The Minstrel

The Black Squall

 Killian played a series of low melodies, one after another. Though at first unwilling to do so, he found that playing the melancholic verses was soothing to his state of mind, as well as the nerves of the Orcs. By the third song, the bard was more so playing for his own interests than any of those around him, cocooning himself from the outside world within his own music. It did not even appear to him as if the Orcs were listening until the moment he stopped after a song, when Sharroc would turn his massive head and politely request another. Killian searched his mental repository for suitable hymns, and settled on one he had not strummed for many years.

"Lírë morenna,

Sérith nuva líel,

Aelen va thára,

Nuvëi lís thíel."

He pronounced each lyric with the tongue of a native speaker, though it had been so long since Killian had heard the song that he no longer had any inkling as to what the words meant.

"Tíren na vésa,

Léra síorël varë,

Nauthë ven ióna,

Va naera tharë."

Killian didn't need any light to be able to finger each string accurately; in fact, when he was particularly interested in perfecting a ballad, he would bar himself in whatever chambers were his own at the time and play with his eyes closed. Though he himself knew none of the words of the language of the Fyearn, they hummed through the space with an almost magical vibration. Every syllable reverberated strongly, and yet sounded as softly as the tinkling of glass.

"Velan moren elae,

Syrië ven thilís,

Nuva lómë telor,

Lírë na lúmë."

Killian breathed the last words, and the chamber was once again bathed in a natural silence save for the dull thrumming of rain, unbroken by the interference of living beings. This tranquility was shattered within moments of the Korvinsfald listing dangerously to port. Rainfall had continued to pound with evermore feverous aggression against the ship since Killian had returned below, which he had attempted with the utmost effort to drown out. Now, it appeared that nature demanded his full attention. He secured the lute in its case with a shaky breath and trembling hands, and rose to his feet.

Pooling water loudly sloshed in protest to the movement of Killian's boots. Steady trickling raindrops had turned into tiny waterfalls down the stairs from the outside downpour. Sharroc watched with alarm as the bard rose and began carefully maneuvering down the line of restrained Orcs, but Killian paid no mind to anything around him. He had seen this once before, and that memory was the only thing swirling in his mind. Killian hurried to the main deck of the longship, ignoring the gnawing pit in his stomach.

No longer were there stars visible in the night sky. Looming black clouds engulfed the world, and deafening torrents blanketed the rolling ship. From what could be seen through the continuous sheets of rain, crewmembers were frantically attempting to maintain control of the vessel. As the yard was lowered, two stout Dwarven sailors strained to take in the sails of the mast that was creaking dangerously against the wind. Killian suppressed his panic as he fought through the gales towards the incomprehensible voices he heard near the bow.

Though the storm continuously howled, there were a pair of lungs aboard capable of bellowing orders fiercer than any wind could wail. Killian heard the Captain far before he saw him, and nearly stumbled over the surly Dwarf in his blind navigation. Durgan hardly seemed to notice him as his eyes feverishly scanned the pitching deck to micromanage the scrambling sailors. Nonetheless, he made the time for conversation.