Hearts Return - Part 5

The air of the tavern hangs smokily around the room, drifting from table to table in much the same lethargic manner as the serving wench who seemed to wish she were anywhere else. After playing the last notes of a lively tune, Zandrianna turns to Emrabeth. "I've rarely seen such an uninterested group of people as these," she whispered, leaning in close to the brunette.

Emrabeth casually looks around the room and nods agreement. Though the bar had filled up with several people since the women started playing, they mostly kept to themselves and appeared as though they'd just come from - or were going to - a funeral. Twice the duo had been forced to stop playing as a half-hearted brawl broke out, but those were quickly dealt with by one of the twins - which one Emrabeth wasn't sure.

Realizing that Zandrianna was staring at her as though waiting for an answer, Emrabeth turns back and says the first thing she thinks the lady wants to hear. "Let's head up to the counter and see what passes for food around here."

Zandrianna nods and, after settling her lute against a nearby post, heads up to the counter with Emrabeth in tow.

"What, that's it?" comes a voice from the far corner, where sat the group of young men who'd provided most of the liveliness - and brawling - that the evening had seen.

"Lucky you got anyone playing for you ungrateful lot at all, Talthos," the barmaid says to him in passing. "And lucky they sing better than you tip!"

"Ooo!" one of this fellows jeers, and gets a breadroll in the face for his mockery.

Up at the bar, Walt is standing at the far end, arguing with one of the patrons some matter of correct change. The barmaid gives Emrabeth a long-suffering glance as she reaches the counter herself. "Sit yerselves down at the end," she says, "an' I'll get you yer food from th' kitchens."

Emrabeth swings herself easily onto a stool, using the nearby wall as a backrest. She watches Zandrianna glide towards the nearby seat and settle herself in it, all while keeping a cautious glance at the surrounding patrons.

"Wouldn't worry about them too much. Their arses only seem to come up from their seats when they feel like getting into a fight - or to take a piss. And probably not even for that, some of them." Despite her words, Emrabeth glances around the room herself.

"I thought the Pony was deplorable," Zandrianna shook her head. "But at least Barliman keeps some semblance of order there and ..." Zandrianna pauses as she hears the serving maid return.

The thin-shouldered young woman puts down a bowl of watery stew in front of each woman, along with bread and a bit of cheese on a trencher. "Lamb," she explains, indicating the stew. “Mostly.” She glances down the bar, where Walt is still arguing, then quickly fills two chipped mugs with ale. "Anyone asks, you paid me for these," she says, quietly. "Outta the coins that ought to have been in that tip bowl of yours."

"Thank you," Zandrianna says, before reaching for her spoon. As the two women eat in silence, Zandrianna continues to look around the room, flinching as yet another fight breaks out in the corner.

"That weren't a fair deal an' ye can't tell me di'frent!" shouts one of the men, his voice booming through the bar.

As the fight escalates, Zandrianna looks down at her bowl, half eaten, then back over to the corner. She pushes it away and stands up. "I'll just take myself up to the rooms - quieter there," she says and flinches at the sound of a glass shattering.

Emrabeth looks past, watching the scene with a smirk on her face. "I'll be along in a while," she replies and waves Zandrianna away.

As Zandrianna leaves, one of the young men from the corner comes up to the bar. "Same again!" he calls to Walt, thunking two pitchers down on the rough countertop. He turns to study Emrabeth, eyes moving over her appraisingly. "Your friend going to bed so early?" he asks. "I hope you're not thinking to do the same. Not your own bed, leastways."

Emrabeth eyes the man, her smirk turning into a slow grin at the man's remark. "I could be persuaded to stay for a bit ..." she replies as she leans back and arches her back, stretching slowly.

The left corner of the fellow's mouth turns up. "Come on back an' join me and my friends, and we'll see you don't stay dry. And then..." He breaks off as the barkeep thunks the two refilled pitchers in front of him, sloshing a bit of the ale over the chipped brims.

"You boys break any more o' my mugs and this'll be the last ale you see tonight," Walt warns.

"Yeah, yeah," the young man agrees, sliding across just enough coin to pay and hefting the pitchers, one in each hand. "C'mon," he says to Emrabeth. As he approaches the table, one of his fellows looks up. "Looks like Egworth's come back with two pitchers and two jugs!" He shoves sideways, nearly knocking his companion off the end of the bench. "Here ya go, pretty one, come sit b'side me and sing us a proper song!"

