"What?!" Tasha yelled at the edge of the stage, "Can't fekking HEAR YA!"

With this the crowd overtook the drums. Tasha slung the guitar around the front of her body and began to play. The two Nords alternated turns at the main drum and seated drum sets as Tasha and the Dunmer played several super-tempo songs about living large in a wartorn land, dancing on the edge of death, keeping just this side of the jarl's laws, or galloping off ahead of a bounty.

After the initial Troupe originals, the quartet launched into a whizzbang of chestnuts and warhorses like Age of Aggression and their interpretation of The Dragonborne Comes harmonics. Gotta pay the bills.

Wystan, who had had some beginning lessons in the lute when he was a boy, started to notice, too, that Tasha was weaving in a whole lotta dissonant chords into these tavern faves, giving the songs a decidedly darker flavor if you listened over the heaving spectacle. He stood next to an ale stand as the sun went down, having found that magic spot in a festival where he could clearly see the performance called where nobody seems to be walking through.

Denthryd stayed on the blankets and took in the amazing panorama just down the hill, nipping at a clay bottle of some blood-igniting Argonian the fun vendor in the motley velvet cap sporting what looked to be giant bird feathers had sold him.

What in Arkay's name am I going to write to mom and pop about this in my next post at the courier's?

Mental Draft, Letter to the Folks Composed on a Hill just above Chaos

Heartfire, 200, forget the day ...

Sitting here after sundown on the fields outside the city. Young lady named Thistle just

asked me if I'd seen that atronach.

Love, your collegiate son,

Den

Post to: Salmon Country, North.

Heh, enough of this. I'm probably never gonna see one of these again as long as I live, he thought, and took another shot, leaning against the pile of their three knapsacks. Man, whatta day!

Azuyia had climbed on top of a roasted rabbit plate and smoked pheasant-on-a-stick stand when the vendors weren't looking, the blitzed young Breton in the greasy smock had so many customers lined up she, and the Breton man about her age cutting fowl and hassenpfeffer as fast as he could at the wood stove, didn't even notice her. The crowd was so loud, too, you could barely hear anybody other than the few closest. She sat crosslegged on the wooden sheet above them and watched the stage. The Troupe had taken a break to disappear into a small tent behind the stage, those two plated guards standing shoulder to shoulder in front of its flap. People didn't get too close, but they did stand several paces distance, waiting excitedly and buzzing around.