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Nyx arrives from RP Nexus.
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Nyx has arrived.
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It's been a hard day's walk. No ride, because the horses were lost in the forest. No fly, because the boulders and random clouds and one naughty river are in the future.
Britannia is a big place in the minds of men and poets. It is tiny to geographers. It is gargantuan for anyone who has to tramp through it on a bad muddy trail, and sometimes not even that, with forty pounds of kit on their back. All those fancy scholars with their fancy parchments can talk about the modest proportions of a fair kingdom when they have hauled themselves out of an evil forest and halfway to the Old North and back.
Towns do exist outside Caerleon, and the princely capitals tend to be well enough populated. Smaller villages crop up wherever a market happens to be, and sometimes they show up when two muddy tracks meet. The smell of the sea isn't so far off, and coming out from the woodlands gives a view of a slow, wide river and the fishing village gathered upstream. Smattering of houses and a few wooden ones speak to the relative importance of the place. And surely for the locals it is important… if only its name could be recalled.
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With two broken strings on his mandolin (which makes him obscenely grumpy, despite his usual jovial air), Taliesin trudges on through the tall trees. He misses his mount. He misses having dry feet. He misses feeling like he wasn't run over by a hay cart. It shows in his impressive glower and kick of a pine cone off into the undergrowth. Thank goodness for the distant light glowing through the trunks.
He glances over at Sir Gareth. "I don't know about you, but a drink would be most welcome. Putting up my feet in front of a fire…" He sighs, clearly winsome for these things.
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Gareth is both disgruntled about and concerned for his horse, but it can't be helped now. "Not to mention something warm to eat, and perhaps even a chance to get clean, if there's an inn. Could also get supplies for the rest of our journey, to replace what the horses took with them." Selfish beasts.
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"Yes, the horses…" The Master Bardd grumbles. "I liked that mare too. Had a good seat despite clearly not being bred for war. Still, I think I can see…buildings?" He points towards the approaching sunlight. Indeed, and a river as well. "There has to be an inn there."
He glances over at the knight. "You did well back there, when the foliage attacked. If you were able to guard me in any manner…I thank you for it."
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A modest shrug from the knight. "Such things are what we train for, live for. And I yet hold out hope that we may yet find our horses. Though likely after we return. My horse knows home, and perhaps the others would have followed." Assuming they survived but he doesn't say that.
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The horses haven't been since forever and a day. They probably ended up the property of a bandit or a happy hovel owner, if not another Knight if they returned to their stables. The forest is a bewildering place, large indeed. The buildings clustered around the river don't show much sign of being used by knights and powerful lords, but it is a respectable place. No wall, but organization in the way it clusters past the docks. Net making is obviously an industry in town given there are whole woven ropeworks drying in the sun, for all that early spring makes for questionable conditions. Take advantage of what they have. Curs and dirty urchins play in the dirty lanes, quizzical about any stranger wandering through. Travelers aren't precisely plentiful in this part of the world, but not totally unknown.
Clearly one of those wooden buildings is the tavern and for an illiterate society, the big barrels full of silt and sand out front make that plain.
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Taliesin gives him a wry smile. "Still, I thank you…and don't think you'll be hearing that again anytime soon. The thorns were simply bad luck on my part. I don't intend to need to be saved again." Grandiose words from a grandiose personality sure to bite him in the butt later on.
Emerging from the forest means adjusting eyesight to the sudden brightness of the sun and he pauses to blink a few times. Ah, there we go. The rabble of loose dogs and children mark the town as home to a few families, it seems, and he gives the young ones a friendly smile. Always start with the kids — they tend to tell no lies and if the man in the scarlet-cloth is a nice man, it means the start of a positive relationship between himself and the locals. He notes the barrels and tilts his head towards the building in question.
"That'll be the tavern. Let's go put up our feet by the fire. I'll stand drinks. Perhaps they'll even accept a tune in lieu — oh, seven hells, right. Still need to restring it." The instrument is slung over his shoulder still, the loose strings jangling in faint notes against the wood with the sway of his steps.
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Not the most prosperous village, but that's why Gareth's a knight. Because by working to make the land safer, he works to make it so that more -can- prosper. "Well, if noone needed saving, I suppose no one would need our help, which wouldn't be -entirely- bad," he admits as they approach the tavern. He glances at the lute. "If I had anything that would serve as strings, I'd offer it," he says. "Maybe they'll accept just a song." He snaps his fingers. "Spin a tale about how you're cursed, and the strings break if you, I don't know, tell a lie, or refuse to help a maiden or some such. Perhaps from pity they'll be able to produce -something- to work as strings." He's thinking, but some survival isntinct keeps him from saying, threads for making nets are almost the same as strings for a musical instrument, right?
