The clatter and scrape of tables at the Drowning Wench had passed but half a bell ago, though the murmurs and guffaws and languid sighs of the remaining patrons, pirates and workers and the occasional brave bookworm alike, still filtered through the stairwells at the Mizzenmast, and could still be heard as a faint hum through the slightly-opened door to the room in which reclined the bard that had played for them not so long ago in the evening.
A near silent pit-pat of soft feet made its way through the door's inviting openness.
Nathan was sitting up in the bed, lute across his lap, his tunic half-open and his travel breeches still shut; his right foot was propped upon a pair of the inn's rough pillows, wrapped in cold linens. He rubbed the arch and heel for a moment, and sank to the bed, hands reaching for his signature lute, when a flash of orange and yellow caught his eye. He blinked - a Coeurl kitten, hardly old enough to be away from its litter, had come to perch upon the corner of the bed, and watched him, whiskers flicking and tail perked.
He simply watched the little creature for a moment; it paused to lick its flanks, apparently eager to show its nonchalance in the way of most felines everywhere, but then curled its tail around itself, and met the large long-haired Highlander gaze for gaze.
He grinned, and made a noise partway between chuckle and harrumph. "What is it with your people, anyway?"
He dragged a pair of fingers over the still strings of the lute, not plying enough pressure to set them vibrating. The kit licked its chops, but did not turn away.
"Fine, not your people precisely, but in that direction. How the hell can those Toms handle it? Tias and Nunhs and all that desert tail, having to fight constantly, like, well, like you, furball?" The kit simply swished its tail.
He kept on talking, unbowed. "Yeah, I went to see all those U-types. Pickiest audience I had in a while! What's a man to do with all those hot-weather-garbed femmes, spending fifty times as much time nursing their little warrior-girl snottiness as they do actually getting their clothes to fit? I should have just brought me a bit of good oak lumber from the Shroud, put a knot on that arrogant alpha's fuzzy head, and sat on him instead of the chairs. Would've probably gotten their attention, eh? Can't see how a hot-blooded male could live in a place like that... me, I'd have to tell them to go back to licking themselves, and... well, set out wandering to find my own fortune, just like I'm already doing, eh?"
The coeurl kit laid down, glittering eyes still on the Highlander, tail swishing with either interest or warning - it was hard to tell, and the idea elicited a true harrumph from the bard.
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Ok, some of you aren't bad, right? Reshie, for one, I wonder what she's up to... Yaz, when she's not cooking up something... and the moon-eyed ones, them I can handle..."
The kit sniffed.
"No, you're right, they aren't Roes! Look, there were a few in tonight's crowd, yeah, but hells if they weren't all as cold as a sahagin's briny backside. A man's gotta have options, you little fuzzball."
He looked away from the kit, and at his propped-up foot. He wiggled the ankle; there was no pain, but the same stiffness lingered, as if he'd been stepping on a rock all day, yet there had been neither rocks nor lumps in his boots.
"Yep, some of them aren't too bad at all, are they? They do look good in violet." He reached to try to pet the little feline, but it backed away, and batted at his hand.
"Even when they're feisty, right? Can't argue with you there, little one. Keeps me inspired. I do wonder how I look in purple, myself."
He picked up the lute, and brought it into position. The couerl, startled by the sudden move, vaulted from the bed and scampered out the door frame, leaving but a tuft of fur where it lay before.
The bard strummed a few bars, in a deep resonance. "Good thing some of your people can handle it. Felines, go figure. I wonder how they'd like this one. It's about them, after all."
He began to play, the notes remaining heavily on the low end of the instrument's range, and bobbed his head to his own tune and voice.
"I'm gonna take 'em on... an army full o' Nuhns can't hold me back
I'm gonna rip 'em up... and leave 'em all a mewlin' after each attack
And I'm takin' all their mates for mine, every one I can get
Though there's only really one of them that I've wanted yet
Gonna bring her to my bower and leave the rest all alone.
I know I'll hear about it; they'll be sharpenin' their claws lookin' for a chance
Don't give a damn about it; forsakin' all their ways for the one romance
And if they catch me all alone at night, they'll try to bring it to me
But I'll be painting all the dunes with their blood; that's how it has to be
And I'll return to my bower and show my little queen her home
I'm going to Ul'dah, Far from this desert place forevermore
I'm gonna work this town, If i have to shed blood out of every pore
And I'm bleeding, and I'm bleeding, and I'm bleeding in the fighting games
But when my queen is waiting for my return, I can't feel any shame
And the cheers coming to me from the crowd tell me, Welcome Home..."
