this patrol. “I heard rumor that the United Cities has grown less safe in the time I have been away. And from the sheer volume of guard patrolling the street I’ve seen this afternoon, I suspect such rumors to be true.”
The captain believes the bard. He sighs. “Alright, Kravlo and Renalt. Sorry for bothering you. And it’s not that dangerous, truly. We’re simply looking for a dangerous criminal, an Elfi’ika hiding among us.”
“And given Kravlo’s size, you suspected him?” Renalt muses, letting disappointment seep into his voice.
“Sorry, good sers. We’ve checked you off. Enjoy your stay in Irritea.” And the patrol heads on, leaving the pair in the street.
Not-Kravlo sighs. “Thank you, Renalt,” he says.
The musician turns to the killer. “So, good Kravlo,” he begins, emphasizing the name so the Elfi’ika knows that he knows the truth, “How would you feel about a chat? I think we have much we could discuss.”
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