1. Targos

Without having to be told twice, Anders pours himself a cup of the tea and adds a generous portion of the blubber. The drink was painfully rich, but Anders had grown to appreciate it (even if his tongue did not). The warmth flows through his body, and his sinuses begin to clear. Slumping back into his chair, he lets out a sigh.

One eye opens to peer at the others. To Rayne, "Can't say as I've heard of this group. 'Round here, most folks want to stay to themselves. And especially in superstitious times such as these, folks practicing magic tend to do so behind closed doors. Might I ask what business it is you have with these scholars?" His nose is running from the steam of the tea, and Anders wipes it off on a sleeve of which it is impossible to determine the cleanliness.

Entrance into the bar brought with it that unique fragrance that bars had that let one experience of the whole gamit of life in one sniff. Oh, there were the warm welcoming smells of wood burning in the hearth and maybe a hint of yeast from rising bread but there were also those undertones of unwashed bodies and the acid contents of someone's stomach if she wasn't mistaken. Yes, Bells had certainly become familiar with bars making both her living and her home in them of late.

The petite woman began to shed her outer layer. Exquisitely soft fur of the reinder pelt that had insulated her warmth out in the bitter cold brushed against her cheek, Yes, please, a drying rack would be appreciated along with something...sweet?

Dried strips of salty fish and hard biscuit might nourish the stomach on the journey toward the ten towns but it certainly didn't feed the soul. Bells' tongue hungered for sticky delights glazed with honey and cinnamon within flaky pastry. The Southern native knew it most likely a vain hope to have the comforts of home but surely an alternative would be offered.

As the old dwarf starts talking, Rayne busies himself fixing a hot cup of tea. While drawing the steaming mug to his lips, he freezes with the cup held in mid-air at the old man's mention of the word Chardalyn. "That word...", he says with a look of surprise in his eyes, "I can't say that I heard it before, but it somehow carries a meaning to me."

Rayne puts the cup down, his tea forgotten for the moment. "A curse with a name, you say, the name 'Chardalyn'. What are its origins? Does it have anything to do with the lottery?" Rayne says as he peers intently at the dwarf.

Dark curls spilled out from under the hood. Not ebony like a raven's wing like some of her half sister's had but a dark chestnut that shone with highlight if strands caught the firelight at the correct angle. Travel had left her locks more tumbled than usually so the woman brushed her fingers through her hair trying to work out tangles.

Appearance seemed to be important to the young woman as a variety of cosmetics seemed to have been used to enhance her natural features and honeyed skin. Kohl outlined warm brown eyes that seemed to twinkle with a bit of hidden mirth. The lines drawn seemed to extend past the edge of her eye contributing to an exotic look. High cheeks could have been reddened by a touch of ocher powder or just as possible the skin was colored by the extreme cold. Although her lips, shaped much like a bow and colored like fresh raspberries, showed signs of cracking as the winter wind had stole precious moisture with only a touch.

But the application of color was not limited to the woman's face. Bright layered clothing edged with golden embroidery adorned her form. The contrasting colors with shimmering baubles attached gave the illusion of constant movement drawing attention toward the performer. It was a delicate balance the way the woman emphasize the curve of her hip by tying a scarf at her waste but was careful not to show too much cleavage. There was a power in mystery the performer exploited, in addition, to trying not to be mauled every night.

Of course, the beauty had more than her virtue to protect. Whether the giant gold hoops that twirled with an azure starburst patterned stone or the matching amulet she wore at her wrist or the clunky signet ring that took a piece of yarn wrapped around the back to enable her more delicate finger to fit...it was all jewelry. Instead of protecting the few items left from her former life, the bard didn't hide her treasures but put them on full display to the public. Who wouldn't know that the earring was hers when she made a point to tug on it as she winked to the crowd? Maybe not a perfect system of determent but it had worked so far.

And then there were the bells. Sweet sounding jingling bells that punctuated every step the woman made. The bard truly carried forth music into every place she walked. Even now while the her coat was being shrugged off her shoulders, the bells tinkled.

Confusion was clear with the first acidity response from Ma before the proprietor slipped back into her more expected friendly tone. Bells only nodded her head at the offered brandy not wanting to attract more of Ma's ire.

The older Dwarven gentleman that had manged to position himself at their table despite having some mobility issues offered the reason. Bells, never underestimate the old foxes...that grey is earned with some lessons. Bells was thankful for the explanation for the changing disposition of the matron and thought about any references to a crystal tower. Thank you for setting the record straight, Grandpa Whitesmithy, if that be the name you would have me call you by. Please, let me make my introduction to all. I'm, hopefully, known both far and wide as an entertainer of no little skill who your can always hear coming, the bloom of the desert, Bells! The bard threw her arm in the air with flourish while stomping a foot to cause her words to be accompanied by her name's sake. A pleasure to share a table with you all.

And so it began...a patron with a thick money pouch...a request for a song...tonight, it wouldn't only be bells that jingles by the end of the night. The scrape of the chair screeched as the woman pushed back from the table. Reaching for her pack, Bells unties an oil cloth wrapped around what most would call a lute but from her country of origin it was known as an uod.

Oh, it was a fine instrument made from a combination of cedar and sheesham allowing the deep resonate sound of the woods to reverberate fully through the pear body. Three decorative roses under the strings were used to enhance the beauty of the body not dissimilar to the owner's own use of outer adornment. The shortened neck lent itself well to be held by a more delicate form without a long reach. Once hoisted into her arms, an eagle's feather was used as a plectrum.

