They arrived at the village town of Ruthaivan just before midday. The high sun baked away a low morning fog and people moved through the streets on their varied business. Three men with packs and armour earned glares almost immediately. There was no wall, but a high fence of sharpened pikes surrounded the town on three sides, and it was tucked into a small cliff on the fourth. A large home stood atop that cliff and a rough back and forth staircase was cut into the side of it precariously.

The three walked past a few hovels that had spilled outside the town fence, with mud walls and thatched rooves. Cattle and sheep lowed in the air around the town, and the occasional dog barked and horse whinnied.

As they passed through the human size gaps in the fence, they were greeted by a wiry thin bent over man with a cleft palette.

“New to Rutven, RHUTven, van, vain. Spare a, spare, a a, pit pit pppppppitttttttance.” He held out his hand and wiggled his fingers as if coaxing the desired offering from the air.

Aerendir was at the lead and looked down at the man who cowered under his gaze. Aerendir reached into his pocket and the man scrambled backward, almost falling.

“Ssssssso sososo sosoory, saer.”

Aerendir, pulled out a silver trophe and held it out.

The frightened man caught the glint of the silver and started forward, then cowered again like an animal.

Siegyrd spoke then, “Brother, even imperious in your generosity.” He stepped past his brother, taking the coin as he did, and then knelt low and spoke to the cowering man. “Honest pay for honest work, friend. Lead us to the inn?”

The man looked at Siegyrd with almost more fear than he looked at Aerendir with, but stood, slapped his face with both hands, shook his head and then strode forward to grab the coin. “Innnnnn in I n. Thisss, this wah.” And he turned and walked, suddenly strutting like a prince down the dirty streets toward the inn.

Siegyrd glanced at Aerendir who shrugged, and Mareth chuckled to himself, but the three followed to long strange looks from the remaining people of the town.

#

The Mad Martyr’s Inn was tucked against the base of the cliff beneath the mansion. A wood sign hung with the words scrawled in black paint faded by the sun. The door looked brand new, the sign older than the town, and the patrons were an eclectic mix of young children running between and beneath tables and old timers sipping ale at midday and eating a corn soup gruel that looked horrid.

Despite the looks and sounds, the scent upon entering was wonderful, a hint of warmth with fresh hay mixed with some cooking meats. A squat woman in her forties welcomed the three, though she gave the mad beggar a deadly look when he tried to enter before the team of adventurers. Siegyrd smiled and nodded to the beggar who had showed them the way, and Aerendir waved the man away.

The man sprinted off into the streets and the three turned to face the woman at the front counter who smiled toothlessly and said, “Wellcome in huns, good to see some fresh faces in Ruthaivan for a change. What can we manage for you?”

“Food first” said Mareth, huffing from the quick walk through the streets. There had been little wait as the odd beggar had marched through the streets with all the importance, fury, and forcefulness of a man marching to war.

Siegyrd laughed and nodded, and the lady led them to a table fit for four under a window that looked out into the disheveled streets of Ruthaivan. It had been a long while since they had actually eaten anything but rations. An excellent hope for good food grew in their minds.

The lady dropped them off and said “Daughter’ll be with you shortly. Don’t mind her, she’s a bit of a clutz, but she’ll take right good care of you no matter what.”

The squat woman waddled away and the three sat surveying the inn. A little boy, perhaps five or six, with a bit of dark brown smudged across his face peaked from beneath a nearby table, then stuck his tongue out at Siegyrd, who did the same though with a tiny flurry of magic that sent a spark from the tip of his tongue. The boy jumped and pulled himself back under the table, and the parents, a simple couple who looked to be merchants by their garb, glanced over and then away from the strangers in their midst.

In a short while a slender, medium-height young woman with strawberry blond hair and a smile like the morning dawn walked up to the table tentatively. She spoke in an almost whisper, “What can. Um, can I get you?”

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Aerendir’s deep booming voice startled her as he said, “What’s good for meat? It’s been a long travel.”

The flustered young woman shook herself and then continued into a list, “Some steaks are available, butchered fresh just today, and um. Uh, we have some pork” Mareth’s face contorted in a kind of disgust, and she pressed past that one, “also some fine wildcat meats. We may also have some bear jerky left over that has been salted and cured. Not fresh though.”

Siegyrd asked, “What to drink, lass?”

“Oh um, ale… and uh, darker ale. There might be a bit of mead if you wait longer. We were making it before, but we had a batch go bad on us for some unknown reason. Also, some wine though I will admit it is a bit,” here she leaned in for a real whisper, “a bit watered down. We haven’t much left.”

