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1st Autumn 517 AV
"Speech"
Knock. Knock...
The sound came from the door. Baran, blissfully ignorant of his surroundings, lay in ugly slumber on the unmade bed. His gamba was the only thing in good condition in the room. Everything else was a mess. Scribbled scratches of parchment cluttered the floor, and a rain-stained cloak left a damp patch on the rug. The shutters clunked gently in the wind. Back by the door, the handle began to turn, but the key had left it locked and so the stranger at the door swore and left off. The man lying asleep thought he could hear mice, or rats, in the wall. But the dream couldn't wake him. Not even when the stranger unlocked the door, and came in.
Hands. Hands were gripping his throat, making him choke and stutter... "Hey, HEY!" He awoke, startled, the dream having finally convinced him to be concious. He wasn't being strangled to death, but there were rough hands pulling him rudely upright. "What is it, what d'you want?" Baran's voice was cracked into a thousand pieces, a consequence of late nights and plentiful smokes. A jagged frown cut his forehead and he blinked through the nighttime that still cast clouds over his vision, even though it was now daylight, and had been for a while.
The figure that had invaded his room was tall, vaguely menacing and certainly more well-presented than the scruffy wastrel musician that Baran had now become. The stranger's voice spake, and the voice sent a shock through his system. "You have not paid your rent... sir. So you're out. Others want this room." That was enough to wake him fully, and finally he fully gazed at the intruder, only to discover that it was Tarsin himself. Baran pulled away, peeling back and taking in a gasp of the musty air of the room to steady himself. Think, petcher, think. "I can pay the rent. I can." It was a lie... at the moment. He couldn't think of a way to pay, not just yet.
Ever since the reoccurring dreams of a band of mysterious musicians had overtaken his every waking and sleeping moment, Baran had slipped further and further into a state of atrophy. With his every thought focussed on trying to understand what, exactly, was the subject of his dreams, he had forgotten or cast aside the fact he needed money to pay rent and buy food and ultimately to survive. Now he was virtually penniless and half-starved, fed only on a diet of tobacco, ale, and the scraps of food that he sometimes remembered to buy for himself. If only he had known how close he was to losing his freedom entirely perhaps he would have spent his seasons differently, but it was too late now. Or almost too late.
"Look, we know you cannot pay. Just gather your things and leave. This is not an option. I'm being kind too. In fact, I'm half-tempted to just kick you out and take your things as payment." The man began to take stock of the room, and finally Baran's survival instinct kicked in. Not for himself, but for his gamba that lay like a tantalising treasure amidst the scrapheap of the rest of the room. "No! Okay, hear me out. Please." Baran would beg and plead if he had to. An idea was forming as he spoke, and he knew that if he didn't he would be on the street with nothing but the clothes on his back.
"I'm a musician. Yes? That's a skill not many have, and I'm good at what I do. People like what I play. I have experience of many, many cities in Mizahar. I bring entertainment and variety to this... to this beautiful city. Why couldn't I give some of this, no, all of this to your establishment? I could make it the place for anyone and everyone to stay. I'll play for free, every night. No!"
"I will organise a concert. For everyone in Ravok. And I will give all the profits back to you. All of 'em. I'm completely certain I can get a nice amount of mizas. I won't just pay back my debts, I'll make you double what I owe." He wasn't certain in the slightest, but a grand plan was sure to impress. Whether he could pull it off or not was another question, but it would have to come later. Desperate times called for desperate measures, after all.
Sleep still held him in it's insidious embrace, but now he was fighting it rather than letting himself drown. Although the incessant drum beat of the dream still wore away at him, the musician ignored it for the first time in a long while. All his attention and hope was now focussed on Tarsin. His home, his reputation, and although unknown to him, his life were on the line. All of it hinged on the verdict of the man that stood judgementally above him.
"Speech"
Knock. Knock...
The sound came from the door. Baran, blissfully ignorant of his surroundings, lay in ugly slumber on the unmade bed. His gamba was the only thing in good condition in the room. Everything else was a mess. Scribbled scratches of parchment cluttered the floor, and a rain-stained cloak left a damp patch on the rug. The shutters clunked gently in the wind. Back by the door, the handle began to turn, but the key had left it locked and so the stranger at the door swore and left off. The man lying asleep thought he could hear mice, or rats, in the wall. But the dream couldn't wake him. Not even when the stranger unlocked the door, and came in.
Hands. Hands were gripping his throat, making him choke and stutter... "Hey, HEY!" He awoke, startled, the dream having finally convinced him to be concious. He wasn't being strangled to death, but there were rough hands pulling him rudely upright. "What is it, what d'you want?" Baran's voice was cracked into a thousand pieces, a consequence of late nights and plentiful smokes. A jagged frown cut his forehead and he blinked through the nighttime that still cast clouds over his vision, even though it was now daylight, and had been for a while.
The figure that had invaded his room was tall, vaguely menacing and certainly more well-presented than the scruffy wastrel musician that Baran had now become. The stranger's voice spake, and the voice sent a shock through his system. "You have not paid your rent... sir. So you're out. Others want this room." That was enough to wake him fully, and finally he fully gazed at the intruder, only to discover that it was Tarsin himself. Baran pulled away, peeling back and taking in a gasp of the musty air of the room to steady himself. Think, petcher, think. "I can pay the rent. I can." It was a lie... at the moment. He couldn't think of a way to pay, not just yet.
Ever since the reoccurring dreams of a band of mysterious musicians had overtaken his every waking and sleeping moment, Baran had slipped further and further into a state of atrophy. With his every thought focussed on trying to understand what, exactly, was the subject of his dreams, he had forgotten or cast aside the fact he needed money to pay rent and buy food and ultimately to survive. Now he was virtually penniless and half-starved, fed only on a diet of tobacco, ale, and the scraps of food that he sometimes remembered to buy for himself. If only he had known how close he was to losing his freedom entirely perhaps he would have spent his seasons differently, but it was too late now. Or almost too late.
"Look, we know you cannot pay. Just gather your things and leave. This is not an option. I'm being kind too. In fact, I'm half-tempted to just kick you out and take your things as payment." The man began to take stock of the room, and finally Baran's survival instinct kicked in. Not for himself, but for his gamba that lay like a tantalising treasure amidst the scrapheap of the rest of the room. "No! Okay, hear me out. Please." Baran would beg and plead if he had to. An idea was forming as he spoke, and he knew that if he didn't he would be on the street with nothing but the clothes on his back.
"I'm a musician. Yes? That's a skill not many have, and I'm good at what I do. People like what I play. I have experience of many, many cities in Mizahar. I bring entertainment and variety to this... to this beautiful city. Why couldn't I give some of this, no, all of this to your establishment? I could make it the place for anyone and everyone to stay. I'll play for free, every night. No!"
"I will organise a concert. For everyone in Ravok. And I will give all the profits back to you. All of 'em. I'm completely certain I can get a nice amount of mizas. I won't just pay back my debts, I'll make you double what I owe." He wasn't certain in the slightest, but a grand plan was sure to impress. Whether he could pull it off or not was another question, but it would have to come later. Desperate times called for desperate measures, after all.
Sleep still held him in it's insidious embrace, but now he was fighting it rather than letting himself drown. Although the incessant drum beat of the dream still wore away at him, the musician ignored it for the first time in a long while. All his attention and hope was now focussed on Tarsin. His home, his reputation, and although unknown to him, his life were on the line. All of it hinged on the verdict of the man that stood judgementally above him.
.
