Closed [The Kelp Bar] Curious Circumstance

[Siral Avadur]

16th Day of Winter, 512 A.V. The hearty laughter and cheer did not alter in the least as the door to the quaint sea-side bar was opened, and then shut. No one paid a semblance of their attention to the hooded man who walked in, as he made his way towards a corner of the bar. Everyone simply assumed it was a man down on his luck, and none cared to join him. Siral rarely came to drink, at least of his own pocket, and rarer still was his appetite, as long as it was his coin. Such was a bard's life, and his manner, and his disposition. All kinds of words given to describe one simple attribute; Siral was dramatic, as he might put it. More than that however, Siral was a musician, and an uninhibited one at that. This would not be the first time he brandished his flute in the most boisterous of scenes, nor would it be the last. And even so, as he pulled the long wooden instrument from it's padded sling, a man would be hard-pressed to find even a remnant of a scratch, such was the care given to it. An instrument is an extension of a minstrel's soul, and this one more than most. The gods be damned if anything came to pass on Siral's flute, and the gods save whoever caused it. But such matters were out of mind at this particular moment, as the rhythm and tales had infected Siral's mind so completely know, that to him, the room was deathly silent. And That simply wouldn't do. "Oh hear me, brothers, and hear me well, for I have a song a story and a tale to tell," sang the somewhat coarse voice from the corner of the bar. Siral was a pretty poor singer, as anyone could tell you, but such frivolities as opinion did not deter him. The stories needed to be told, and if the song was in him, how could Siral refuse one in favor of the other. Obviously, the solution is simply to embrace both, and by now Siral's minstrel-side had fully engulfed him. The bar settled slightly, but only for the chuckles and sneering of the crowd at what they believe is a drunk about to ramble on. Oh, the naivety. "Now listen to my tune, and spare me your winks, although I wouldn't be adverse to a couple of drinks..." And as he trailed off, his hands conducted a subtle flair while the flute was brought to his lips, and from the corner of the bar came a vibrant melody. The crowd was suddenly calm and rapt, if only by the force, and surprise, of the tone. And all from an inconspicuous man sitting aside with no drink, no food, and no companion. Although, Siral needed no such things at a time like this; he desired only his flute, and soon the room knew why. Song : Fingers found their places without any direction or thought, as the music flowed through Siral's lips, guided by his hands. Every note carried its own unique inflection, its own personality. But still the song maintained a casual melody, with a cheery beat as the whistling flute carried on. On and on it went, winding through progressions but always coming back to the original tune. A song on a journey, constantly leaving home, but always soon to return. Siral used to cry when he first played these songs, but those days were long since gone. His mother was with him now, as she always was in these moments, and that was enough. And on the song went, picking up pace and a jaunty beat, before mellowing down once more. The song was a story in and of itself, just as promised. While Siral prided himself on the unique tone his songs carried, he was not a pompous musician, or anything close to the sort. He did have a persona to carry however, so when the song had ended, and a few claps and cheers were given, all Siral did was give his usual smile with a dramatic nod of his head, as he carefully stowed away his most prized possession. A drink would come, or two, as well the clink of a few coins on his table as patrons came to offer their regards before heading back to the docks. But none of this was asked, or expected, and Siral always collected the gifts with a humble grace, as such was his stage-face. When it came down to it, Siral simply wished for everyone to hear the songs his mother had made, and for that, perhaps he was a bit arrogant. It didn't bother him; very little does. As the tavern regained it's usual jubliance, Siral pulled down his hood and began to sip at one of the drinks he was served, as he watched the crowd before him. He quite likes this vantage, having a sturdy wall to his back, and likes people even more. Such curious things happen to people, and there are few things Siral loves more than an interesting tale. Which is perhaps why at this moment Siral's grin widens as he sets down his drink, and gazes upon an interesting sight, given this crowd. After all, the curious always have a story to tell.

[Ayatah]

The Kelp bar was one location that Ayatah had been repeatedly told to visit. Be it her fellow students, the odd stranger she’d fall into conversation with, or even a librarian - all had mentioned the small bar that faced the sea.

