Bard of Akivana
As a performer, Errato frequented taverns during his time with Into The Wild. It was refreshing to tell stories by firelight in a town square. Being among the crowd always built a more intimate connection than being up on the pedestal of a stage. That bond was very helpful for when he started fishing for information, but it wasn’t like he could perform at larger venues anyway… As twilight faded to night, the town slowly gathered in the square. Small towns in Drasser like Dol Todir don’t usually get much excitement, so Errato expected it would indeed be the whole town gathering.
Errato strummed the strings of his mandolin, in the way that he does, to announce the beginning of his performance. “Greetings and welcomes O fine folk of Dol Todir. I am Errato Annalis, Bard of Akivana.” Excited murmurs of recognition rippled through the crowd and ran up Errato’s spine. Every bard yearns for the day where the mere mention of their name inspires awe and anticipation in an audience. Yet for Errato, it also inspired apprehension.
Yes, The Wild. That was what the stage had become. The dramatic irony was not lost on Errato. That within the crowds he entertained lurked as many dangers as the infamous woods he was soon to his call home. That the end of each story was as likely to be met with applause as with a crossbow bolt to the chest.
Without his trusted and battle proven friends, Errato was acutely aware of his own mortality. Without them he had to start his shows standing, and with a non-musical piece, so that he could divide his attention between performing and scanning the crowd. He found several people who’s attention he had not grabbed. It wasn’t uncommon for Errato to see bored or preoccupied faces in his crowds. But that wasn’t what he was looking for.
There, in the back. The foreigner, thoughtfully mulling over the scene, over Errato. At long last Errato’s fears were justified as he locked eyes with the bounty hunter. Errato had come to terms with the idea that, in these cases, the show didn’t have to go on. He had cut his shows short in the past, and has lived this long because of it, but after his foreign friend reached a decision, it looked like Errato wouldn’t have to.
Despite Errato’s best efforts, the foreigner would not succumb to the charms of fey magics. His eyes remained on Errato for much of the performance, sitting inside a face filled with confidence, curiosity, and patience. Not unlike a cat watching a mouse it held trapped in it’s paws. Such was the fate of the hero, to face a mighty adversary on the cusp of the end of his journey. The show drew to a close with much applause, not unusual for someone of Errato’s talents. What was unusual, however, was that when the words that would bring Errato to safety passed over his lips, the air only shimmered, and he remained in the square. Impossibly, in the hunter’s hand he saw the smoldering remains of a scroll.
Errato could still see an opening. The hunter was a man of precision, inclined towards the clandestine, or he would have rushed him during his performance. As long as Errato moved quickly, he could keep the crowd between them and reach his room fast enough to escape. With rushed thanks and apologies, he pushed through towards the inn. For a moment, he lost sight of the hunter, only for a moment, and then he felt someone grab his wrist.
“Were some nice stories ya told, Master Annalis. Glad I did my ‘omework or we’d’ve never met. I got friends who’d like to hear you play. Why don’t you come wit me and I’ll introduce ya.” The foreigner expertly pointed a loaded hand crossbow at him, concealing it from the rest of the crowd. Errato turned to face the foreigner and smiled.
“Ah, a private invitation! I’d love to discuss the details, walk with me.” He leaned in close, with a sincerity not entirely faked, “Not in front of them, as my last wish.” A simple prod to be sure, but Errato’s ability to read people was one of the few skills that rarely failed him.
After a pause, the hunter gave him a solemn nod and led him away. In those few moments that the hunter searched for privacy, Errato too was furiously searching. He had to be absolutely sure this would work, as it would be his last chance. Waterskin, coin pouch, belt dagger, bolts, chest dagger, ring, thieves’ tools, boot dagger, boot dagger, cloak dagger, flask, sleeve dagger, ornate manacles, did he not have another one? He was out of time, but as sure as he would ever be.
“Now put these on before I put a hole in ya.” The foreigner let go of his wrist and Errato jumped away “To my r-AH,” his command cut short as the bolt pierced his flesh. He had to say it out loud for the spell to work. “TO MY ROOM.” The air shimmered once more and a set of stage curtains flourished across his field of view. When they passed he was in his room; his command was obeyed.
Errato collapsed against the wall, clutching his side as agonizing pain emanated from the freshly protruding crossbow bolt. Gritting his teeth, Errato tore out the bolt, spattering blood all over the room. He clawed for his staff and felt a small relief wash over him as the wound closed itself. He was only allowed a few breaths however, before being interrupted by a pounding on the door.
The foreigner had indeed done his homework. A few solid kicks and the hunter was greeted by an empty room, with a rope out the window. He ran to the window, but there was no one outside. “Bloody bastard!” ‘Ow did he… Oh ho ho ho! This is another one of your tricks. You think you’re so cleva. You city-twink-magic types don’t do no climbin’. Skin an’ bones ya are.” He turned and slashed at the air behind him. “Just you an’ me now Master Annalis, nowhere left to run.” The foreigner slowly stalked about the room. It was only a matter of time. Errato couldn’t breathe. “Now where are you, you little git.” A predator’s eyes cased the room. No prey had ever escaped him before, and neither would this one. “You magic types are all the same. You think jus’ cause you can make yourself see-through that you’re safe. But cha always miss the little things. The things no one teaches ya ‘bout in them fancy shmancy mansions of yours. The things I know.” There it was. The suspicious corner. Conveniently devoid of debris or furniture. Immaculate, save for the specs of dust hovering motionless in the air.
“There ya are.” The foreigner lunged.
Errato thanked every god he felt appropriate that his ungraceful landing hadn’t broken his concentration, or his instruments. He heard the foreigner continue talking, grunting, and exclaiming in his room behind him as he continued his ‘see-through’ journey out of town. Errato would not be sleeping tonight, even if he tried.