Dastardly Gentlemen (Open)

[Ichabod]

A broad shouldered man stood on a dock, holding his cloak tight to his body against the cold, his hood up. Fog rolled in from over the murky waters, moving past the tall man's knees. He stood with a large group of other pilgrims, all wanting passage back to the mainland. However with the current state of things, it did not look like a trip would be happening today. An Etrurian constable stood at the edge of the dock, addressing all the people who stood before the Fiery Maiden. He spoke loudly, ignoring all complaints from the would be passengers, "People, people, people! I have no way of making a storm go away now do I? The captain says he won't sail without the word from his fortune teller that the ship won't get swept up in a gale. As the authority of the port, I am required to handle all grievances between you and the captain of your vessel. If you are so upset by not being able to depart, you should simply have chosen a different captain."

The man turned his nose up, and walked through the people crowded on the dock. As he walked away, complaints were hurled at his back by everyone assembled. The Fiery Maiden was the only ship in the port offering passage to civilians at anywhere close to an affordable range. For this reason, the insults hurled at him were not of a particularly high brow variety. As the broad shouldered man let his hood fall, he ran his head through his well kept purple hair. Ichabod's words weren't particularly high brow either, "Well, aint this jus' a f****n' peach."

[Ichabod]

Ichabod walked with a swagger as he left the docks behind him. The unintelligible grumbles of all the surrounding passengers hit his ears, but the burly man simply ignored them. He was as upset as any of them, he wanted to get a move on just like the rest of them, and he had more reason than any of them to want to take the Fiery Maid. It was the only passenger ship that didn't have a stop in Etruria, and Ichabod wanted desperately to avoid stopping in the Theocracy. If some priest of Elimine caught wind of his staff, he'd be set upon immediately. Either they'd conscript him for one of their bloody invasions, or grill him for how he could use healing magic outside of the church. He called it grilling because heat was certainly involved.

The purple haired healer shoved his way into a tavern, not bothering to check the sign. All he wanted now was a chance to get smashed, outside of that, he didn't care where the day went. He hurried over to the bar and plopped his bulk down on a bench. He tapped the bar until a man approached him, "Vodka. Ilian. Hard." The other man nodded and walked away. After a few moments, the barkeep sat a glass in front of the burly healer, and poured a tall order of the Vodka. Ichabod threw up a pair of fingers at the man, then took a deep gulp of the clear drink. It was disgusting as always, his mouth feeling like every inch of his tongue and cheek were about to retch. Ichabod slowly let his face twist itself back to its natural self, then immediately took another drink. He winced a bit less at the taste, his mouth still numb from the first drink. As he set the glass back on the bar, he heard something, a lute playing. It was either that or a person drowning a cat.

Ichabod turned his head slightly, just enough to see a bard sitting at a table in the corner of the tavern. Ichabod threw back the last of his drink, his face wrenching just a bit. He strolled over to the bard, a jaunt in his step. Stepping in front of the bard, he bent down to look the seated man in the face. The man abruptly stopped playing. Ichabod stretched his hand out, "Why don'tja hand yer lut over ladie?" He flashed the man a genuine smile. The bard shook his head and said, "It's not for sale." Ichabod laughed, "I'm no' gonna keep it." The other man cautiously let Ichabod take his instrument.

The burly man spun and leaned on the table, strumming the lute for a few quick seconds. He quickly tuned it, then gave it a check. Better. He played the opening notes of a sad song he knew, but changed his mind. Licking his lips, Ichabod strummed out the first notes of "Sacaen Lady." A few men in the tavern laughed, a few simply smiled. When Ichabod began singing, a few mouthed the words along with him as he sang, "I fought many nights and days, with a number of men in a number of ways, and you'll say we were crazy, but my friends and I fought for a Sacaen lady. I won from the first to the very last bout, when I looked in her eyes I saw there was doubt, for how could she not think it was shady, for a man of the world to fight for a Sacaen lady. I raced every horse and out-shot ev'ry bow, and there was only one thing that she wanted to know, she said 'what will ya do when our love it grows rainy', I said, 'well I'll fight for an Ilian lady.' Hey hey hey Sacaen lady, hey hey hey, Sacaen lady. Hey hey hey hey hey hey-a hey-hey-o. I fought to the very last breath for a Sacaen lady." All the men in the bar cheered, many of them lifting their glasses with their cheer. Ichabod smiled at the bard, it was always good to start with a favorite. He considered his next song, then licked his lips.

