A tall, middle-aged man wandered the streets in a sour mood, only dimly aware of the goings on around him. A lute was slung across his back, marking his profession clearly to all passers by. The rapier at his side marked his status as an itinerant adventurer. His weather-stained cloak, which had once been brightly colored, was now faded and patched. That, along with his worn out boots and his increasingly ragged tunic and leggings, marked only his poor fortune.

 But night was falling, and he would need to find a bed soon. The emptiness in his stomach informed him more sharply than he would like that he also needed something to eat. He paused briefly, moving out of the flow of foot traffic, and opened up the pouch at his belt.

[i]One silver and ten coppers. Not bloody much.[/i]

Ealdwine sighed, considering the ill luck that had brought him to this point in his life. His trip to Vandar's Tower, the former abode of a vile wizard of great infamy, was a lengthy trip- not to mention an expensive one. But the rewards were great indeed, said all the tales. Many people must have heard the same tales. By the time Ealdwine found the place, high in the Mountains of Terror, it had been picked clean.

He glanced about glumly, seeing a sign not far away. It read [i]The Bawdy Dog[/i]. An inn. He figured he had enough for a room, a meal, and a few drinks to forget about his troubles. Maybe he could talk the proprietor into giving him all three in exchange for some music. It was worth a shot, certainly. He approached the door and entered.

Within he found a fairly dingy tavern. Not much to look at, but he could smell food and drink, and there certainly was an audience to play for. Just as well it reminded him of a place he recalled from his younger days, where he had dazzled a crowd with his songs and bedded a lovely, buxom barmaid. And then, the next day, her sister.

Simply [i]remembering[/i] it was already putting him in a better mood.

He stepped lively toward the bar, carefully pulling his lute down from off his back. Arthelia was his most prized possession, and the greatest gift that his father, who had never really approved of his career, had ever given him. He had sold his books, he had sold his gear, he had even sold his horse- but he would sooner starve than sell Arthelia. He leaned against the bar near a dark elf maiden, a young girl (where were her parents?), and a suspiciously familiar high-born fop. Where did he know that fellow from? Was it from some Quest? He would have to ask later.

For the time being, he cleared his throat and addressed himself to the balding barman.

“Pardon me, good sir. I am Ealdwine Silverstrings, a bard of some renown,” he began, with a wholly-unnecessary half-bow, 

“and I would like to offer my humble services as an entertainer. All I ask in exchange is a meal or two. And a place to lay my head, if one might be forthcoming..” he trailed off.

“And perhaps a few drinks.. If my performance proves satisfactory to yourself and likewise agreeable to your patrons.”