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The Salvager simply stood there, the rapier sticking through it's chest. This was impossible. It was not possible. Fear mounted in the Bard's eyes as the creature seized him by the arm. He struggled vainly, keeping an iron grip on his sword. He was cast across the room, tumbling across the floor.
He slammed finally into the stones of the hearth. His legs took the brunt of the damage. He cried out in pain, hoping they were not broken. He was not a young man anymore, and had little hope of shrugging this one off. He tried to rise, but could not. So he crawled. Edging toward toward the daggerman, he watched in terrified awe as the wolfish creature crushed his head, and the salvager fell to the floor.
“Wolf-girl! Quickly!” Ealdwine called, his voice hoarse from so much yelling. “The elixir! On the body- give it to the barman! It will save him!”
He kept crawling, knowing he was in a very difficult position now. The barroom was a flurry of activity and, if he was lucky, he might avoid attention. But that was not really his style. Ealdwine Silverstrings was seldom content with remaining unseen.
He saw Edward on the floor not far away. He looked unhurt, so far as the Bard could see. Raising himself into a sitting position with a straining effort, he pulled Arthelia from his back. He tossed his sword across the floor, landing it a few feet from his former student.
“Edward!” he shouted, with all the gravitas he could muster in his present state.
“I once taught you- now teach me! Many of your forebears were storied warriors. You studied fencing as well as music, did you not? Show me how a Hart-Ellington faces death! I hope it does not involve crying on a filthy tavern floor. Take my sword- it is no use to me now.”
Ealdwine took his lute in both hands, and smiled grimly.
“A little music, to usher our enemies unto their eternal rest...”
And the bard's fingers began to strum a lively tune. The broken string was long forgotten, and of little consequence now. It was a piece he had learned many years ago, from a trio of dwarven musicians. The Dagger Dance, they had called it. It was an apt addition to the increasingly bloody and desperate ambiance.
He slammed finally into the stones of the hearth. His legs took the brunt of the damage. He cried out in pain, hoping they were not broken. He was not a young man anymore, and had little hope of shrugging this one off. He tried to rise, but could not. So he crawled. Edging toward toward the daggerman, he watched in terrified awe as the wolfish creature crushed his head, and the salvager fell to the floor.
“Wolf-girl! Quickly!” Ealdwine called, his voice hoarse from so much yelling. “The elixir! On the body- give it to the barman! It will save him!”
He kept crawling, knowing he was in a very difficult position now. The barroom was a flurry of activity and, if he was lucky, he might avoid attention. But that was not really his style. Ealdwine Silverstrings was seldom content with remaining unseen.
He saw Edward on the floor not far away. He looked unhurt, so far as the Bard could see. Raising himself into a sitting position with a straining effort, he pulled Arthelia from his back. He tossed his sword across the floor, landing it a few feet from his former student.
“Edward!” he shouted, with all the gravitas he could muster in his present state.
“I once taught you- now teach me! Many of your forebears were storied warriors. You studied fencing as well as music, did you not? Show me how a Hart-Ellington faces death! I hope it does not involve crying on a filthy tavern floor. Take my sword- it is no use to me now.”
Ealdwine took his lute in both hands, and smiled grimly.
“A little music, to usher our enemies unto their eternal rest...”
And the bard's fingers began to strum a lively tune. The broken string was long forgotten, and of little consequence now. It was a piece he had learned many years ago, from a trio of dwarven musicians. The Dagger Dance, they had called it. It was an apt addition to the increasingly bloody and desperate ambiance.