[Iadra Zobek]

The sky hung over her head, thick and dark. As oppressive as it was depressing. Some people loved the rain, they heralded it as the catalyst of life and growth. Change and development of the world. After all, was it not the rain that brought life giving water to the world? The very thing that encouraged the growth of such emerald wonders as the trees beside her? She needed to be thankful for everything, even rain. Just... she kinda hated it. Ever since she was young. She would sit in her room, putting off some lesson or another just to watch the dark skies cry. It filled her with melancholy, it was times like this she remembered her father most of all. She would watch outside her little window in the abbey, watching the dirt road that lead into the world beyond. She would watch as the soil churned and morphed into mud, and she would hope. She would hope that someone would come in on a horse, and that they would save her from the world she had grown to hate. Her father would return and tell her it's alright, that she could come home and they could be a family again.

Teenage foolishness no doubt, but to this day rain just filled her with such a sad feeling of nostalgia. Her heart sank as the storm soared in. The sky danced with streaks of light while the thunder rumbled in the distance, and the fog rolled in like an uninvited guest. A storm was coming, if it wasn't already here. Who knows how long it will take to clear? She certainly didn't. Unsurprisingly the ship she was going to sail on was delayed, and while unsurprising it was moreso disappointing. The western isles were not the type of place one lingered if given the choice. Well that was unfair, plenty of people live fulfilling lives here in the western isles and it was wrong to consolidate them in such a broad stroke. What she could say however is that the western isles were not a place for her.

The air smelled of wet dog, and now she was missing Setenta. If only he could be here with her but... In either case her ship wasn't sailing today. There wasn't much she could do right now. Well she could take another ship, but she had her heart set on the Fiery Maiden. She wasn't in a rush to head to Etruria, she knew next to nothing about the place these days. If there was anything more dangerous then an enemy, it was an unknown enemy. Could they be searching for her because of her father? Seemed unlikely they would care after all this time, but it seemed like an unnecessary risk she simply did not need to take.

Perhaps she should return to the inn? It would be foolish to pay for another night if there was no guarantee she'd be there all night. Maybe she should try to wait out the storm? It can't last all day. Or she hoped it couldn't, it might. Just to prove her wrong. So she entered the local tavern instead, it seemed she wasn't alone in this line of thought. The pub was packed with unruly and grumpy men, unsatisfied about the situation with the ship. Drowning their sorrows in alcohol and badly performed music. National pastimes of unhappy men. The music in the tavern, if it could be called that, was more of a mask drowning out the shouting then anything resembling a tune. The smell of alcohol was thick and powerful in the air, but it bothered her little. She's traveled with mercenaries who could down an entire keg of mead and beg for more. Being on the road sort of corrupted her in that way, just a bit.

Her cloak was pulled up around her head and drenched. Instead of lowering her hood, she kept it up. She'd prefer if no one saw her face, be unsolicited if it was possible. Right now she wasn't a priestess, just another traveler. It would be best if it stayed that way. The worshipers of Elmine in the Western Isles weren't the same as the abbey where she was raised. They say they were followers of Elmine, but that was just lip service. They were followers of Kraft. They wouldn't even deny it either, as to them Kraft and Elmine were one and the same.

Then the wailing of the rickety lute grew silent. Instead it was replace by a rough growling. Not unpleasant, but unexpected. The voice felt real though, that was something that couldn't just be picked up. Less like the trained bards of Etrurian fame, more like the man traveling the road who picked up music to keep his spirits up. To be honest, she preferred the latter. He sang some song she's never heard before, something about a... Sacaen lady? Odd. She couldn't say she understood the meaning of the ballad, but then again she's not a soldier fighting for some Sacaen lady.

