Chapter 21

"Have you seen Eartheart before?"

"No," the Dragonborn looks at Kanti and shakes his head. The clamor along the Merchant Street forces him to yell. Merchants haggle with customers, travelers call out, and people converse everywhere. His eyes dart around with quick, birdlike twitches as they walk, trying to take in everything. "Do you know Eartheart is thousands of years old? Underhome is far older but this is its sister city. This was the spiritual center of their society, the 'City of Temples'. I'd love to see the rest of the city but only Dwarves are allowed in…what?"

She grins, "I've spent my whole life on the Shaar and you've just gathered together everything I know and more with a few words. How do you know such things?"

"History -and people- fascinate me, that's why I joined my company," he reads her uncertain look correctly. He flourishes with his hand and bows. "I am an adventurer. I joined my merry band a few months ago and we have defeated Goblins and Orcs, we've even defeated an Ash Giant. AND we have foiled a Molhorandi plot to poison Imaskar wells."

"There's a strange way about you," Kanti decides. "What do you do?"

"Oh, I do a great many things," he insists. "I sing and dance to keep up morale and lighten people's spirits. I can be as quiet as a mouse or loud as a lion's roar. I know some magic, history, and a little of everything. Let's not forget that as a Dragonborn, I am a skilled combatant and a fine swordsman...plus I can breathe fire. The professional title of my work…is a bard."

She grins, "Yes, you are strange."

"That's not necessarily bad though, now is it?"

"I'm not certain yet," she laughs playfully. "What magic can you do?"

"My magic is tied to my music. I can draw people's attention and captivate them, or shock them with a sudden blast of sound. I also have a few spells."

"You can –what- people? I-," she hesitates. "I don't know that word."

"I can charm them, draw their attention and hold it, capture it."

"You must be joking, how could you do that?"

"That sounds like a challenge," his eyes narrow but his tone remains jovial. "I like a challenge, have you ever heard 'The Tragedy of Ishvann Soulrent'?"

"No."

Taking a step away from her, his eyes remain narrow until he finds a spot and begins singing in his own language. She can't understand the words and finds it confusing at first. Then he bows low and sweeps his hand before him. His voice grows as he continues singing with a steady tempo. He begins marching in place with a pleasant and excited song, appearing as a soldier off to war. His chin up, his head held high, this soldier has no concerns in the world.

Then he freezes, his song suddenly falls into deep tones, full of worry and his body frozen still. He jumps into a fighting position, an imaginary sword in hand, striking enemies only he can see without interrupting his song. He strikes enemies before him and to his sides; he takes slow steps backward until he is pressed against a wall. Swinging his sword frantically, he takes it in both hands. Suddenly he throws himself against the wall as if struck by a mighty blow. Slowly, he falls, his claw scraping the stone on the wall before he lies with his eyes shut.

The suddenness jolts her and she blinks. Looking around she discovers the market is utterly quiet, utterly enthralled. Many of them watch with their mouths open, others stare with wide-eyed fascination. All of them, merchant and wayfarer, refuse to blink for fear of missing it.

He begins singing softly but his eyes do not open immediately. His voice is high and soft at first until his eyes begin to glance around. Then it becomes frantic and piercing. The Dragonborn lifts an arm and fights to roll over but is too weak. Eventually, he rolls onto his belly, his voice falling mournfully. First one arm then another drag him forward. He takes hold of something, shaking a fallen comrade and his song twists into a wail of loss. Now on his knees, he crawls to another corpse, then another. The verse ends in a mournful wail, collapsing atop his deceased comrade.

His next verse begins low and slowly as he rises to his feet. He staggers forward, his song as sad and broken as his posture. After a few trudging steps he freezes, then he puts a hand to one draconic and frilled ear and then the other, looking about. His lyrics become shorter and swifter before it picks up speed and he drops into a crouch. He stalks as a rogue before he pulls a scarf from his pocket, a bright red sash, but for him it becomes a wrap to conceal his identity. His creeping continues as his steps grow quicker with the pace of the song. He pretends drawing a pair of daggers and drives them into his enemies. With a dramatic flair he tears the scarf from his face and roars with his fists in the air.

Then his song grows deep and angry as he takes a weapon in both hands and slowly backs away, looking up at a towering opponent only he can see. He swings and rolls, dodges and strikes, but is thrown against the wall behind him once more. Still for a moment, his voice rises angrily with fury burning in his golden eyes. He snatches up a weapon from the ground and takes a mighty swing. He roars into the sky and holds his weapon above his head before plunging it downward into his defeated enemy.

"YES!" A Dwarf screams from the back, his fist raised triumphantly. A few people laugh but most shush him until he flushes red with embarrassment.