So that night, Ayatah had decided to take the advice. She hadn’t been sure what to expect; in her jungle home, there weren’t taverns as such, more family gatherings, or festivals. There was no set location where one might eat or drink - and it seemed a queer idea to Ayatah.

The Kelp Bar itself seemed nice enough - though busy, and busy with people who seemed to have divulged in the notorious Kelp Beer. Ayatah chose a seat at the bar, to the side of the entrance. The barkeep greeted her inquisitively, and she politely asked for a drink of water - Ayatah had heard about the beer served here, and how foul it was to anyone who had not grown up in Zeltiva. No, I will be on the water, today, she decided as she sipped her water.

She turned her back to the bar, watching the various people around her. Most were dock-workers - she recognised them as fishmongers or sailors. Some patrons seemed to be regulars, Ayatah guessed from how the greying woman behind the bar called out and laughed with them. A young couple were kissing passionately in the corner, whilst a group of old men elbowed each other and made kissing noises behind them, roaring with laughter.

It was certainly a hubbub of activity, and Ayatah felt completely out of place. She caught the eye of a few strangers, who were either staring at her with blank curiosity, or had tried to be a little subtler. She was about to finish her drink and leave - and never return to the place - when something made the room suddenly quieten.

Music.

It was completely different to anything Ayatah had ever heard before, and she was almost hypnotised by it.

In Taloba, music was made of drums, mainly. A heavy drum beat, some singing, and lots of dancing. It was savage, aggressive and perfect to any Myrian’s ear.

But the music that came from the ordinary-looking fellow in the corner was exquisite. He was playing a flute, which created delicate notes that Ayatah had never heard before. She turned towards the sound, fully entranced - and she wasn’t the only one in the bar to be left in a near catatonic state of awe.

Myrian music told a story, but the story was told by the dancers, the music was only a soundtrack. But this flute told it’s own story - a very sad, lonesome journey was what Ayatah heard. It reminded her of her journey to Zeltiva, the horror of sailing, the dark nights and the darker waters. The image of the Flaynder Jungle faded from greenness to nothingness. It almost bought a tear to Ayatahs eye. Almost.

The song changed. Happiness flowed from the flute, the note changing and picking Ayatah’s attention more. The sense of hopelessness faded, and was replaced by optimism. The song relaxed once more before it ended, and Ayatah had to hold herself back from applauding.

She turned back to her water, but the fascination with the bar she was in and the people around her had been replaced by her intrigue in the song that had finished. And the man who had played it; Ayatah couldn’t help but steal a few looks towards him. On one occasion, she caught his eye, and she sent him a small smile.

I should congratulate himp, she decided.

Ayatah stood up, and made her way through the busy inn to the young man who had played so marvellously.

”Your song was… enchanting.” She said, with the blunt honesty that Ayatah of The Scattered Skulls was known for in her clan, ”I have never heard music like it before, but I didn’t know what I was missing.”

If I am to bring back something to Taloba after living here, it will be this song.” She thought to herself.

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||

[Siral Avadur]

Siral's smile beamed as the woman's words touched his ears. This was exactly why he felt this insatiable urge to play, and the praise to his mother's work was warm solace indeed. His arm sweept graciously to his side as he offered a place at his table, a second tankard of ale sitting before an empty chair. Something was ticking inside Siral's mind that pushed him to this, (Although perhaps if he offered everyone a seat and a drink, he'd be more popular.) No, usually people had things to do, or were simply attempting some manners. As was Siral's tendency however, this time was peculiarly different, and resonated with his whimsical nature. "Exactly, Thank you for noticing! Everyone always congratulates me or my instrument, when it is the song that does all the work. I simply give the story a voice." Siral gives a cheery chuckle to his words as he continues, his voice exuding his usual whimsy. "If you're not too busy, perhaps you'd care to share a drink with yours truly. You seem like an curious sort to be around these parts, and I'm always up for a story." Siral watched this stranger with a fascinated look in his eye, obviously an unexpected find, but not necessarily an unwanted one. It was only then that he fully took in the sight before him. The woman was a gentle contrast to her environment. Siral likened her to the lone flower breaking through the rocky ground of the mountain, and he knew how quickly such things could vanish. So he would take every moment given to him. "...A vivid image of a rose among stones, a melody of mystery and rhythmic tones..." It took a moment for Siral to realize he was thinking aloud, but he played it off with a practiced grace. Such was the life of a bard, or so he liked to believe.