She clapped when he finished, but it was only drowned out by all the rowdy and somewhat inebriated cheers. Then she thought to herself. Maybe she could ask, couldn't hurt anyways. "Excuse me, do you know any Etrurian songs?" She called out to the man with the lute, a big man with a shock of purple hair. "I'm feeling a bit homesick these days." A few people gave her an odd look, but that was to be expected. She was in a wet cloak in the middle of a bar, had no alcohol, and was talking about being homesick for Etruria. Of course the western isles were filled with Etrurians, so it wasn't exactly an oddity or anything. In fact she could have sworn she heard one or two people call out a 'yeah!' in response to her request.

[Ichabod]

Ichabod had been prepared to break into another song much like the first. An Ilian diddy about gambling this one, but before the purple haired man could launch into it, a voice he didn't expect in the tavern broke through the rowdy calls of the men. He looked up, shocked at the feminine voice trickling from a cloaked face, though if Ichabod strained his eyes, he could see by the way the rain soaked her robes that the figure was a woman. An Etrurian song, wasn't that perfect? The last thing the burly man wanted to think about, and someone made a request! Still, he wasn't one to deny someone a song of their home. Even if that person's home was run by a group of people who wanted to question him.

His face broke in as soft a smile he could make. "An Etrurian song? Well, I suppose that'll do just as well. Don' know very many Etrurian songs that're very much fun there. So if'n nobody minds, I'll sing somethin' a bit slower." He brought his meaty fist to his mouth and coughed, then returned the fingers to the strings, and began to produce the first low notes of The Boy I left Behind. It was a rough song for him to sing, but he sang it much better than the only other song he knew from the land of the Saint. He raised his voice to sing the higher notes in the beginning of the piece, knowing the words would soon stick in his throat. "Sweet Samuel don't weep, your da will be back soon. I have to go and conquer this great big world for you. My precious little boy, you deserve so far better, than anything your poor father could pray to give to you. I'll send you back a toy, and I'll write you many a letter, so you'll know where your foolish pappy marches to. When the days are short and warm, know your father feels no storm. When the day is short and cold, know he longs for you to hold, his finger even only this last time."

The first bit of moisture formed in Ichabod's right eye. He always started to get emotional when he had to lift his voice to sing the word 'last.' It was simply the word. The man who'd first put the words to music could have left the word natural, so that it was difficult to notice, but instead he singled it out. The father knew that his boy had already held his finger the last time either would see each other.

Sweet Samuel, back at home, wish I could see how he's grown. He had a strong set of hands and a pair of honest eyes, a strong heart that shows when he cries. He'll work the fields when he's big, a plow under arm, and live far in the country, safe and sound from harm. Samuel my boy with a future long and bright, how I think of him on ev'ry cold wintry night. As my fingers ache and shiver, wonder when I'll be delivered, back home safe to Samuel. Ichabod mentally prepared himself, but could already feel the water rimming on his eyelids growing heavier. "Sweet Samuel don't weep, though I know you wish to die. Put on a brave face for your ma when they tell you that I died. You meant everything to me, and I miss you now'tht I'm gone, and I hope you go through life without a war to be called on."

The burly singer shoved the lute back in its owners hands as he quickly brushed a few tears away from his eyes. There were no cheers, but he saw a few other men wipe their face, and no man neglected to applaud. It wouldn't have mattered the quality of Ichabod's performance, that song tended to get the same reaction no matter how it was played. Ichabod smiled and said, "Well, 'might be able t' play s'methin' a bit happier th'n that in a bit. Be needin a drink first." He walked over to his seat from before he began playing, and as he sat down, the misty eyed bartender poured him another glass.

[Iadra Zobek]

Now this was a song she's heard before. Not in any parlor filled with debutantes lazing away the day as they awaited for their husbands to return, but instead when she snuck out of her home. Sometimes her sister, Sonia, she would shirk off their lessons for the day and go out into the town. She was such a confident and strong willed woman, while Iadra was neither. She couldn't dream to leave without permission unless she was being bolstered by the disobedience of her sister. Still she remembered those afternoons far better then the fiftieth lesson about the proper etiquette to use at a dinner table. In the rougher underworks of Etruria, outside the gilded land of nobles where she lived, people lived lives that seemed alien to her. The girls there were rambunctious and foul mouthed, just as every bit as crude as any little boy, perhaps even more. The little boys were always talking about being soldier, or knights, or mages, or heroes, anything violent really. Most of the boys she knew wanted to become statesmen or governors. The songs sang in the poorer neighborhoods were rough and sad, unlike the pleasant lilting melodies she had been taught to play. Of course it's been so long since she's played the organ she might as well have never learned.

