The smoke of the tavern won out over the stink of the muddy city—a fact for which I was thankful. The hour was still early; perhaps enough so that a deal might be cut with the keeper here, though the nature of that deal might not be readily apparent to you, as you don't know me yet.
You see, this strapping figure that was I, kicking the mud off his boot in the tavern entrance, am the famous minstrel, Journo. With me, slung over my back, there rested a wooden instrument—marvelous thing—that was capable of weaving a tapestry of music that has no equal in this world or any other! It was a thing of beauty, a thing of wonder! My orpharion!
This instrument of mine was a truly rare thing, the likes of which has never been, and shall never be seen again. But a year ago, I'd had it enchanted by a wizard-man on whom the sun never stuck to very well... He offered me the service if I could but furnish him with a bottle of something strong: to make my orpharion play better than ever.
At the time, it sounded like a pretty good idea. I knew nothing about enchanting instruments so I decided to trust the shady wizard's word on the matter. Yet, what I did not know was how the enchantment would change my life indelibly.
So strong was the enchantment that I would be thrust into legend!
My orpharion could now play as easily as I could think! A tune might come to mind and suddenly, I could belt out lyric as quickly as a thrush plucks a worm from the dirt. Amazing!
And not only that, it deeply infects the moods of those around me. Once upon a time, there had been... a touch of trouble with the local Guard. And, with my trusty orpharion in hand, not only did my music stop them! But it lulled the guardsman and his two bosom companions to sleep! How remarkable.
Still, that was then. Now is another matter, wholly
Now, I'm in the entrance to a tavern haunted only by the most devoted alcoholics and the ghost of some smoke lingering around the ceiling. A rather heavy-set older woman brushes out the floor with a broom that seemed less stiff and onerous than her wiry, curly white locks.
My assumption was that: by this early hour, the keeper wanted to get the drunkards drunk quickly enough to turn them out before the well-paying travelers could arrive.
And with my help, though he knew me not yet, he could attract those very patrons.
My approach made the elder woman's brow knot in wary presumption.
"Hello—my loveliest steward of this noble hall—" I embellished, snatching her hand up and kissing her knuckles. Her ugly fingers were nubby and well-worked. "Could I beggar that you point me in the way of the keeper of this fine, fine establishment?"
She blinked at me, her face reddening a bit. Then she snatched away her hand.
"Yer nae a customer," she said, as if to herself. She glanced around the tavern, then back at me. "Yer a minstrel."
My grin broke out all over my face. I was all too happy to receive a bit of recognition.
"Oh, how ever could you tell?" To illustrate, I'd gestured to my colorful and winsome garb with a flourish.
The woman's eyes narrowed. "'Ow indeed?" she muttered.
"I've played for kings and queens," came my boast. "For the esteemed likes of you, I'd be happy to play a few songs."
Her eyes grew narrower still. "Ye can find the 'keeper' in the kitchen. He'll be wanting to hear ye play."
And so, I made my way into the kitchen. There, I found an old man leaning against the wall, his beard as gray as his hair. His head was cocked to one side, like a bird watching something with great interest.
"Hello sirrah!" my greeting rang with aplomb as I fit my legendary personage into the humble kitchens, "a fortune awaits!"—the announcement.
"Ah, a minstrel," he replied with raised, brows of scrutiny. His expression spun the tale of his boredom.
"Aye, a minstrel," I affirmed, "and I've come to play for you. For a fair price, I'll entertain your guests!"
He didn't reply.
"Well, what do you say, then?"
Still no response.
"Wouldn't you like to hear me play?" I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper.
He sighed, full of expectation, but kept his silence.
"Aye, that's right, sirrah. A private concerto, an intimate moment—a song! Just for you! From the great minstrel, Journo!"
Silence.
"If you don't want to hear me play, I'll go back out there and find another tavern to play in," I said, my voice dropping even lower.
That seemed to rouse him. He rolled his eyes. "Fine."
"Excellent!" I clasped my hands together, then quickly set about bringing my orpharion to the fore. It was a most beautiful thing, an instrument that could speak for itself.
And it did.
As I strummed, the small room filled with the sound of music. The old man's brows twitched.
The tune was quite simple, really—just a few chords with a nice, light rhythm. But the magic of my orpharion made it a song of a different sort. It was an enchanted tale of a man, his tiny boat, and the war between sea, and man, and fish, and gods.
It was a tale of woe, and love, and hope.
And it was a tale of life.
As the song came to its close, the keeper's eyes brimmed with tears. I'd guessed well, that the sea might have a tale for the big man.
"Ah, that was lovely," he said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "What is your name?"
"Journo," I replied.
"And what do you want from me, Journo?" he asked, his voice hiding a little shake in it.
"Not much, my good man—not much at all. Just a space to play, a bowl or too of your fine viands and a room for the night, if you would have it."
"I do," he said.
"Excellent!" I knocked on the face of my instrument, as if a ritual to seal our arrangement. "I'll get the rest of my things."
***
That evening, I played outside, and once I'd filled the tavern, I played inside. In my element, my music flowed as naturally as a stream.
And the patrons loved it!
They laughed and cheered, they clapped their hands, they sang along, and when I played a new tune, they'd clamor for more. A lovely night, the best way to spend it.