[Ayatah]

The music man was a cheery individual; Ayatah could not help but notice. His smile broadened she had complimented his song, and his voice and actions were all… pretty animated. It made a change, and Ayatah found herself like his cheery disposition. When he made a sweeping gesture to offer Ayatah to join him, she found herself sitting down in the empty seat next to him.

”I think your playing was good too,” Ayatah added, ”But your right, the song was the amazing piece of it all. Did you write it?” She had not heard the song before, and it was not uncommon for bards to play their instruments on the street. It must be an original song Ayatah decided.

She considered how much to tell the kind bard in front of her. He had said that he enjoyed a story, and Ayatah was happy to oblige - to an extent. She was wary of strangers, such was the life of Myrians surrounded by their enemies in the Falynder Jungle. ”How about we swap stories?” She suggested. Ayatah had quickly learnt that information was almost as powerful as a sword, and if used in the right manner, could be as damaging.

”A vivid image of a rose among stones, a melody of mystery and rhythmic tones.”

Ayatah blinked, a little unsure how to react to what he had said. Was it a compliment? Was she the rose amongst stones? It didn’t quite make sense to Ayatah, and plus - the young man seemed to be surprised that he had said it himself. It made her chuckle a little.

”I’m Ayatah,” She decided to say, drawing attention to introductions, ”of The Scattered Skulls. Of Taloba.”

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||

[Siral Avadur]

A couple of years ago, there may have been a crack in the facade after such a question, but Siral had long since learned how to keep his emotions away from his mask. With his usual cheer, he answered, "No, it is an art of my mother's doing. I play it in memory of her, whenever I feel in a reminiscent mood." Words carefully chosen, lest they spoil the mood, Siral simply continued holding his beaming smile. He refused to let the conversation turn south, for it was much too early for this story to hit it's conflict, whatever that may be. Letting the moment pass, Siral was glad to hear her continue on. He let out a soft chuckle at her response to his curiosity, sure that today would carry a story to jot down. "Fair enough. A trade it is." Siral extended his hand across to her in a dramatic flair, to seal the deal as officially as a merchant would, when he heard a word that caused his eyes to glimmer with further curiosity. "Taloba you say? Oh my, your story has become more exciting already. I must say, you're a lot more beautiful than I imagined a Myrian to be..." Siral let out another small chuckle, giving a deep bow of his head as he mentally backtracked, his arm becoming steady once more in it's handshake. "But I digress. Siral is my name, and so you may call me as such. Or not, I'll let you decide. A bard, minstrel and entertainer are my mantles, but none more so enjoyed than that of a storyteller, as you may have noticed by now. Now then, what kind of story would you prefer, my mountain rose?" He found the simile more fitting than ever now. Siral flashed his unique half-glee/half-smirk again as he sat back in his chair, an idle finger stroking the almost invisible stubble along his chin. More dramatics and poetry, to be taken with a grain of salt, but such was the man's nature, and he dared not change a thing. This was how he was raised, and how he will live... For their sakes.

[Ayatah]

"No, it is an art of my mother's doing. I play it in memory of her, whenever I feel in a reminiscent mood."There was the usually awkwardness then. Ayatah did not know how to react to the young man’s mention of his mother’s death. She had grown up without a father, but in the matriarchal world of the Myrians, it was near impossible to imagine the loss of a mother. But from the way that the young man spoke about it, Ayatah guessed that the death had not happened recently.

His little quirks - the dramatic swish of his arms as they agreed to swap nuggets of information about each other - made Ayatah smile. He was unlike anyone she had met before, so animated and… lively. She laughed when he expressed his expectations for Myrians. It wasn’t the worse that she had heard about her maternal race. ”I’m half Eypharian,” she added, ”My mother is the Myrian. They are a gruesome race,” she joked, laughing airily.

