This time, he didn't even make it out of the Goblet.
Perhaps it was the sun's demanding glare. Perhaps it was that the wall was cool against his back, providing succor against the Thanalan heat.
Perhaps it was the vista of mountains surrounding the community, like an encircling lover's arms, ever present to those who lived there, a shield against whatever lay beyond their horizon.
He glanced up, eyes dancing at the collection of rooftops and pathways that formed the mix of rambling randomness and underlying order of the locale. Then there were the gardens, havens for plants and flowers that would otherwise never survive there but for the tender ministrations of residents, knowing that only through careful tending and constant appreciation could their beauty linger.
There were towers in the distance, and one pointed like the finger of a deity to the climbing sun, daring him to ignore it. It was as an accusation from the Twelve themselves - or perhaps all but one of the Twelve. He was not a man for gods, but perhaps Oschon, of all of them, might understand most. Certainly, there had been another man of music who had been touched by divine favor.
Nathan set his lute close to his chest, and played that man's song for himself, perhaps for the first time comprehending it.
"Would I be a wand'rer, a roaming man or rake,
If any one estate could make me glad?
Would I pluck the maidenhead from a festive virgin girl,
If there were constant comp'ny to be had?
They call me Mister Worn-Heel, and I'll play you all a reel
And if the dance is festive, does it matter how I feel?
Rambling from square to square, from smile to coquette's leer
Lest I forsake all of my theres for a reason to stay here.
Raise the banners and your cheers when I amble to your domain
Prithee tell me what you'd have me play
Take me to your playgrounds, to the giggles of your maids
Take me in before I drift away.
They call me Mister Worn-Heel, but an evening will I steal
To set your scions spinning, and meander for a meal
Rambling from court to court, knowing every minstrel's fear:
When will I forsake all those theres, for the one to keep me here?
To be the poor folk's link to grace, and the noble's secret sin
What other life could one as I desire?
To be the middleman through whom the young boy may begin
To set his chosen woman's soul afire?
And at the following sunrise, to wander off again,
Marking off upon my soul, another place I've been;
As the lighted windows fade, and the twilight cools my skin,
Is there freedom in my pulse, or a different ache within?
So leaves Mister Worn-Heel, with only instrument and pack
Wond'ring if there are any eyes a-lingering on my back..."
Perhaps it was the sun's demanding glare. Perhaps it was that the wall was cool against his back, providing succor against the Thanalan heat.
Perhaps it was the vista of mountains surrounding the community, like an encircling lover's arms, ever present to those who lived there, a shield against whatever lay beyond their horizon.
He glanced up, eyes dancing at the collection of rooftops and pathways that formed the mix of rambling randomness and underlying order of the locale. Then there were the gardens, havens for plants and flowers that would otherwise never survive there but for the tender ministrations of residents, knowing that only through careful tending and constant appreciation could their beauty linger.
There were towers in the distance, and one pointed like the finger of a deity to the climbing sun, daring him to ignore it. It was as an accusation from the Twelve themselves - or perhaps all but one of the Twelve. He was not a man for gods, but perhaps Oschon, of all of them, might understand most. Certainly, there had been another man of music who had been touched by divine favor.
Nathan set his lute close to his chest, and played that man's song for himself, perhaps for the first time comprehending it.
"Would I be a wand'rer, a roaming man or rake,
If any one estate could make me glad?
Would I pluck the maidenhead from a festive virgin girl,
If there were constant comp'ny to be had?
They call me Mister Worn-Heel, and I'll play you all a reel
And if the dance is festive, does it matter how I feel?
Rambling from square to square, from smile to coquette's leer
Lest I forsake all of my theres for a reason to stay here.
Raise the banners and your cheers when I amble to your domain
Prithee tell me what you'd have me play
Take me to your playgrounds, to the giggles of your maids
Take me in before I drift away.
They call me Mister Worn-Heel, but an evening will I steal
To set your scions spinning, and meander for a meal
Rambling from court to court, knowing every minstrel's fear:
When will I forsake all those theres, for the one to keep me here?
To be the poor folk's link to grace, and the noble's secret sin
What other life could one as I desire?
To be the middleman through whom the young boy may begin
To set his chosen woman's soul afire?
And at the following sunrise, to wander off again,
Marking off upon my soul, another place I've been;
As the lighted windows fade, and the twilight cools my skin,
Is there freedom in my pulse, or a different ache within?
So leaves Mister Worn-Heel, with only instrument and pack
Wond'ring if there are any eyes a-lingering on my back..."
"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)