But that rather changed. I was taking a break, to wet my throat and to fill my bowl with the stew hanging over the fire (it was not a pleasant fare) when I was confronted. Suddenly, I felt a shadow looming over me and, turning around, I saw her. There was an immense woman, garbed in heavy furs, who had come from nowhere. She had a broad face, a broad smile, and a broad axe.
"'Allo, minstrel," she said, the last 'L' rolling in her tongue. "Dinnae mind me," she added, with a wave of her hand, "I'm just passing through."
"I—" I couldn't find my voice. The woman's furs barely concealed sturdy armor, a mail made of iron. And the axe—I'd never seen a weapon like it. It was a great thing, long and narrow, with a wicked-looking edge and a round, flat head to it.
"I'm sorry?" I squeaked.
She laughed, a hearty and terrible sound. "Yer a minstrel, ain't ye? Aye, I can tell by yer lute. Well, then, lil' minstrel, I'd be obliged if ye'd entertain me for a bit," the voice of this woman put me in the fur of a particularly small mouse to be toyed with by a particularly vicious jaguar.
"Oh, sure, of course," I said, my voice cracking a little. "I've got a few new tunes, just for you!"
She grinned and stepped closer. "Good, I'm a big fan of new things. But," her breath was hot and smelled hard of mead, "Yer in me way."
"I!" the panicked syllable escaped my throat like a terrified fox.
"Aye, ye, minstrel. 'Tis time to move on."
"But I've only just begun! Please, I'll play something else!"
She slowly blinked at me, her mouth curled in amusement. "... Of the stew," she clarified.
Staring blindly, I shook my head, then whipped my gaze behind me. Yes—there was the stew. Then, back to the terrifying goddess of war that loomed over me. Yes, there she was.
Ah, of course! I was in her path!
"A—hahaha," I laughed nervously, "Of course, please excuse me," swiftly I slipped out of her way.
She rolled her eyes and passed, as if dismissing me. "It's fine," she said, but her tone was sharp, like a knife.
As she busied herself with filling her bowl, I made myself scarce. Soon, my bottom was firmly planted on the stool from which I regaled my audience and I spent several hours enjoying my work there. Many, many coins were scattered at my feet and, by the end of it, I was a richer man!
"Thank you, thank you all," their generosity was very liberal and I couldn't have been happier.
But happiness never lasts, does it?
As I'd approached the stairway to the room I'd been promised by the keeper, I felt a heavy hand fall on my shoulder. I knew then that my very life was in jeopardy.
Slowly, so slowly, I turned my head back to see the owner of the hand and my fears were confirmed. It was she! The immense juggernaut of woman!
"A—hahaha," my nervous laugh performed its encore, "ah, yes. Did you enjoy the songs?"
"Aye, lil' minstrel," she said, her tone as dark as night. "I did indeed."
"Ah, good. Then I'll be off!"
She snorted, then took hold of my arm. "Where're ye goin', lil' minstrel?" her grip was most convincing, "there's yet entertainment t' be had." The words growled in her throat.
I gulped. Hard.
***
Her rooms were much the same as mine were, the tavern could afford little better, though somehow they seemed colder, darker, and lacking any mirth. Perhaps it was the company which cast the dour mood of the place.
As she entered, she shrugged off her heavy fur-lined cloak, revealing an intricate cuirass with a certain lupine motif. On the right body, it could be dazzling, and from what I could tell—hers was certainly an impressive specimen. To lie and say that she was built like a brick shithouse would not be doing her justice. She was massive, and the armor made her seem even larger.
"So... ah—you're a warrior then?" I asked, hoping to draw her out a little.
"..." she shot me an inscrutable glance and said, "Nae, I'm a lord's maid." Her sarcasm was as sweet as rotten milk.
"Aha!" I cried, clapping my hands together, "Yes yes, I like your humor. You... that was... that was humor, right?"
"Nae, minstrel, nae," she replied, shaking her head. "I dinnae have a sense o' humor."
"Well, no, I suppose not, but you were—"
"I am nae a lord's maid, if ye need t' ask. I am a mercenary, known as the Black Rose. Call me Breda."
"Ah, well, that makes much more sense now!" my smile beamed.
She gave me a look of scrutiny, one which seemed to say, 'Do you really think so?' She looked me up and down, her eyes were cold, a dark color I couldn't place. "Strip," she said.
My eyes fluttered, "Excuse me?"
"Aye, strip," she repeated. "And then, onta tha bed with ye."
"I... ah, but—" Though I'd been in the midst of delivering my complaint, she seemed to care naught for it and began stripping my own armor. It was in this that I saw certain prospects which aligned with my own interests.
First, there were her pendulous breasts one of which had a swirl of dark ink in the shape of thorned vines, a tattoo which was most attractive. Then came underclothing and I saw the thicket of her pubic hair, a shock of red. Her whole body was an artful rendition of human potentiality. Tall, muscular yet lithe and graceful in her movements. As her hood fell, it was like a rose blossoming, red, immense red, billowing down from her head. The light, without her cowl, showed that her eyes were a deep forest green.
It would be impossible not to admire it.
Surprisingly, when I allowed myself to study it, her face had a youthful, somewhat handsome look about it. Perhaps it was the fact that her hair was wild and unkempt, but the her soft features seemed to be contrary to her build. Still, I could see something of the feminine in her.
Then her eyes flicked up to meet mine. Her expression was a curious one. "What're ye waitin' for?" she asked.