”You may call me your mountain rose if you wish, but I will think of an equally… creative name for you in time,” she warned with a playful smile. She lent back in her chair, considering what to ask him. There was only question that was on her mind, though. ”How did it come about that music would be such a big part of your life?” She eventually asked, leaning with her elbows on the table to show her eagerness in the bard’s story.

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||

[Siral Avadur]

Siral let out a soft chuckle as she remarked on his newly-bestowed nickname. "I welcome you to try, but I warn you it may take quite a while to capture my brand of peculiarity." He enjoyed the curve of her mouth as she smiled, her strong features. A more sappy bard may have called it 'art made flesh,' but Siral knew a thing or two about keeping his mind silent at times. However, a momentary glimmer crossed Siral's eyes as he heard his guest's request. His voice came out almost on it's own melody, his expression changing tones as the cheery whimsy transitioned into an elegant grace. "Ah. A question quite common, but no less welcome." Siral cleared his throat as he prepared to spin the tale, his hands coming together in front of him as he leans back in his rough seat. "Well, I suppose the best place to begin is indeed the beginning. A child is born to a husband and wife of a travelling troupe, and that son was I. My father was an acrobat, and my mother a bard, and as it would happen I seem to have received his attitude and her talent. They're the answer to your question, my rose. The rest is a story quite winding, and would require more 'fitting' scenery for my play." Siral finished his words with a gentle smile, quite content to leave the tale there for the moment. The rest of this story does not carry as gentle a tone, after all. But Siral brushes aside such thoughts with a mental flourish, and maintains his smooth demeanor as a new story takes up his mind; one he is eager to take note of. "So, a tale for a tale. What is your story I wonder? Myrians are unique enough on their own, but Eypharian as well? My curiosity is overwhelming." Siral flashes his dramatic smirk as he props his chin upon his hands, awaiting her words. He once again lets his mind wander ever so slightly, and once again notes the unusual sense of strength within this woman, along with her beauty. Not an odd combination in his line of work, but this strength is quite different, and Siral cannot decipher why. This is going to be quite a welcome story.

[Ayatah]

”I can imagine you are hard to describe,” Ayatah agreed, an easy smile on her lips. The gentleman was unlike any other she had before, though not in an unpleasant fashion. He was certainly friendly, and happy company. And he did not stare or judge Ayatah for being a Myrian - hey, the word ‘savage had not been bought up yet!

She leaned back in her chair as she considered what parts of her own story to share. ”I… feel you may be disappointed,” she said slowly. The Myrian people were indeed fascinating to outsiders, but to one so familiar with the jungle-dweller culture, it seemed the complete norm. In fact, living in a city such as Zeltiva with mountains and stone buildings was more interesting to Aya.

She took a sip of the kelp beer in her glass, winced, coughed and then began. ”My mother was living in Riverfall when she met my father. He was a scholar, and she was…. Nothing more than a Myrian woman exploring the outside world. They could not verbally communicate, so there was no friendship between them. One night, they conceived me and that was the last time they saw each other.” Her words were well rehearsed; this was the story that Ayatah had been told by her mother countless time as a young girl. Paira of the Scattered Bones had no bad word to say about the man who impregnated her, but neither did she compliment him. Their relationship had purely been a physical one; nothing more, nothing less. ”When she found out she was pregnant, my mother returned to Taloba. And that was where I born; in the home of my blan, the Scattered Bones.” She paused momentarily, then continued, ”you say you inherited your mother’s talent and your father’s temper… I suppose I am similar. I take after my mother in some ways, but I look more like my father -- or at least I imagine I look like him.

Ayatah certainly had more similar with an Eypharian than a Myrian in terms of physical appearance: those fine cheekbones and silky gilded skin. It was hard to imagine such a woman growing up in the heady jungle of Falyndar, with the broad-shoulders and dark skinned Myrians. ”Where did you live as a boy? I can imagine that you travelled a lot with your performing parents.”