“A simple ale is fine for me” Said Mareth, “and a steak. Please lords beyond, a steak. Medium rare.”

Aerendir and Siegyrd looked at each other then back at the woman and said in unison, “Steak, rare.”

#

It wasn’t completely the last of their money, but it was close by the time they paid up. The three leaned back in the seats having enjoyed their meal, and then Siegyrd made his move. The afternoon had come and the windows were thrown open to let a breeze through into the streets. It wasn’t horribly hot, but it wasn’t likely to get cooler any time soon. Siegyrd unstrapped his violin from his pack and then pulled the violin out of its case. He plucked a string with his finger and twisted the tuning toggles briefly as he moved toward the center of the tavern space where the was just enough room to stand and he could be seen and heard by all.

There were a few odd looks and glances as he walked to the center and some talk silenced, other talk shifting questioningly about him. After finger picking a few more notes, he pulled a bow seemingly from the thin air next to him, and then drew it across the strings.

A wave of cool air filled the space along with the first stroke, and by the third there was no sound but his. The owner had paused with a new customer at the door, the barkeep was standing stock still with his hand covered in a wash rag fist deep in a mug. A little girl had her mouth open and a small piece of fresh bread spilled out of it into her lap.

The silence of the audience didn’t bother Siegyrd who played his lively tune with a kind of rapturous joy. A few more measures in, Aerendir spoke up and gave a hearty “Whoop!” And a few others of the audience were shaken from their stupor and began to clap along to the song that Siegyrd played. Soon the whole place was in an uproar. People stood and danced in the spaces between tables and even around Siegyrd himself as he played. Kids made funny motions they thought were dancing, and everyone smiled.

Mareth smiled despite himself, and soon stood pulling on the strings of songweave around him. His fingertips glowed with a rainbow light and he closed his eyes as he tied visible threads to the waves of sound that Siegyrd’s violin produced filling the space with a dancing vibrancy.

Aerendir smashed his empty mug on the table in beat with the clapping, but stopped as soon as the waitress refilled it.

Siegyrd slowed his song to a crawl, transitioning from the lively upbeat music to a seamless flowing melody that was made for couples to dance to. The merchant couple was the first and the kids kind of huffed and stepped away, bored somewhat by the slowness of the steps. As the song shifted, Mareth’s light spell shifted colors to a bluish white and another light-misted wave of cool filled the otherwise warm tavern space.

The music lilted and drifted out into the streets outside as women gathering groceries and men on their way to and from various events paused to listen.

#

Siegyrd pulled the bow across the strings for the last drawn out note that hovered magical in the air as the sun drift low in the sky. He had played for hours, and yet there was no sense of fatigue, only joy. The crowd had grown and shrunk over the course of the afternoon and into early evening, but it was now at its peak. As he lowered his bow and violin to bow, the cheer that went up was uproarious and overwhelming. Some people had tears in their eyes, others wore smiles wide enough to split their faces.

An older man, perhaps in his forties, yelled from the doorway, “Encore! Encore, good skald!” And the cheer erupted even louder, shaking the walls of the small tavern and carrying up the hillside.

The man who called wore a well-fitted deep blue tunic with white frills around the wrists and neck, and called out again, “Please, good skald, please one more. But not here.”

The deep rumbling “booooooo” quivered the walls.

The man raised his hands and the people quieted. “Please please. People, would you begrudge I desire my ailing wife to hear? Perhaps among you are others too that could not be here for health or time. I invite this Skald to perform before the wall, for all the city, tomorrow night. Let us extend to all the town such a grace as this.”

There was a cheer at that, and more clapping and chattering and talking as the well-dressed man pushed his way through the crowd toward Siegyrd. Siegyrd flourished with his bow and dropped it into nothingness and then placed his violin back in its case to a mix of groans and applause. When he was done the well-dressed man had reached him and held out his hand.

“Mayor Mathin Morrow.”

Siegyrd shouldered his violin case and took the man’s hand, “Siegyrd, just Siegyrd. And my companions,” he gestured to the table where Aerendir and Mareth sat. The two rose and worked their own way through the crowd.

Mathin smiled graciously at the two as they came and then leaned in close to Siegyrd, “I have heard of you, the Dragon Slaying Skald, and your companion, the Knight Tumult. I do not know the third. I can pay for your performance, but we have more to discuss than that.” He slipped a sealed letter into Siegyrd’s hand, and then smiled and nodded at Aerendir and Mareth before walking away.