"And if I hear another note of that abominable din you call music, I'll stick a flaming plank so far up your ass your friends will think you're a dragon!" 

With that, the barrel-chested innkeep slammed the door in Galen's face, knocking him backwards into the poorly cobbled road. Galen immediately shot back, "[color=39b54a]Joke's on you, you fat bastard, I don't have any friends![/color]" The few moments of silence he was left in afterwards were enough for him to comprehend the mediocrity of his retort. He sighed, gathering his instruments off the stairs where the innkeep had tossed them, trying his best to ignore the amused glances of bystanders. To his relief, none of the instruments were broken.

Galen was both comforted and severely disturbed by the fact that this was far from the worst eviction he'd suffered. Two months back, he'd narrowly escaped with his life from a boarding cottage, chased down a steep, rocky path by a band of furious brigands who hadn't even bothered to tip. He chose to believe that the true reason for the general contempt with which he was often greeted was the sardonic nature of his songs, rather than the painful tunes he was accused of producing. 

Oh well, he thought. It was an art, and art takes practice, and practice needs spectators. How else was he to tell whether he was playing well or not? 

He sighed and began walking down the road, trying not to think about it too much. He had few other options besides being a skald. He wasn't strong enough to mine ore or plow fields, nor brave enough to fight raiders and less tasteful beasts. The dagger he carried was little more than a souvenir; it could probably pass for a tableknife at some of the less reputable longhalls in Ballara. No, his instruments were his greatest assets. If nothing else, perhaps he could play music until his assailants ran away in horror. 

The more Galen thought about it, the worse he felt, so he decided to quit thinking and start drinking. He turned off the road to the last inn in town from which he had not already been chased, and pushed open the thick oaken door. It was quiet inside, the dank interior lit by a wavering fire at the end of the room. A bearded old man occupied the bar, where Galen sat down, setting his instruments beside his stool.

"[color=39b54a]Get me something strong, please. I want to die.[/color]" The innkeep raised an eyebrow and produced a small battleaxe. Galen shook his head; just his luck that he'd encountered the one bartender in the Shieldlands with a sense of humor. "[color=39b54a]Ale will do fine, thanks,[/color]" he amended, and gratefully accepted the heavy flagon the barkeep poured him. The already questionable flavor of the ale was made less pleasant by Galen's reluctant realization that he didn't have enough coin in his pouch for many more. He sighed, sat back, and drank his ale in silence.