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 Everyone. Time TA 3018, March 1, evening. The stifling halt of hooves could be heard as one of Bremven's Lossuth companions spoke. We have arrived, warmlander. Dismount. he spoke, more of a grunt than actual speech. Considering how many scars the man had, it wasn't difficult to attribute whatever damage his vocal chords had sustained to yet another battle. And while Sh'thaar may have been a warrior once, he was too scrawny for that kind of lifestyle anymore. After all, this was no warband. Sh'thaar and the others, and for the time being, Bremven, were, to put it lightly, scavengers. They were a small, agile, four-man team, each with a sack slung over their horses - mostly furs and the property of long-dead avalanche victims - but today was different. Today they came back with a particularly special find. An old Forodwaith caravanserai, probably second-age, right along the base of the Misty Mountains, back when these lands knew the embrace of summer. Of course, being made of wood meant there was little left of the place aside from scattered stone idols, primitive, brass swords and axeheads and, of particular interest to Bremven, an ivory flute that, like any good bard, he had called at the first opportunity. While such weapons would be obsolete to the men of the south, the hunting, nomadic Lossuth made little distinction between brass and iron - both could rend flesh and fur. It was only when two metals struck one another that it mattered which was tougher, and their nomadic nature meant even brass was not a common thing - a forge, after all, could not move with them. The afternoon was spent trading. Well, for Bremven it was mostly watching Lossuth tended to grant better deals to fellow Lossuth. By the evening they had traded what they could and, rewards split, made their way to the inn. It was then, upon entering the Snowy Eagle, that he saw her. Everything from the calm devotion she gave to her craft to the particular shade of brown in her eyes, an oakish hue not of the muddy earth but of the skyward-reaching tree, shimmered with that singular, familiar twinkle. Miira. Every muscle in his body wanted to collapse and fall at her feet, to tell her how sorry he was, kept back only by a paralyzed nausea. It didn't matter how many times he told himself she was dead and gone. He couldn't help but stare for as long as it took for one of his companions to shove him on his way, toppling forward, catching himself with a raised, apologetic hand, and making his way to their table, every ounce of his will consumed to fight the temptation to look back at the seamstress. When a shy person retracts into thoughtful silence, nobody really notices because they're always silent, thoughtful or not. But when someone like Bremven does it, it's more than a little obvious. Of course, obvious or not, the rest of them were minding their own business getting sozzled until one shoved the bard's shoulder and asked for a song. The request was returned with a plastered smile, and an inward acceptance that if he was going to keep going he couldn't keep looking into the past. Learning from one's mistakes is never a bad thing, but living them again and again was nothing short of masochism. Regret, after all, is a road paved with sorrow and good intentions. And so he raised himself from his chair with a nod, slipping out the Ivory flute he had spent most of the previous night polishing in camp, taking a few steps back as moved away from the table, taking a slow, deep inhale. As his thumb creased along the underside eyes flickered shut, as if the flute itself imparted to him its wisdom, its story from ages past and lesser legends long forgotten, faded from prominence and memory, existing only in the grooves and curves of a single tube of carved ivory. And so he played. The first note breathed into that ancient artifact played long and deep, running through each and every crevice and corner of the Inn like a shivering snake, and as the second fell upon the first the snake lashed, danced, echoed, running through hearts and minds with a tale of joy in every sorrow, of loss in every pleasure, of fascination in every uncertainty, of self-doubt in every heart. Of what it meant to be mortal. What it meant to be alive.