The Tale Teller

Ch 4

A cheer went up as an upbeat song came to an end. Some men, with a little too much ale in their stomachs, had begun to dance throughout The Bard's song, as many more sang along in slurred off-key voices.

The Vixen's Inn was like a day of celebration, loud and unashamed. It was packed from wall to wall. Many men held their wives upon their laps, as every seat was taken, and standing room had become hard to find. It was a treat to have both a bard and a storyteller in town, and all flocked to hear them.

Vaun sat in the darkest corner of the room, watching the people like a father fox searching for his prey. He enjoyed how they the townspeople interacted with each other, and the stories they would tell, unsuspecting to his eavesdropping. Many a tale had been born from overhearing things he wasn't supposed to. As long as he remembered who had told it, and in which town, he was safe to share it from Caveholde in the north, to the capital of Faydura in the south. There was a reason people struggled to trust storytellers, and they were right to be cautious.

Three men sat with him. One was a young man by the name of Taul, who kept stroking his fluffy tuft of a beard with pride that he was finally capable of growing one. By his side sat a friend, with a random fellow that no one seemed to speak to at the end of the table. The man didn't seem to mind though, for like most in the room, his full attention was on The Bard.

The Bard had taken a seat at the fire, tucked in so close to its roaring heat that Vaun was sure the back must be burnt off him. Vaun himself was boiling, nestled in the draftiest part of the room.

He was dressed in the red clothes from before, with a brighter red scarf draped across his shoulders and pinned in place with a golden broach. The shades matched the root of the flames, which were now so hot that their tips grew closer to the blond hair tumbling around his face. He wore decorations within the strands, and his lips were coloured an abnormally deep shade of red. Vaun had seen many displays of glamour from bards in his time, but this man took the theatrics to a new level.

The Bard struck a chord on his stringed instrument, and the drunken blacksmith raised his cup of ale above the heads of those surrounding him. A cry sounded, and the next song dragged the dancers into their merry jig once more.

It was too loud with the mixed chatter and singing, the stamping of dancing feet, for Vaun to hear any stories tonight; and he was in no mood for telling any. He pushed himself from his chair, and squeezed through the crowds to the bar where he knew Celise and her father would be found.

A loosely-dressed woman greeted him there. Her split skirt swishing from side to side as she closed what little floor was between them. She had been making her way around the room all evening in search for a man to give her a seat upon his lap. As of yet, she had no takers.

"Lindra!" Celise's sharp tone, and her appearance from the back room, had the woman stopping in her tracks. With a slow smile she rested her weight against the high bar, focus moving from Vaun to Celise in a smooth motion, just like every other cat-like movement she made.

Celise muttered something to her that Vaun could not hear, before the woman gave him one last careful look. Her eyes turned back to scan the room for her desired target, seemly satisfied that he was not to be touched.

Vaun gave Celise a raised brow, for the woman looked like a whore, dressed like a whore, and he had never known Opan to allow such professions inside of his Inn before.

Celise simply shook her head. "As long as she takes her actual business elsewhere, she's fine."

"I see." Vaun watched as Celise studied him for a second, before her eyes shifted to the, admittedly, very beautiful woman.