The Minstrel

A Rude Awakening

 Killian awoke to the harsh rays of the Mid-Island sun planting seeds of perspiration across his face. Tossing and turning, he at last thrust off the blankets from the bed as he attempted to determine whether the pounding he heard was coming from the bedroom door or his own skull. As he came to his senses, he soon realized it was both.

"It's well past dawn's fifth hour, lass! If ye'd like another night, ye need to be payin' fer it!"

The bard groaned at the harsh voice of the innkeep Mr. Morgan, who had thoroughly overserved him at the bar the evening prior, before blinking the sleep out of his eyes as the words he'd overheard began to sink in.

Fifth hour...

In an instant Killian shot out of bed in a whirlwind that nearly sent him sprawling. Instead, he fell hard into the dresser that his shirt lay where it had been haphazardly tossed in the ink of night. Swearing aloud every curse he'd ever been taught, Killian buttoned the linen top unevenly as he hopped from one foot to the other in order to force his buckled boots onto his feet. Mr. Morgan stood perplexed in the hall with his ear against the door as he attempted to make sense of the chaos he heard within the confines of the bedroom. As he raised his fist in preparation for another rap, the shaggy old man was tossed back into the paneled wall as the door flung abruptly ajar in the corridor.

"Y-you..." Mr. Morgan sputtered as he caught his breath and clutched his nose at the sudden pain, recognizing the performer in his flurry for the stairs.

Killian's back slammed into a railing that groaned at the impact as he bumbled down the staircase whilst attempting to throw on a pair of breeches over his boots. All the while Mr. Morgan bombarded him with a flurry of curses from behind. Cinching his belt buckle tight with one hand whilst pushing a tangled mess of hair out of his face, Killian shoved past a gaggle of patrons while dodging a shoe thrown by the outraged innkeep - sending one man tumbling to the floor, but escaping the angered grasp of others. He burst from the inn, but not before knocking into a barmaid who spilled all but one glass on the tray she'd been carrying - a cup of ice water, which Killian gulped hastily and tossed aside as he stumbled through the front entrance that faced the harbor.

He started off at an instant sprint towards the Animaerisian steamship that was to bear him passage north - he was not too late, but the last of the ship's crew were boarding and the calls to weigh anchor could be heard across the port. From the cobbled streets to the crooked planks of the dock, Killian ran with each second bringing several thunks of soles slapping the boards below.

"Hold! HOLD, DAMN YOU!" Killian roared as the ship lazily drifted further and further away from land.

One of the Animaerisian crew standing near the stern at last noticed the stray man in hot pursuit, and futilely signaled to halt the departure. Killian could feel his heart pounding in his chest as the man at the stern beckoned for him to hurry. He gasped for air as he willed his legs onwards, attempting to still the wild swinging of the case that held his lute to his back. Leaning over the taffrail of the quarterdeck, the sailor held out his hand for Killian to grab. Twelve yards, six, three, then...

Killian skidded to a stop just before the edge of the pier; hands upon his knees, he stared after the fleeing mariner while sucking in breaths of salty air. Reluctantly, the Animaerisian seaman raised his arm, and after giving one last look to the desolate figure they had left behind, turned from view and disappeared aboard the vessel. Killian peered off the dock into the murky depths below; a bead of sweat dripping off an uncoiled lock of hair to cause an infinite expanse of ripples. A bout of nausea overtook him as he suddenly felt very faint, and he had to clasp onto a mooring post before he went tumbling over into the sea. He stared after his lost opportunity for a long while whilst contemplating what it was he should do next, watching the steamer fade into a speck on the horizon. At last and against every one of his wishes, he mustered the will to turn around and head back into Flotsam Town, cursing under his breath.

Another ship had begun to dock just where Killian had stood, and he kept at a steady pace back to shore to leave room for the crew to disembark. He had to leave Flotsam within the next week at the very most, lest he risk being stranded there throughout the long frost ahead. What vessels were set to arrive within the next few days? To which nations did they belong, and to where were they headed? Killian kept his eyes to his boots as he trod along off the pier and attempted to recall the schedules he'd learned from the harbormaster. He paused for a moment to gaze at the sky, tugging at his shirt to unstick it from his skin. It was deceptively hot, unpleasantly so despite it being the second nock of Yanāyaka and the first snows not far off; in a matter of weeks, the chill of frostfall would engulf the northern Dractorian Sea, and trade in the region would grind to a near halt.

For now, however, Killian was sweltering with the heat of day and the exertion from which his heart had not yet slowed down. These effects combined with the hangover he was experiencing made for a miserable combination wherein he could get no thinking done. He made up his mind to first find some water and a place to rest. After a short walk straight along the cobbled road, the performer turned a corner into an alley where he knew a modest cafe to be. A cafe is what the locals called it, but in reality the business was a fishery with a curbside window. Beside it were some stools where the dock workers could repose and grab a flagon of grog or ale in the evenings, or a cup of lukewarm coffee that was more dregs than liquid in the mornings. A well pump stood just to the side of the shack, and struggling through his throbbing headache, Killian unfastened the canteen that was fortunately still clipped to the case of his lute. He filled the container until the icy water bubbled over onto his fingers.

Greedily he tossed his head back and took long gulps of the crisp water. After a few moments he lowered the cold metal from his lips and paused to wipe both the sweat from his brow and the stream of water from the corner of his mouth. While his dizziness had not totally subsided, Killian could feel that his nausea was dissipating already, and after refilling from what he had drank, continued out from the alley back onto the main street to plan his next course of action. Hardly paying attention to his surroundings, he marched steadily along, plotting his course in his head while the bustling shantytown stirred all around him.

I'll have to ask around to find who might be willing to allow me passage, but... Killian recalled how just earlier he'd left the inn where he had done most of his scouting. There's little chance I'll be allowed to return to Raimond's Rest, I'll need to search for some other hole...

He contemplated all this as he raised the canteen back to his lips, and cried out as it suddenly slammed back into his teeth and he was sent sprawling to the mud. One hand leapt back to clutch at his head as the fall caused another bout of stabbing pain, while his swirling eyes made out the scene before him– a sailor knocked flat back, covered neck to navel in flour.

"Might do you some good to open your eyes next time you think of walking somewhere you damned clod!" Killian spat as he rose to his feet and swiped the grime from his legs. The young seaman stammered out an apology as he scrambled to gather the sacks that had been scattered from his grasp.

"T-terribly sorry Sir, awful of me, we're in a mighty hurry to depart an' the Captain told me not to dawdle...well more so he told me I move slower than a beached whale, an' if I were to take more than a trip for flour n salt he'd make me swab with my toothbrush again so I..."

Each word came in a flurry as the young man dutifully collected the cargo back into a pile, but Killian was no longer paying attention. After assuring that his lute had taken no damage in the fall, he sidestepped past the struggling mariner and was nearly out of earshot, thinking of nothing except where he might bed come evening, when something that the stranger said made him stop in his tracks.

"What was that?" Killian asked in response to the hardly heard question aimed at his back. As he turned around he saw that the lad had risen to his feet, and was peering at him with a new and inquiring look devoid of the nervous clammer.

"I was just wondering if you'd ever known a man by the name Aldred? Aldred SilverSail?"

Killian grew pallid as if the boy before him he'd run into was actually a ghost and he was just now realizing it. He found it hard to manage words.

"Aldred was my eldest brother, a long time gone." He rasped.

Suddenly the young sailor's face broke into a beaming smile that reminded Killian of someone he could not quite place, and he found himself in a one-sided embrace with this familiar stranger before he could string another thought together.