That was where she heard this melody for the first time. In the underbelly, where everything wasn't perfect. Where people had to worry about where their next meal came from, and turned to song to ease their minds of worry. Emotional songs that tug at the heart, and reminds people that they weren't all alone. In a way that was the purpose of music. It's a language like any other, and all a musician wants to do is talk to the ones listening, and the ones listening want to hear.

She never understood the song before now. It's been so long since she's heard it after all. That was before she knew strife, before she knew the feeling of being abandoned, or the fear of abandoning others. While most probably could feel the pain of the one going off to war, her heart lied instead with the young boy left behind. It was unfair to compare her life to his. She wasn't abandoned as a child, but...

She could feel the pain in the man's voice. This song was hard on him, and while she almost felt guilty for asking that of him, she also felt a strange intimacy. Music could do that. It felt a bit unfair in a way. That she was offered a small glimpse into someone else's life when she herself was a complete stranger.

When he finished, she saw him return to his seat. She decided to come over to thank him personally. It was the least she could do, after all that didn't appear to be a very pleasant song for the man to sing. The song also hit her request perfectly, it reminded her of home. Of a time before she worried that it would all just collapse on itself because of one man at the top.

"Let me pay for that." She smiled as the waitress came and poured him a drink, walking over to his table. She reached up and pulled down her hood before continuing. It was only polite to look a person in the face when speaking to them, especially if the reason is to give thanks. Hiding behind a hood was unbecoming and rude. Flecks of water dripped from her bangs as they stuck to her face, the hood kept the rest of her head merely damp-ish, but the front was soaked from the rain. Hopefully she didn't look like a mess.

"I wanted to thank you for the song, it wasn't the most optimistic of songs but Etruria is hardly the most pleasant of places. Still it reminded me of a home I hadn't seen in years." It was better if she left the details out, they weren't in Etruria but the western isles were full of Etruria's men. "Do you mind if I take a seat?" She asked as she gripped the back of one of the chairs set up to the table. She wasn't about to invite herself in to someone else's space, especially if they were emotional for whichever reason.

[Ichabod]

Ichabod lifted his glass to his mouth as the woman sat down next to him. He looked at her only from the corner of her eye as she offered to pay for his drink. As she revealed her face from behind the hood, he realized peripheral vision wouldn't do. He turned to her, taking all of her appearance in, and smiled, puuting his glass down without taking a drink. "Ne'er had a pretty woman off'r me a drink before. Usu'lly t'other way around." She thanked him for the song, and addressed the grim subject of it, but appeared genuine in her appreciation. "Aye, 'ts not a v'ry happy tune that. Nor is the land 't comes from. 'R so I hear, 'aven't been there m'self. No' the friendliest place though. Glad I could bring up a good mem'ry."

The burly healer was just about to offer the woman a seat when she asked if she could have a seat. "Go ahead miss..?" Ichabod attempted to bait the woman for her name. Miss was likely not the proper honorific, if her voice was any indication. She spoke like a noble, like she had spent her childhood days reading and reciting poetry, where commoners had worked the field. Or in his case the sword. He took a small sip of the vodka, his mouth only twisting in the right corner. He had forgotten how useless it was to nurse vodka, all you did was put too much time into tasting something you didn't want to drink.

[Iadra Zobek]

"Well you performed a service for me, quite well in fact, so the only proper action is to see that you are paid for your work." She rationalized it away but smiled calmly. She felt a bit saddened about his dislike for Etruria, but it was not something she could fault him for. If only Etruria was as it had been a decade ago, before Kraft's rise to power. No one besmirched the nation then, no one scoffed at the very mention of it, and no one had to lie about where they were born. It hurt her heart, but not because of his words, but the fact that his words rang true. "Well good may not be the right word. The song made me remember my home, but rarely are the strongest memories good ones." Her voice fell but her smile did not. "It is appropriate to be sad sometimes. I believe that the feeling of sorrow helps us realize the joys in life. A good memory does not stand out when it is surrounded by good memories."