A few plucks of her strings with an adjustment bringing the notes in tune. I have spent more than one evening lost in a pint of fine ale with a table of dwarves. Have no fear I won't be able to find a familiar tune. Now the Battle of the Firedamp isn't one I know but see if this one catches the spirit.

Standing with a foot in her abandoned chair with her udo resting on her knee, a sweet sad melody floated through the barroom. As the notes flowed, attention was drawn to the central table. Conversations seemed to quite allowing the haunting words of the bard to sing a tragic story.

By Clyde's bonnie banks as A sadly did wander
Amang the pit heaps as evenin drew nigh;
A spied a young lassie aa dressed in deep mournin
A-weepin an wailin wi mony's the sigh.

A stepped up beside her an thus did address her:
"Come tell me the cause o yer trouble an pain."
Sabbin an sighin, at last she did answer
"Johnnie Murphy, kind sir, wis ma ain true love's name."

"Twanty-wan years o age, fu o youth an guid lookin
Tae wark doun the mine at High Blantyre he came,
The weddin was fixed, aa the guests were invited
That calm simmer's evenin young Johnnie wis slain."

The cave in wis heard, aa the women an children
Wi pale anxious faces thae haste tae the mine.
Whan the news wis made out, the hills rang wi thair mournin
A hunderd an twanty young miners were slain.

Nou sweetherts an wives an sisters an brithers
That Blantyre burial thae'll never forget;
An aa you young miners that hears ma sad story
Shed a tear for the miners wha're laid tae thair rest

From the moment Bells reveals her colorful and particularly noisy attire, Anders has a hard time keeping his eyes off her. It isn't from infatuation, but rather that she was antithetical to all that the North is. Color and youth and life as opposed to the cold, dark, listlessness that surrounded him day after day. Even through the rambling of the old Dwarf, he stares... only catching himself when she rises to play that song and sing aloud. It is hard to tell if he blushes from embarrassment, or if his cheeks are naturally ruddy from the cold. Passing on the brandy, he continues to sip (rather noisily) at his thick tea. When she finishes, he slides his brandy towards her, raising his piping mug in a lazy salute to good skill.

"You know, you never did say what it was that brought someone like you all the way up here, where the only survivors are codgy old Dwarves and men too stupid to head for warmer climes. And why you chose such a sad song for a notably mournful day such as this."

Rayne is stunned for a second time since arriving in Targos, listenting to Bells' tune. Although he had become acquainted with the bard during their travels he had not heard her perform until now. He lets the eerie tune wash over him, listening to the thrum of the udo and the bard's undulating voice weaving its spell.

When the song finishes, Rayne says "A fitting tune and well played. Bravo Bells," as he nods to his traveling companion, all thoughts of Chardalyn and the dwarf's tale momentarily forgotten.

Now that the group has settled in and begun a conversation, Okto can't help but feel inspired by Bells and unconsciously gravitates towards her. Everyone around the Ten Towns is so dark and dreary, it's just nice to see another face other than his own that the cold hasn't frozen yet. (Rather than RPing responses to everything that's happened,) Throughout the group's conversations, Okto continually holds a cheerful attitude and throws in helpful comments when he can.

Okto gives Bells a wholehearted round of applause when she finishes her song. He frequents all the taverns in Targos very... well, frequently, but mostly the music within them are just the drunken songs of sailors who can't sing or dance if their lives depended on it.

After Hlin makes her presence known, Okto speaks up for Granitefist, knowing the old man is getting quite frail and vulnerable in his old age, Okto immediately feels defensive of him. He says softly to Granitefist sitting beside him, "You don't have to go over there and speak to her if you don't wish to, I've heard she's bad news."

A part of a bard's job is to make sure everyone feels connected to a greater whole; a sense of community more powerful than any individual. Achieving such magic required no little skill. Not only did she need to conjure the emotions that transcended differences but afterward her validation was needed by all to assure that the moment happened. The end of the performance was an important part of the equation.

So with a small bow of her head, Bells' left Granitefist with his memories. Reaching across the table Bells scoops up the more delicate brandy goblet offered by Anders, You're a dear, before taking a sip. And don't you know that nothing soothes the soul like knowing there is another who cries? But I would be pleased to play you a more jaunty tune later. Mayhap it was the individuals pulling at her attention as Bells waved to a couple at the bar and then pointed at a table of fishermen as why she left unanswered the reason for her travels. Rayne and Okto, you're too kind.

But for some a quick acknowledgement wasn't enough. As the dwarf singled her out, Bells had hoped the summons to be lost in the translation but the dwarf was determined taking the extra trouble to make her demands request...not a good sign. Bells' instincts recognized a character best not ignored. Excuse me, gentleman, I think I'm being called for a command performance. Jingling over to the pipe wielding dwarf, I believe, I'm the girl, the bard offered with a cheeky grin.

As Bells leaves the table to talk with Hiln, the song's spell over Rayne is broken and his thoughts go back to the Granitefist's mutterings. Rayne has a strong feeling that the Kobold infestation is a distraction, not something that himself or others in the group (at least not to his knowledge), are interested in. The delivery of Battlehammer iron, on the other hand, seems like a good way to further several inquiries. It could lead them closer to Chardalyn, the demonic ore which he thinks may be tied to the group that he is searching for, and the Drawen Battlehammer smiths that Ilenos is searching for. More generally, it could provide the group with more local contacts and would help out the old dwarf, who has already helped with useful information.

"It sounds like you could use some help with that Battlehammer iron delivery," Rayne says to Granitefist, musing aloud as he sips on his hot tea, "and I can't help but be drawn to anything that might lead us to some folks who have more information on Chardalyn and its curse." He sets his tea down and continues, "I think we would be interested in some honest work if you need a hand with it."