As Renalt finishes his wretched interpretation of the Ballad of the Fist’s Arrival, he’s met with the usual response. Free food and free critiques. When people get drunk enough, and everyone’s a critic. Renalt isn’t a bad musician. In fact, if he puts effort behind his lines, he can be quite enchanting. But being charming doesn’t earn him near as much as being terrible. Not in these low class bars, in any case. Around here, tips from a great song will maybe earn you a meal. Jeers from a bad one can earn you a feast. As long as you have the ego to deal with a few haters. And if there is one thing Renalt never wants for, it’s ego.
He walks out of the bar, food aplenty scurried away in his pockets, pouches, and pack. Eating people’s hate-food in front of them is a good way to get yourself beat up. And Renalt prefers not to get beaten. He’s found that policy to be good for his health. In any case, the inn room he is staying at for the week is far cleaner than that place. It’s floor is likely safer to eat off of than that tavern’s plates. Renalt pays a smile to the innkeep. She smiles back. “One more night,” she reminds him. She wants him to know that his smiles are insufficient payment for additional nights.
“It’s fine,” Renalt brushes her off, “There’s a Sea Elf ship leaving tomorrow afternoon. I’ll just hitch a ride there.”
Alise chuckles. “Because the Caravans are known for letting just anyone aboard,” she says, rolling her eyes.
Rather than reply, Renalt simply smiles and continues up the stairs. Best not cause too much trouble while he still has a place to stay for the night. Losing that would turn out to be very not good. Arriving in the small room he’d rented for the week, Renalt sighs and lets out the food across his cloth covered bedside table. Enough bread and fruit for a couple days, if he rations it. But Renalt doesn’t believe in rationing. Or rational. Really anything that begins with ‘ration’ is a nonstarter for him. He lives his life in the extremes. In excess. Outside of the norms. Outside of common sense.
Settling down to his meal, he takes the largest piece of bread and tears it carefully in twain. Taking the half in his left hand, he carefully lays it on the windowsill. An offering to those wanderers nearby, so that they might not steal from him. Taking the other half, he squeezes it flat between his palms, and with a brief prayer, it bursts aflame, consuming itself. An offering to the goddess of death, so she might forget his time. With his prayers done, he settles in for the most important part of any meal. The offering to the most important being in the universe. The glorious and perfect Renalt. The food remaining on the table is his offering to such a divine being, and he enjoys every bite of it. Every unearned bite.
Once he finishes his meal, he settles in for a night’s rest, when he hears a commotion in the inn below. As it grows louder, he knows he must come to the defense of the hapless innkeep, for righteousness and honor and chivalry and hopefully more free nights. Taking up his lute, Renalt rushes out the door and slides his way down the stairs to meet these cantankerous cretins. The moment he reaches the first floor, Renalt discovers a slight issue with his plan. He recognizes the faces. Not good to begin with. They are all drunk. More not good. And they are all people who, over the last couple days, have given Renalt food. Clearly, they took offense to this, because they’re here not for Alise, but for him. Oopsies. So much for more free nights.
“Gentlemen,” Renalt says with a flourish, “And lady,” he adds, “What brings you to this here humble abode?”
Of the four drunkards, the lady replies first by drawing a dagger and charging towards. Some people are quite rude, Renalt has found. He also knows well enough how to deal with rude drunks. Grabbing the neck of his lute, he slides out from the strap and wraps it around the charging woman’s arm. “I’m sorry,” he says while twisting the lute, and therefore the woman’s arm. There’s an audible crack, “But you are being rather rude right now.”
One of the other men draws a sword, short and rather heavy looking. He starts towards Renalt. Renalt catches the woman’s knife on the pointed toe of his right shoe, balancing it. “See, the polite thing to do when asked a question,” he begins, holding the awkward pose, “Is to answer or politely decline answering.”
The man starts to charge, blade first. With a twist of his shoulders, Renalt uses the woman’s body to intercept the blade. Then with a flick of his ankle, he sends the knife into the man’s shoulder, deep. “Attacking in such a scenario is both inconsiderate and unhelpful.”
The other pair of drunks ready themselves. One puts his fists up, the other brandishes out a plank of broken wood. “Come and get it,” the armed one says.
“I apologize for the violence,” Renalt tells Alise, “It was never my intention to bring such chaos into your place of business.” Then, to the drunks, he says, “Gentlemen, so no more damage befalls this wonderful inn or its reputation, might we take this outside?”