Then, with returned elation, the bard begins marching again to a delightful song. He waves to one side and then another. He marches with high knees and the thump of his boots. As he turns from side to side, his jolly smile dips and the joy seeps from his eyes. His waving becomes slower and his boots drag. His knees no longer rise so high, instead slowing to a walk, until his trudging steps return. Finally the verse ends when he drops to his knees.

His song sinks into a mournful, saddened tone, as he looks from side to side. He searches all around him but fails to find what he looks for. Finally, with a heartbroken cry he draws a blade. His song grows in pitch but the speed never changes even as he raises the blade above his head, staring at it. Then he plunges it into his heart. Every spectator, everyone watching gasps. In that instant, the song ends, and the Dragonborn collapses on his side. Ever so slowly his hand stretches out and the bard grows still, his eyes closed and his face peaceful.

The crowd watches breathlessly before someone claps. The sound is awkward, an insult to their captivated silence. Then someone cheers instigating thunderous applause. Coins rain down from all directions around the still form of the Dragonborn. He jumps to his feet, waves to the crowd, and performs another elaborate bow. Only afterward he begins snatching up coins and shaking the hands of those that praise him.

He leans over to Kanti and says, "How's that for magic?"

She feigns disinterest, "I could do better."

His jaw drops and she bursts out laughing. Then a Human woman with grey marble-like skin pushes through the crowd, "Kriv, what have you done?"

Kanti takes a moment to study the tall and willowy girl. The Tribeswoman realizes the newcomer's skin appears like perfectly sculpted stone with blue veins. Her hair is a darker shade of grey. She wears a greatcoat of the deepest black that appears violet at its edges, falling all the way to her ankles. Beneath it she wears a tight black vest that reveals the curves of her breasts with scandalous V-neck that plunges to her firm stomach.

The Dragonborn shrugs, "Nothing Sipas, just a little fun. This is Kanti she's from the Hyena tribe. We were talking about magic and I wanted to show her what a bard can do."

"Ren told us to be discreet," she says in a critical tone, one that sounds oft repeated. After a pointed look she turns to Kanti. Then Sipas asks, "Is this the natural pigmentation among your race or is it a result of arcane manipulation?"

Kanti tries to decipher exactly what she means before admitting, "I don't know what you're asking."

"Your complexion my dear," Kriv explains. Then his head suddenly tilts, obviously confused and reminding her of a bird again. Finally his eyes narrow, "Your skin color. Is the yellow undertones common?"

"My people have looked like this for as long as anyone can remember," she answers.

"Fascinating, natural adaption in the face of a hostile environment," she studies Kanti a moment longer. Her scrutiny makes Kanti feel like a peculiar object in a market, worthy of a peek but not much more.

A full-figured Dwarf woman in a scarlet dress shakes Kriv's hand. Her dress is particularly shocking against her dark brown skin and flowing black hair. "Thank you, it was so beautiful."

Kanti suddenly recalls, "Why did he kill himself? He was hero."

"He couldn't stand life without his family," Kriv answers. "His people celebrated him, rewarded him with riches and titles for defeating their enemies. It tasted like ashes because everyone he loved died in the battle. He would have given up hope earlier but the feud with his enemy sustained him."

"The priests of Ilmater call it 'survivor's guilt'. The victims can't understand why they survived while others didn't." The Dwarf woman wipes a tear from her eye, and then laughs off the sad look she gives the tear. "My husband fought to retake the Gold Gates alongside Clan Wyrmforge. After sixty years, hardly a day goes by without him blaming himself for the losses in the battle. His mind torments him with what he could have done, the 'what ifs'. It cycles over and over again, driving him into a deep depression. He speaks of ending it. I thank Moradin everyday he stays his blade."

Kriv bows deeply, "My father suffered the same way. You have my sympathy and my sincerest wishes for his recovery my lady."

"Thank you again, it was incredibly beautiful."

"Kriv!" Sipas takes his other hand. "We must be off."

He smiles and looks at Kanti, leaning close to her. He whispers, "We'll meet again Kanti of the Hyena Tribe. I know it. Don't tell anyone, we're sneaking into Underhome."

He's gone, disappearing in the crowd before she can ask why he whispered it. She shrugs and considers it more of his strange ways.

"This is no time to draw attention to yourself, young Hyena."

She spins to face the speaker, a darker skinned tribesman, short and burly. "Hend of the Eagle Tribe, of course you would see me first. It is good to see you."

"You too. I haven't seen your mother, where is she?"

Kanti frowns, suppressing the sorrow that rises in her, "She didn't make it."

Hend sighs and runs a hand through the dark brown whiskers on his jaw, "This is no place to talk. I've rallied those that would come, are you ready?"