A near silent pit-pat of soft feet made its way through the door's inviting openness.
Nathan was sitting up in the bed, lute across his lap, his tunic half-open and his travel breeches still shut; his right foot was propped upon a pair of the inn's rough pillows, wrapped in cold linens. He rubbed the arch and heel for a moment, and sank to the bed, hands reaching for his signature lute, when a flash of orange and yellow caught his eye. He blinked - a Coeurl kitten, hardly old enough to be away from its litter, had come to perch upon the corner of the bed, and watched him, whiskers flicking and tail perked.
He simply watched the little creature for a moment; it paused to lick its flanks, apparently eager to show its nonchalance in the way of most felines everywhere, but then curled its tail around itself, and met the large long-haired Highlander gaze for gaze.
He grinned, and made a noise partway between chuckle and harrumph. "What is it with your people, anyway?"
He dragged a pair of fingers over the still strings of the lute, not plying enough pressure to set them vibrating. The kit licked its chops, but did not turn away.
"Fine, not your people precisely, but in that direction. How the hell can those Toms handle it? Tias and Nunhs and all that desert tail, having to fight constantly, like, well, like you, furball?" The kit simply swished its tail.
He kept on talking, unbowed. "Yeah, I went to see all those U-types. Pickiest audience I had in a while! What's a man to do with all those hot-weather-garbed femmes, spending fifty times as much time nursing their little warrior-girl snottiness as they do actually getting their clothes to fit? I should have just brought me a bit of good oak lumber from the Shroud, put a knot on that arrogant alpha's fuzzy head, and sat on him instead of the chairs. Would've probably gotten their attention, eh? Can't see how a hot-blooded male could live in a place like that... me, I'd have to tell them to go back to licking themselves, and... well, set out wandering to find my own fortune, just like I'm already doing, eh?"
The coeurl kit laid down, glittering eyes still on the Highlander, tail swishing with either interest or warning - it was hard to tell, and the idea elicited a true harrumph from the bard.
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Ok, some of you aren't bad, right? Reshie, for one, I wonder what she's up to... Yaz, when she's not cooking up something... and the moon-eyed ones, them I can handle..."
The kit sniffed.
"No, you're right, they aren't Roes! Look, there were a few in tonight's crowd, yeah, but hells if they weren't all as cold as a sahagin's briny backside. A man's gotta have options, you little fuzzball."
He looked away from the kit, and at his propped-up foot. He wiggled the ankle; there was no pain, but the same stiffness lingered, as if he'd been stepping on a rock all day, yet there had been neither rocks nor lumps in his boots.
"Yep, some of them aren't too bad at all, are they? They do look good in violet." He reached to try to pet the little feline, but it backed away, and batted at his hand.
"Even when they're feisty, right? Can't argue with you there, little one. Keeps me inspired. I do wonder how I look in purple, myself."
He picked up the lute, and brought it into position. The couerl, startled by the sudden move, vaulted from the bed and scampered out the door frame, leaving but a tuft of fur where it lay before.
The bard strummed a few bars, in a deep resonance. "Good thing some of your people can handle it. Felines, go figure. I wonder how they'd like this one. It's about them, after all."
He began to play, the notes remaining heavily on the low end of the instrument's range, and bobbed his head to his own tune and voice.
"I'm gonna take 'em on... an army full o' Nuhns can't hold me back
I'm gonna rip 'em up... and leave 'em all a mewlin' after each attack
And I'm takin' all their mates for mine, every one I can get
Though there's only really one of them that I've wanted yet
Gonna bring her to my bower and leave the rest all alone.
I know I'll hear about it; they'll be sharpenin' their claws lookin' for a chance
Don't give a damn about it; forsakin' all their ways for the one romance
And if they catch me all alone at night, they'll try to bring it to me
But I'll be painting all the dunes with their blood; that's how it has to be
And I'll return to my bower and show my little queen her home
I'm going to Ul'dah, Far from this desert place forevermore
I'm gonna work this town, If i have to shed blood out of every pore
And I'm bleeding, and I'm bleeding, and I'm bleeding in the fighting games
But when my queen is waiting for my return, I can't feel any shame
And the cheers coming to me from the crowd tell me, Welcome Home..."
"But in the laugh there was another voice. A clearer laugh, an ironic laugh. A laugh which laughs because it chooses not to weep."
![[Image: 3610850.jpg]](http://assets-cloud.enjin.com/users/1266293/pics/original/3610850.jpg)