To answer him, the unarmed drunk yells and swings a wild haymaker in his general direction. Clearly, these folks must continue their lesson in manners. Following the haymaker, the armed one closes in with his plank. Renalt steps forwards, placing himself between the pair of drunks. The plank swings at his head as the next haymaker comes from the opposite direction. Renalt drops down, doing the splits for no reason other than it being fun. The pair realize too late what is happening as the plank impacts the fist. Another cracking can be heard, this time, though it’s also visible, as just the smallest bit of arm bone pushes itself out from the unarmed drunk’s elbow. Renalt, still doing the splits down by the ground, spins his lute around, and the metalclad end of the neck strikes true, into the armed drunk’s dangly bits. In pain, both the pair fall over, almost at the same time. Popping back up, Renalt gives them a deep bow. “I am quite sorry, but you were being rude. I recommend heading for the physician’s home quickly. I’ll be out of your little town by tomorrow evening. Hopefully you’ve learned to be more polite moving forward. Have a better night, and a good rest of your lives.” He approaches Alise’s desk. She isn’t particularly pleased with him. “I am quite sorry,” he says, “I believed not that any knew where I have been staying.”
Alise rolls her eyes. “They didn’t,” she informs him, “That’s what they were making a fuss about asking when you slid down the railing and showed them.”
“In that case, I doubly apologize,” Renalt begins.
Alise stops him before he gets too far. “Let me guess,” she says, “You thought these were some terrible robbers doing something dastardly to me, and you were going to swing in, save me, and get to stay here for free for as long as you’d like?”
“Not at all,” Renalt objects. Then, with his sly smile, he adds, “I do not think you the type to allow indefinite stays.”
“The world doesn’t work like that, Ren.” Alise shakes her head. “Just, leave tomorrow, okay?”
“Do you need anything?” Renalt asks her. “Any help?”
She smiles a dark, thin smile. “Yes,” she states. “But I know you don’t have any more money, so you can’t provide any help.”
With a bow, Renalt replies, “Fair enough. Good night and fare well.” He heads back up the stairs to sleep the remains of the night away. Getting to the room, he sees the half-loaf has been taken. In its place sits a beautiful gem. Likely stolen and too hot to sell here, but worth something none-the-less. Especially since he was leaving town in the afternoon. Leaving the gem on the sill for the night, so third floor passersby might see that he is a friend, Renalt lays his lute on the table and himself on the bed. It takes him no time to fall asleep.
Morning comes, and with the first light, Renalt’s body wakes up, much to the irritation of his mind. But, when he plays at lesser taverns he gets much in the way of food, but nothing in the way of alcohol. Unfortunate, but true. Walking to the sill, the gem still sits there. Untouched. He picks it up and puts it in the one place no one ever checks. Inside his lute, there is a small strip of adhesive gum. Not sticky enough to keep things there permanently, but enough to stick smooth things, like gems or certain large denominations of coin, for some time without any rattling. Messes with the sound, but it’s most helpful for smuggling purposes. No one checks a musician’s instrument, else they bring themselves eternal bad luck. This is known. Renalt suspects it was an old rumor spread by spies and smugglers who played at being musicians for a cover, but there is no proof of that. What there is proof of is the belief has spread across the archipelago, so all cultures hold it. Except the Betrayers, who fully believe superstition is hokey and bad luck can be cured by magicking at it hard enough. Savages that they oft can be.
Renalt walks down to the docks, where the Sea Elfs have their ship moored. First, he’ll get onto the ship, figure out where they’re heading. Then he can figure out how he’ll get aboard. Can’t be too hard, he muses with a smile. After all, he is the Great Renalt. It wouldn’t be his first time getting himself a place on a Sea Elfish vessel. And, judging by most philistines’ reactions to his talents, it likely will not be his last, either.
The first step of his journey is easy enough. Whistling a tune of absence, the Renalt simply walked past the watchmen and onto the ship’s deck. None notice him while he whistles his silent tune. It simply isn’t possible. A trick, taught to him by an old man back in the Imperium’s Heart, which he finds useful far more often than he probably should. Maintaining his whistle, he heads around to the rear of the ship, to the windows. People notice doors blowing open, even slightly. Windows, not so much. No one really remembers if they’ve left the window open. Sliding into the captain’s cabin through the window, Renalt looks about for maps or journals. Anything that might tell him where they’re heading. No maps, but the log seems to indicate a somewhat significant amount of food. Probably not an island hop then. That leaves two real options. South to the Kingdom that Rages, or South-East to the United Cities. Technically, they could be heading for the Noble Nation, but only a fool would go there direct, without stopping at the Cities. Fifty-fifty shot. That stinks. That means he’ll have to ask. Be let aboard. Starting back up his whistling, Renalt slides back up to the deck then off the ship, heading to the market. Stretching, he takes a deep breath and turns back towards the docks. It is time to perform.
He sashays forth towards the ship. Approaching the pair of Sea Elfs stationed as watch, he bows deeply. “Gentlemen,” he says with a flourish to end his bow, “Might I have a moment of your time?”
“Of course, but only a moment. Who are you, friend?” the elder of the pair asks Renalt.
Coming up from his bow, Renalt cannot help but smile. He’s already won passage, they just don’t know it yet. “Me?” he muses, his eyes sparkling in the midday sun somewhat more than they likely should be. “I am but a humble musician.”
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