Teron turned his head away.
“She wants you to ask her to dance, monk,” finished the gnome. He laughed. “Hardly have your hook in the water, and already the trout are swarming!”
When the young lady returned with their drinks, Teron averted his eyes. Praxle spoke with her a moment, then gave the lass a knowing smile and tossed a sovereign on her tray for good measure.
“Hey, monk! Her name’s Kelcie!”
Teron ignored him.
By the time the serving girl returned with their food, three musicians had taken the small stage and the sounds of spirited music cut through the noise of the crowd, lightening the mood and, at the same time, making it harder to talk.
Praxle leaned over and said something to Teron. The monk shrugged in reply. Praxle repeated it. Teron shrugged. At last, Praxle cast a small spell, his swift and delicate fingers spinning the arcane sapphire energies into a specific shape. He mouthed some words, and he finished, magical motes flew to Teron and Jeffers alike. Praxle’s voice sounded in their ears, quiet yet clearly audible: “The stage must be magically enhanced.”
Praxle and Jeffers put away a prodigious amount of food between them. Teron ate lightly, tense to be surrounded by so many Thranes and uncomfortable in the unfamiliar environment.
As the last patrons finished their dinner, the pace of the evening slowed considerably. The servers supplied everyone amply with drinks, and the crowd submitted itself to the sway of the music. The musicians broke into a slow song, a melancholy instrumental piece that hushed the crowd almost entirely; only a few coughs and brief exchanges broke the melody and countermelody.
Kelcie stopped by the table again to check on the three. Teron nervously waved her off, but Praxle tugged on her sleeve and asked, “What is this song they’re playing? I’ve not heard it before.”
“It’s the Song of the Argent Stream,” she answered, and her melodious voice whispered like satin. “It’s a song of destiny, sacrifice, and redemption. The horn represents Tira Miron, and her calling. The lute represents the couatl, who pleads for her aid amid the terrible battle it fought with the demon. Do you like it?” she asked the table in general.
Jeffers nodded.
“It’s very beautiful,” said Praxle. He tilted his head to the side. “What do you think, monk?” he asked, reaching out to tap Teron on the shoulder.
Teron simply leaned forward and rested his chin on his interlaced fingers.
Kelcie’s shoulders slumped slightly as she rose.
“Another round,” ordered Praxle. He watched Kelcie leave, glanced at Teron, then quickly cast a small spell. As before, a flickering trail of cerulean motes whooshed from his hands, but this time the spell arced over the room to strike Kelcie’s ear.
She stopped in her tracks, pulled her hair back, and looked over her shoulder at the table. Praxle caught her eye and nodded wearily, an apologetic half-smile on his face. Kelcie smiled brightly and left to fetch their drinks.
The evening passed with Teron sitting tensely, Jeffers sipping herbal tea and scanning the crowd, and Praxle diving with reckless abandon into mug after mug of mead.
After several other religious pieces, the minstrels started playing a rollicking, boisterous tune that hailed from somewhere in the early years of the Kingdom of Galifar, a catchy melody that had been hijacked for any number of lyrics over the past few centuries.
“Come now, everyone!” bellowed the minstrel playing the tambor and drums. “Let’s Fight!”
The crowd cheered, adding the clashing of tankards and the thumping of tables to the rolling rhythm. Their drunken voices boomed cacophonously, filling the walls of the tavern with the heady sound.
Praxle leaned over to Teron, his head wobbly from too much drink. “What in Khyber’s corset is this?” he yelled, and the crowd charged into the second verse:
“This is a far cry from that Song of the Silver Hooplah,” Praxle said. “They—”
“I told you they were bad,” yelled Praxle over the din. “I swear this is all they ever think about!”
Praxle stood up, “Right!” he yelled. “That’s it!” He stomped off quickly for the minstrels, carrying his mead and casting a transmutation spell as he walked, Jeffers, scanning the room for potential trouble, didn’t sense him leave until it was too late to prevent him without making a scene, and with it, a bar fight.
Teron pushed his seat back and sat at the edge, ready to leap to his feet.
Praxle leapt up onto the stage and signaled the musicians to keep playing. Surprised, but sensing the attention of the crowd, they obeyed. Praxle turned to face the audience. “Are you ready for new verse?” he asked. His magically augmented voice, combined with the enchanted effects of the stage itself, carried unnaturally well. The crowd cheered. “I said, are you ready for new verse?” he boomed, nearly pitching himself off the front of the stage with his effort. The crowd cheered again, much louder.
Praxle drew himself up as far as his three-and-a-half-foot stature allowed, and broke into a hearty tenor rendition.
The crowd roared its approval as Praxle drained his mug. Then he spread his arms wide in thanks and fell face first off the stage, the smile never leaving his lips.
Teron stood, but Jeffers was already moving toward the intoxicated gnome, so he sat back down. The half-orc picked up Praxle gently and carried him out, stopping by to collect Teron on the way.
The monk stood and followed Jeffers out of the Phaire. Jeffers kicked the door open and stepped outside with his master, but just as Teron reached the door, he felt someone grab his right elbow. He jerked around, right arm moving to break the grip, left arm readying to strike.
He found himself face to face with a pretty oval face framed by a mane of rather disheveled auburn hair.
“You’re leaving?” Kelcie asked, her eyes pleading. “Don’t you want to dance with me?”
Trapped in an utterly unfamiliar situation, Teron fought his way out of it as he had been trained to do: aggressively and without reservation. “Yes,” he said with a candor that startled him. “I’d love to. But I’ve never danced.”
He opened his mouth to say something else, but then turned away and moved purposefully after his two companions.
Kelcie stared after him, speechless. Then she turned back into the Phaire, walked over to the service counter, and slammed down her tray. “Roadapples!” she spat.
The one-eyed man behind the counter nodded.
15
Predatory Nature
Eyes bleary, head swaying side to side, Praxle strained to focus his intoxicated brain as he worked his way through a spell. At last the tendrils of mystic energy coalesced properly, and he raised his hands to his face. The energies swirled around his head, then wormed their way into his hair and disappeared into his scalp.