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"They might accept a song…but I'll work on restringing it. I always carry extra lengths." He pats the satchel at his waist where the strings await usage, carefully curled and tended. "I have coin. I don't mind spending it. After all, we're alive and not gutted on gnarled branches." With a wince, he shifts the strap of the mandolin to another place on his shoulders before making the final approach to the tavern. "I'll be happy to get these scratches healed up. They itch like the pox. Not that I've had the pox, but I hear these things," Taliesin adds, glancing back at Gareth with a flash of a grin.
He opens the door to the taverna and steps inside, then off to one side to allow the Knight to follow in behind him. "This is a quaint place," he murmurs to the man, allowing his eyes to roam first. Might as well ascertain the relative nuances of the place first before stepping in further. Sometimes…rarely…the Master Bardd is not welcome.
*
The shouts ahead of the Knight and the 'other man' go on dirty bare feet and race for the hovels where their parents toil, and they will in turn. Soon enough, fifty souls are probably aware an outsider showed up and if they didn't already, they will soon. Small town life; this is how the world functions beyond the court.
The tavern in question is like most taverns, low to the ground and a single story under a thatched roof. Wood walls make for particularly nice protection against the wind and the rain. Ceramic shingles surround a fireplace in the corner that casts a fair bit of light and little warmth to dispel the clammy tang of the sea. Tables are long, rough wooden trestles; there's nowhere to sit by oneself, but it at least passes nicely. The usual haunts are around, the wenches in laps, the haunt of roast something in drippings, a musician singing a duet with another about the very worst of topics:
"An' I left her down by the river bend,
Skirts up in the air,
My brother puffing in hot pursuit,
Shouting, "Edward, you screwed the mare!"
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"Ahh, you do then?" Gareth says about extra string. "Certainly relieved to hear that." He'll look over the locals with curiosity, nodding to those who meet his gaze. Approachign the tavern, he'll idly rap knuckles against one of the casks on the way in. "Well, Master Bardd, you -may- have your work cut out for you," he says dryly enough to soak up all the spilled beer.
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"Yes, that's entirely possible," replies the Master Bardd with equal dryness, though he accompanies it with a twinkling grin. This just might be fun after all. He's sorely, sorely tempted to play "Who's Got the More Ribald Song" with the dueting musicians, but…he does have to restring that damn mandolin. Drinks and rest first.
With his long strides, he leads the way to the bar proper and slaps down a handful of coin. "Bartender! A mug of ale for myself and my friend."
*
Warriors with experience often develop a sense for incoming danger. It might be as simple as subconsciously reading their surroundings, or it might be a genuinely suprahuman sense. Whatever it might be in Gareth's case, that twinkling grin sets it off. "Ahhh, yes. Fun," he agrees indulgently, then looks for a spot at a table for him and the Bardd to sit while the former gets their drinks.
*
"I groped the lass, I topped the maid,
My pouch was bulging full,
I leapt the fence, I jumped the stream,
But I forgot about Edwin's bull!"
The chorus will be answered in kind: "Run run run, ye farmer, hike your tunic high! Run run run, ye lover, off into the night!"
The locals, of which there may be ten or so, are squished together and more than happy to raise their flagons more than a bit drunkenly.
The musicians are happily making a note of filling the air with their glad music, and Taliesin won't have much trouble getting his ale, a watery, pale brew by this time of year. It's that or the bottom of the blackest barrel for what might be partly congealed. Because ale can do that, you know. Congeal. Really. Or maybe that's eel.
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The Master Bardd glances over his shoulder at the resounding drunken carrying of the chorus and his grin never fades. Now this…this is delightful. Never in the Queen's Court does he get to indulge in the more awful songs. No, no — all pomp and circumstance and the polite veneer of manners laced ever with the sweet venom of politics. Coins are exchanged for two mugs of…rather sad liquid, but it's with an accepting shrug that he takes up the metal cups and finds Gareth amidst the carousing.
"Your ale, good Knight. I'd prefer mine darker still, but I can't complain. There's also the roast if you're hungry. I'll start with my drink, I think, and see where that goes."
Drinking on an empty stomach. Always a good idea.
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Gareth eyes the ale dubiously, takes a cautious sip, and then shrugs slightly. "I've had worse." He doesn't say when, though. "And the roast sounds good to me," he decides, the carnivore within waking up at the thought of it.
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"Here," and Taliesin pushes a coin across the table to Gareth. "Let the barkeep know you're serving yourself and go get something. We've earned the right to put up our boots and appreciate the simple things: like the roast."
He's going to sit right where he is for now and weigh the general ambience of the room. Unfortunately, the table is too crowded for him to work on restringing the mandolin. He'll need to find an unoccupied table to spread out and tweak the tuning pegs with the delicate care of appreciation for the instrument.
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Gareth takes the coin with a nod. "Simple is not a bad thing," he agrees, setting the ale down, almost not minding if it's gone when he gets back, and then stpes over to the bartender, to get some of the aforementioned roast, and lots of it.