This particular beginning was, indeed, humble. 

Lon sits in the center of a tavern that he found in a small, small village just on the outskirts of the city that he found throughout his travels. Well, calling it a tavern was generous; It was more like a slightly-larger-than-average hut where the men (and the occasional women) came to drink after a hard day’s work. 

Lon has his lute across his lap and the meager, battered case sitting at his feet, the tatty flap open. A few coin sit in the case; Nobody liked to be the first one to ‘donate’, his mother had always said. So you lay out a handful of coin ahead of time and everyone thinks they’re just following the example of someone else. People liked following, after all. Lon is many things tonight, but most of all he's a very hungry bard. 

A smile too broad flits across his hungry lips and a chord hums from the bowl of his lute. The noise is supposedly pleasant, in-tune and soon falling into a steady pluck of strings and his voice soon to follow.

[i]♪“Oh, folk of the ci--”[/i] Pause. [i]“Village fair. What is it that I see over there?”♪[/i]

For effect, the music halts and he places a hand to his brow.  Typically this is where someone in the crowd would call out an object. Nobody does. Without missing a beat (in actuality he does miss a few), the music picks back up. 

[i]♪“Well so it does seem that tonight shall be a scream. Now let us...”♪[/i]

He trails off into a sullen silence. It turns out the song doesn’t work when the crowd is non-reactive. The handful of tired folk in the bar are seemingly just that and where a smile once was there’s no a massive frown plastered onto his lips. Pleadingly, the brown-haired man looks to the faceless woman sitting in a corner. 

“Oray,” he mouths and stage-whispers. “Help me out!”