Ealdwine stopped playing abruptly. How could he not, with knives flying about? He had played hostile crowds before, certainly. But the fairgoers at Oxcross had thrown nothing more dangerous than rocks. This was simply too much. That knife had landed too close to his head- and far too close to Arthelia. But whence did it come?

He did not wonder long.

[b]“Continue at your own peril, bard.”[/b]

The drow maiden at the bar. She must have lobbed the weapon, though he did not see her do so. [i]Well![/i] This could [i]not[/i] stand! Though his stomach still ached with emptiness, he knew this was more important. She had not only insulted him- Ealdwine Silverstrings, musician to kings- she had insulted all bards everywhere.

He quickly adopted the manner of a sycophant, covering over what he imagined must have been a look of grim distaste. He smiled indulgently toward the drow and pulled the knife from the wall, examining it admiringly, and turning it about in the dim light of the tavern.

“I believe you dropped this, fair lady of the Underdark,” he called conversationally, as though it were a piece of jewelry or some such thing.

“Or was that a dark elf greeting that I, a well-traveled and learned man, am not aware of? In such case I would gleefully return it, but I fear my aim is not so keen as thine.

“I might hit you, instead of the intended near-miss. And, pray, we would not want that, would we?”

The bard tossed the knife carelessly to the floor, and after pausing for a space to lay his right hand on the pommel of his sword returned to his song with a smile as though nothing had happened.

He did not however intend to take his eyes off the drow again.