Mistress Dizzy
Outside the Jolly Lion Inn - Midday
Lantana and Setra stood in the shaded alleyway. It was still humid for his taste, but the lady needed air, so he obliged. Tizald was fast asleep in their room, looked after by Giuseppe. Well, sort of. The halfling was more preoccupied with counting crowns earned from their gig, but he looked over his shoulder every now and then, watching to make sure the strung out bard was still breathing and all.
"Heard they gave a standin' ovation." Setra uttered, arms crossed. She was visibly tired, but Lantana learned not to remind her of such things.
"Yes," He nodded. "Setra, I-"
She raised her hand, gesturing for him to say no more. As she did, Lantana saw the dried blood from her cut fingers. He looked away, and not because he was fighting some vampiric urge --- the sight of her wounds had simply overwhelmed him with guilt.
"We know what we signed up for," Setra assured him. "Just wish we made it ta sunrise with ya, is all."
There was poetry in her words. Such loyalty and devotion to the craft often goes unnoticed to the random passerby. Lantana always told his band that the power of a bard's music is no different than magic. With it, unimaginable depths of one's soul is laid bare. The acoustics, the ballads, and emotion, all resonate with exhilarating symbiosis, polarizing out into the ether like a jolt of energy. And sometimes Lantana can't stop, no, won't stop, from releasing that musical energy, fearing that pausing its momentum will lessen the ultimate crescendo. So he continues on, developing a bloodlust for chords, notes, and lyrics, an addiction far more potent than his own inherent vampirism.
That inescapable high had consumed him as he strummed away, non-stop, in the Craft District sewers. He so desperately wants his band mates to feel what he feels in those raw, intense moments. Unfortunately for the band, such a musical frenzy often results in more lows than highs, but they still try, no matter the consequence. Lantana couldn't be anymore prouder of their commitment to the craft, unconventional methods included. Tizald with his fisstech, Setra with her sheer willpower, and Osid with his rank booze.
Wait, Osid. Where's Osid? Lantana thought. Setra smiled when he asked about his whereabouts.
"He was the first to scram," She began chuckling at the memory, "Osid's strings gave way after ye sang, La Bruja. Said, verbatim, 'Fook this shite lute! I'd rather bounce it offa Fleetfoot Fergus' dome for 25 crowns than keep re-string'n tha cunt!"
"Oh, dear." Lantana's eyes widened. He remembered seeing the name, Fleetfoot Fergus, on a wanted poster he passed by on the way back to the inn. Attached to that name were dangerous words like 'murder' and 'rape'. "I best go looking for him."
"Who? Oss?" Setra scoffed. "The lad's more likely to play a terrible hand at gwent, than joust with some shifty malefactor."
"Still, I'm concerned. It's midday and he's yet to make an appearance." Lantana said, turning towards the street. "Go get some rest, Setra, I'll see to the safety of our stilted friend."
"Don't have to tell me twice," She yawned, stretching her achy limbs. "Oh, while you're out, grab some persimmons from the market, will ya? Those are usually Tiz' favorite when he comes to."
Lantana nodded and bid Setra farewell. He quickly emerged onto the busy street, attuning his senses for a disheveled bard in a jester's cap, and, of course, persimmons.