She chuckled lightly to herself. "Though I am not implying your song made me sad. I suppose I am simply homesick for a land that very much does not exist. The Etruria in which I was raised is not the same Etruria we have now." She chose her words carefully, toeing the line between forlorn nostalgia of the past and outright dismissal of the current. Such a thing was blasphemy, and blasphemy was not tolerated. Opponents to Kraft were dealt with harshly, punished severely, and they served as examples of what happens to disbelievers. While Western Isle was no Etruria, it was a bit too close for comfort. "Though there is little that can be done. Just as we grow, so do the lands around us. I am scarcely the girl I was as a child, and I suppose it is selfish of me to assume my home would just stay the same. Everything grows." Though not always for the better.

She realized that all this time he had been sitting there waiting for a name and she went off on some tangent. Where were her manners? "Oh, I apologize. How terribly rude of me. My name is Iadra. I am pleased to meet you." She noticed him grimace at the taste of his drink, and she laughed. Politely, of course, her hand covering her mouth. "Have you thought of perhaps a less potent drink?" She sniffed the air, and promptly coughed. Hacked really, it burned the back of her throat and she did not even drink it. Not expecting the strong scent of Vodka to be so... well strong. "Ah, excuse me. I am sorry. It is just that Ilian Vodka is scarcely what I expected. I say I cannot fathom how they manage to make this drink, do they even have wheat in that frozen land?"

[Ichabod]

Ichabod laughed under his breath, "Sick fer a land that don't exist? I c'n understand that." He turned and looked at the woman. She was young, younger than he to be sure. Her face showed no lines of age, but her eyes held sadness. She looked to have felt some great loss, maybe a person, or maybe the Etruria she had once known. Either way, he blue eyes were a window to her soul the same as his own showed just what type a man Ichabod was. Her's showed him that Iadra knew some sort of pain, a pain you didn't much see in nobles. He hesitated before picking his words, "Well miss, ' don' think it sounds selfish. You grow up knowin' somethin' and you expect't'll always be th' same. That's just life y'know? At some point y' realize ev'ry one-a those old fools ya used ta hate fer talkin' about the good ol' days had somethin' akin to a point, that things're diff'rent, 'nd ya aint used to it. O' course, a lota that change aint as scary as some thinhs'tht change, ya savy?" It wasn't often that Ichabod regretted his manner of speaking, but this was one of those times. If only his voice were a bit softer, he could actually sound comforting. Instead, he likely gave the impression of a fool prattling on, and a brute about to snap some fools neck. Of course without the lady present, Ichabod could have seen the night going that way.

The burly healer lifted his hand to place it on hers, but then set it back against the bar. No need to go and acting too friendly with a stranger, easy way to make someone uncomfortable. An uncomfortable woman that spoke so well wasn't something Ichabod wanted. Ichabod'ss laugh after her comments on his drink, and her reaction to its smell, wasn't nearly as polite as the one she'd given him. Throwing his head back, he let his throat thrust great clouds of air out as his body shook with humor. Still chuckling, Ichabod said, "Well M'lady, if ' wanted somethin't tasted good I'da def'ntly picked s'mthin a bit eas'yer." He let his laugh die down and he took another drink. "Not sure 'ow they make it. Prob'ly import the stuff. Might use p'tatoes, heard you c'n use 'm s'mtimes fer drinks." At that moment the barkeep was passing by, "Ey, they c'n make drinks outta p'tatoes right?" The man nodded and walked on, Ichabod's face spreading into a wide grin.

"So, M'lady Iadra. Wh't brings 'n Etrurian wom'n who don' seem ta like the state a th' place too much out here ta the ol' isles? Y' think ther's s'methin you'd like or ya come ta do some work?" Ichabod finished his second glass. The bard from before was playing again, a little better, but he still didn't sing. That was probably for the best, if he couldn't tell how out of sorts the instrument had sounded, his voice wouldn't have likely sounded spectacular. The purple haired man didn't notice behind him as two men sitting on opposite sides of the tavern abruptly rose from their chairs and exited the bar. They were the only eyes in the tavern who had been untouched by Ichabod's song, and now they left without paying their tab. The barkeep began to protest, but they were gone too quickly.