Lior was finally content.

This was a rather new feeling for him, as the insane juggling act of living on the street, avoiding being found, and finding ways to keep fed had been an all consuming terror for the past year. The complete change in lifestyle had been shocking for the young lordling. He occasionally regretted not pocketing at least a few cups or candlesticks to pawn off on the way. But finally.. finally, he was getting the hang of things. He straightened his threadbare green shirt for the utmost time that evening, idly thumbing at the sloppy stitches which marred the once-fine fabric. Still, at least he had managed to buy green thread, and his harp still had strings and that night, he would be allowed to sleep by the fire. Things were most definitely looking up. Hurriedly he gathered up his harp in both arms and shuffled it delicately down the staircase.

The tavern he had chosen was by no means the most classy of establishments. This was part of the reason he had chosen the venue. Steering clear of high society or rubbing elbows with any familliar faces had been his goal of the past 12 months. Lior previously had never even set foot in a tavern. He had read about them sometimes, when he would sneak a book from the great dusty library in the manor, under the pretense of study. He had heard stories of pirates who would quench their thirst in bars and pubs then go on to have fist fights and play cards and trade for knives. He had thought it had all sounded rather barbarian. His upbringing had been strict and clean, with elegant ballrooms and gilded gold plates. 

The Boar’s Head was no such establishment. But so far no one had had a knife fight, and the card games looked relatively mundane and mostly for coin. Lior dodged a few dusty well-travelled looking gentleman, and the innkeeper gave him a brisk nod. She was a woman of middling age with hair the colour of dark brewed beer, and a plain bandana bound about her head to keep her curls from spilling across her shoulders. It had taken him two nights of skulking about and a short practice performance to convince her to allow him to be the evenings entertainment. Harp’s weren’t usual tavern fare he supposed, but his voice and playing had convinced her well enough. He nearly tripped as he made his way to the upturned crate that would serve as his seat, and a tittering of laughter rolled through the sparse crowd. Lior made a good show of ruefully mussing his silvery hair, before settling down, harp placed between his knees. He fiddled with the strings for a moment, fearing they were a little worse for wear - his budget factored in food and little besides. He tweaked at the tuning pins just briefly, and struck a note. It rang out, true and clear, and his crowd settled, glasses laid firm on the table tops. He felt a flutter of nerves edge into him, but he pushed the feeling aside. He had practiced this. Playing to crowds of people was something he knew. 

He began, fingertips hovering lightly against the strings, as he stroked up a song. He had recently come into plenty of spare time to practice - it was a relief not to be constantly forced to train, or study, or fight. It was almost enough that he could forget [i]that[/i] night.

He had been keeping an ear out as he’d walked by at night, scouting the sort of songs that were often played. Sussing out the audience was half the job, after all. So with relative confidence he began ‘Shrinking Violet’ to an expected smattering of applause and grins as patrons began to clink their mugs to the tune and chime in on the chorus. His voice was light and had the right candor to carry the piece, but it was his fingers that would work the magic. He tickled them across the strings with a lightness befitting the brush of fingers against a lady’s hand, the gentleness one uses when handling flower petals or beetles wings. ‘Shrinking Violet’ was an upbeat number about a shy tavern girl who was waiting for her knight in shining armour to come, and the music seemed to fill The Boar’s Head with a little bit of life - and laughter at the few extra verses he added. He grinned as he finished with an expert flourish, and a few new faces have already milled in, taking drinks and seats. He goes on to play ‘Sailor Sailor’, and ‘Days of Yore’ before he’s given a brief respite. A mug of ale, some bread and warm potato and leek soup wait for him at the end of the bar, and gratefully he takes a seat, delicately placing his harp beside him. The innkeeper nods and flashes him a smile - he has a few coins that were thrown at his feet during the performance, and they sit heavy in the secret pocket he has tucked against his side. Within his first few days on the street he learnt just how quickly a purse could be cut, and a pocket could be raided. They were just a few slips of coin, but any money at all would have felt heavy to him - and it assured him at least one more meal. He spoons down the soup and feels the warmth of it melt against his tongue and slide to his stomach. He had never felt so poetic over potatoes and leeks in all his life. The philosophers and poets had it all wrong - he would trade a thousand evenings spent in the warm and delightful embrace of a fae woman for a single bowl of potato and leek on a cold night. Maybe two.

The bread is a little stale, but tastes good enough dumped in with the rest, and idly he glances down at his harp. There, crouched in the shadows of the bar, is a little brown rat. It sniffs at his harp just once before teetering away little paws a scuttle for a crumb. He glances back to his bowl of stew, bread sticking out like a little soggy boat in a sea. There was plenty there. No one else had yet spied the tiny squatter, and the little rat twitches its whiskers. Once, twice. There aren’t any crumbs to be found.

The young musician breaks off a chunk of bread, a little soggy with soup, and slowly lowers it, tossing it a little ways past his foot, and towards the little furry beggar. He knew what it was like to be hungry every night. He supposed he felt a little kinship with the rat. Small, scruffy, unassuming - hurried out of every doorway he ever tried to sleep on. He finishes the rest of his meal in a hurry, and picks up his harp as he skips back toward the stage. He notes, with a little satisfaction, the hunk of bread is gone and so if his furry companion. Street rats had to stick together, after all.

----
Weary and a little haggard, Lior runs a hand through his hair, messing it up only further. His finger feel sore and tender from being arched in strumming positions, and his back and shoulders are stiff from a chair with no back. He lost his voice halfway through the last song, but his dwindling and far from sober audience had filled in. The innkeeper had graciously allowed him the spare room for the promise of playing the following evening, and he had assured her she could have him for the rest of the year if it meant a nights rest on a bed. He had almost forgotten what beds looked like. After he dragged himself upstairs and entered the little room, he found he couldn’t be happier - there was a chair for his harp and a bed with sheets, and the whole place took about two steps to cross. It was far from palatial, but it was warm and cozy and for tonight, it was his. He shucked off his shirt and boots with all the glee he could muster, before crawling beneath the covers and snuggling into the pillow. By the time he had drifted off, he didn’t even notice the rain pattering gently against the tiny window by the bed. Or the ominous smudge of the Gandryll castle on the horizon, little more than a hulking shadow that leered high over the few speckled drops of light in the little city.