Thread: Pynti-Peldot

Name Nickname Bremven, Ven Race Human. Attire Thick, hooded, black woolen robe, undyed leather-buckled pack and belted sheaths, leather cuirass and sandals, black linen trousers. Weapon Twin Daggers Knife . Location Pynti-Peldot Inn of the Snowy Eagle. Tagging Brynne Everyone. Time TA 3018, March 1, evening. Bremven was no stranger to crowds. Life as an entertainer had accustomed him to them, so there was no surprise when closed eyes slowly eased open again to find himself at the center of an ever-growing circle. They were bustling yet silent, each pushing past one another as silently as possible, following the serpent's winding, labyrinthine lure to the snakecharmer. He had little regard for any individual listener in the crowd - folk tended to bustle and shove no matter where he went, so he had grown accustomed to not letting it bother him, eyes sailing over from one face to the next without the faintest memory of the last one. If he had stopped for every face to be pushed back behind others, he would never finish a song. Ven wasn't a hero. Hell, he was one step away from being a graverobber. Ideas like righteousness and valor existed to make people believe in things they held no stake in, and Ven had no place for lofty motives. Survival was its own reward. Sh'thaar and the others, the troupe he had arrived with, were enjoying themselves back at the table. They had listened to Ven perform before, and while this was his debut performance on the flute, they were comfortable enjoying from their seats, their curiosity of where this enchanting music came from sated by past exposure. So the ones who flocked to him, who surrounded him, were all strangers, a sea of foreign eyes on foreign faces that blended into one another like a maelstrom as he entranced them, the eye of their hurricane. And then he saw her again. Those impossible, wonderful, intoxicating eyes locking into his as they simply stopped and watched. That singular, pristine moment felt like an eternity as he simply watched her in a yearning, clenching disbelief, fingers only continuing to run into the already running breath out of muscle memory as his mind simply went blank, watching, remembering, years worth of smiles and tears and hugs and whispers echoing through his mind, barrage after barrage, drawing closer and closer to that inevitable, dreaded moment, the end of their story, wishing it would never come, knowing it would have to once their happy memories were exhausted, fingers loosening as the pristine ivory fell into cupped palms, hoping effortlessly that he wouldn't relive that moment, that he wouldn't relive losing her... and then they swallowed her. MIIRA! A harsh, brutal roar sounded the end of the tune like a thunderclap. There were no thoughts here. No hesitation. He would not, could not lose her. Not again. Not again... throwing himself into the crowd, the flute tossed aside like a torn rag, as a hooked punch connected with the first man in that direction, flooring the massive Lossuth instantly, more out of surprise than because of the severity of his punch, arms pushing through the crowd as wide, desperate, crazed eyes finally met hers, standing there for mere moments before he collapsed to his knees, every muscle in body falling in on itself as eyes lidded back down, a face of emotionless, choking marble. He was too close not to recognize her at this point. He had performed for this woman. He had performed for the princess of Dale. And yet the only thing upon his face now, the only thought echoing through his mind was defeat. He had found the strength to save her, to save his beloved, but it was too late. She was gone and trying only to fail simply made him feel like he had lost her all over again. There were no tears, no wails of sorrow, only the horrified, helpless, strangled eyes of hopeless, worthless, absolute defeat as he simply, blankly stared.