52nd of Ymiden 720
Kalortah had fled Faldrass last season, flying forward and never looking back. Over the channels and waterways until he hit the mainland near Avaern, and then Korlasir. From there, he took the safe routes to Rharne, where he was forced, yes forced, to tie a peace ribbon around the hilt of his rapier in order to fasten it in its sheath. His switchblade disguised as a drum mallet was left alone, although whether that was because it fooled the guards or that they allowed small blades was a matter to wonder over. In the end, Kalortah opted not to tell them, in case he had need to defend himself against the hostile populace.
And he’d found the populace indeed was hostile toward his kind. While he’d yet to receive a beating the likes of which he heard Aukari were all but guaranteed, people gave him dirty looks. Kalortah, to his credit, ignored them, turning up his chin at the common folk. He was better than them, afterall, one couldn’t obsess over the opinions of plebians.
At any rate, he stayed at several Inns that allowed him to trade his voice for a bed and a meal. He found the travelling minstrel’s life suited him when he wasn’t getting heckled, but by now he was used to such behavior. The first few arcs of his wandering the world had seen his mind steeling to the jibes and jeers of foul-mouthed louts. To the point where he could sustain a performance even over their noise.
Kalortah was currently in the Market of the Earth Quarter in Rharne. He’d awaken to an auspicious holiday that it was told to him arrived every year. Buskerfest. Where everyone, even those without a license were encouraged to busk on the streets, sharing their talents for nel and whatever else they found of value.
Kalortah had a small corner set up for himself, and began singing a story of the Raid of Broken Blade Keep. It was more or less based on an adventure in Yaralon that hie’d had with a brave adventurer, known as Azrael... or was it Gerral?
Either way, Kalortah sang the story as well as he could. His voice carried over the waves, playing upon the air in such a way that it rose above the rest of the din. He found himself gathering quite the crowd in time, mostly women and children. The men gave him mean looks. But Kalortah supposed they were probably jealous of the attention he was getting. As if Kalortah had any interest in their plain and ugly wives!
He sang of the daring flight of Kalortah as he soared over the roof of the keep, dropping caltrops and crossbow bolts on the men stationed atop it, while Azrael worked his way up the tower, to find his nemesis, a man whose name died in ignomy.
He was halfway through the song/story, when a particularly burly drunk pushed his way through the crowd, and crossed his arms in front of Kalortah. He was at least a foot taller than Kalortah, and three times as heavy. An imposing figure if Kalortah was any judge.
”Gerrof the fuckin sidewalk yew Bird!” He bellowed, ”Yer kind ain’t welcome!”
Kalortah looked coolly away from the man, and tapped his drum melodically a few times as he hummed wordlessly. He thought, more than once, about releasing the switch that would produce a blade from his drum mallet, and driving it into the man’s business. But he didn’t want trouble.
”I don’t want trouble, friend. Why don’t you stand back and enjoy the music with the rest of this crowd?”
Kalortah’s voice trembled only slightly as he said it. The man was too close for comfort, and the minstrel wasn’t sure of his ability to take off into flight with so little room to run.