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||

[Siral Avadur]

Siral listened to his companion speak with rapt attention, his expression akin to that of an entranced child being told tales of magic and adventure. Siral was fascinated by stories, not solely for their content, but also for the simple fact that they exist. Fragments of history encased in a unique perspective that Siral could never even imagine. Tales such as these were never dull to the young bard, despite what his companions may think. Siral simply sat with an entertained smile across his face as Ayatah finished her brief origin story. There was no commentary to be said, no criticism to be had. Only the words, "Thank you," as Siral smiled gently and held the story in his mind with the hundreds of others. Such a strong memory has been called a gift of the gods, but everyone has their demons, and most would rather forget. The next question to be asked was similar to the last; not unexpected, but not unwelcome either. It was something he found himself answering often whenever he spoke of his troupe roots, as it seemed most people were quite settled in their own mindsets. "Ah well, we didn't 'live' anywhere, in the conventional sense, so I suppose the correct answer to your question would be simply our caravan. It was rare for us to stay in one place for more than a day or two, excusing festivals and the like. If I were to guess, I would say I had never stayed in one place for more than a week." Siral took another sip of his wine as the memories slowly seeped into his thoughts. Happy times, capped off with a morbid paradigm shift. Such was life however, and despite his penchant for histories, Siral knew better than to dwell on such darkness. "There weren't a lot of us, but we were family. It was a good troupe." Raising his tankard in the air for a silent cheer, the young bard took a solid drink in memory of his friends and family, before leaving the past behind once again. "But in all honesty, it was mostly a lot of walking." Siral chuckled at his own jest, turning the mood in a different direction as he thought up a change of subject. Deciding to play upon his theatrics once more, Siral decided to bring up a subject that most would not expect. But most were not Siral. "So, I'm sure you hear quite a bit of interesting rumors and names given your fascinating heritage, and color me brash, but I simply must know." Siral threw on his most serious face, and lowered his voice to a hushed tone. As if the young bard was suddenly about to conduct a deal of quite illicit substances, which he naturally would know nothing about. "They say that Myrians are the most passionate killers, while Eypharians are the most passionate lovers. That leaves me at an impasse, as you can guess, as I don't know whether to fight you or seduce you. Where do your passions lay, I wonder?" Siral's smirk could not help but come out as his lips went shut.

[Ayatah]

The simple thanks Ayatah received from Siral made her smile. Sometimes, such a modest sign of appreciation came across as much more genuine than some grand gesture, and she was happy that he had enjoyed her story. Such tales were an important part of the Myrian culture, and although they were usually told via dance, it was just as pleasant to share a story through the spoken word.

She settled down into her seat, readying herself to listen to the rest of Siral’s own tale. Her eyebrows twitched up and up as she listened; the idea of not having a specific ‘home’ was something completely opposite to her own lifestyle. Every Myrian clan lived in their own compound or village within Taloba or the jungle, and the Scattered Bones had lived in Southern outskirts of the city for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Everything was so familiar that as children, Aya and her cousins used to make minute changes to their surroundings and then test each to see if they could recognise what had been altered.

And then came his next question.

And had he been anyone else, Ayatah would have possibly punched him, or threatened him for asking such a question. But this bard was a likeable character, and he seemed fascinated with her maternal heritage - as opposed to horrified like most people were - so Ayatah merely laughed. His point was true, anyway; she could not argue against it. Still, she would need to answer carefully all the same; too brutally honest and she’d portray herself as some lunatic savage. She licked her lips, took another swig of her kelp beer (and pulled another face at the taste), the finally answered. ”It is true what you said,” she began, still wearing that same grin, ”we are incredibly… passionate killers, as you said, and that’s probably the best way to describe it. As for the Eypharians… I know little about them, so I cannot comment on whether they are particularly passionate lovers.”

Though that may explain why the two have always been my favourite hobbies…

But where did her passions lie? Even Ayatah seemed a little stumped at this. ”I… am not sure of the answer, in all honesty. For the most part of my life, my passion was hunting, and simply living the Myrian way. Then--” She faltered, just momentarily, ”then my home changed, and so did many other things. So I left for Zeltiva.” There was certainly She rolled her shoulders into a shrug before sitting upright and smiling once more, ”and what about you? What are your passions?”

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||