Emrabeth chuckles and settles onto the bench next to the man, tucking her legs beneath the table. "Now, what would you call a proper tune?" she replies, smoothly reaching across the table for a mug.

"He means a bawdy," one of the other young men translates.

"Aye," choruses another, "makin' it an improper song." The attention of the group has mostly fixed on Emrabeth at this point, their mood somewhat more cheerful now for the drink and the young woman's company than their somewhat surly atmosphere in which they entered when Zandrianna and Emrabeth were first playing.

"Not that we're likely to get much mirth from this wedding," Talthos mutters under his breath from across the table.

Emrabeth glances over at the dour looking man at the mention of the wedding and shakes her head, causing her dark curly hair to bounce along her back. "Seems that a wedding would be the perfect place for a little mirth," she says, and takes a sip of the ale just poured into her mug by one of the young men next to her. She gives him a slow wink. "And I know a few songs like that would make even your cute ears turn red." She watches in amusement as the young man's ears and neck turn red, and he takes a long swallow from the mug in his hand.

"An' not just his ears," one says, pointing.

"If he's lucky you mean," another adds.

"Aye, ought t' get her t' sing a randy song at the wedding; that'd show the ol' crow what's what!" another pipes up. Talthos glares at this last speaker, and he subsides.

Emrabeth leans back against the man next to her - much as she'd done the wall at the bar. Taking a deep breathe, she begins singing a tune. "There was a girl named Lassy. She was so very sassy. She'd let the fellows chase her round, and let them catch her too ..." Her clear voice echoed through the room as she sang one of the tunes her mother had often sung on stage, her eyes twinkling with merriment.

One of the boys bangs his mug on the table. "That's more like it," he exclaims, before raising his tankard for a long pull.

"Yeah," says another. "How come you didn't give that one t' us before?"

Emrabeth finished the song with a grin. "That's one I'm afraid my friend doesn't know. But I know lots of songs like that." Emrabeth winks at the men, before turning to look at the angry young man again, Talthos. The expression on his face seems to be etched there by stone and Emrabeth leans forward. "You look like you're at a burial mister - and you're in the coffin."

Egworth catches Emrabeth's eye and shakes his head slightly at her, warning her off. Talthos glares at her for a moment, then drains his mug and then grabs one of the pitcher for a refill.

The expression on Emrabeth's face shifts briefly as she looks between the two men. Shifting her legs, she brushes against the man next to her as she sets her own mug down for a refill. "Seems a wedding should be a happy event." she says lightly.

At this, a chorus of voices breaks out. "Old Crow don't deserve happy."

"I'll not be holdin' my breath for that."

"My mam says he keeps the bride locked up, like they do in Angmar." One of them makes a sign against evil at the mention of the fearful land to the north.

"Aye, well you'd have to have a bride for that," another says... and the conversation dies. The speaker, face going pale, looks away and quickly drains his mug. Talthos, his knuckles a matching shade of white, stands, drains his mug and then - in a sudden violent motion - hurls it at the other young man, who winces as the pottery shatters on the wall behind him.

"We're done here," Talthos announces - then, after. giving Emrabeth a brief nod, turns and strides out of the tavern. Egworth flashes her a sharp look - half accusation, half apology - and hastens after. The other young men, looking uncomfortable, mumble variations on 'goodbye' and trail after, their earlier enthusiasm seeming quenched.

The lad who'd invited Emrabeth to sit beside him pauses before following his friends. "See you again, maybe?" he suggests - then, adjusting his breeches, hastens after the departing group, pushing past the barmaid who's working her way over, shaking her head.

"Miscreants," she says. "Always bellyaching about injustices and spinning elaborate schemes for revenge. That Talthos is the worst of the lot. 'Scuse me," she adds, with a weary sigh. "I'll need t' get past you to pick up those pieces."

Emrabeth moves aside for the barmaid. Watching the men leave, her eyes turn thoughtful as she takes a last long drink of ale. "Interesting," she mutters to herself and, deciding that Zandrianna should hear this story, stands up to work her way to the stairs.

A sharp cry from behind stops her progress, and the sound of pottery fragments hitting the floor again. Emrabeth turns to see the barmaid clutching her dishrag to her palm, a red stain already starting to soak the thin cloth.

Emrabeth makes her way to the young woman and, taking her hand, removes the rag to look - then turns sickly pale. "That's a ... nasty cut there," Emrabeth says, and steps back, letting the woman's hand drop to her side. "You'll want a healer to look at that. My friend happens to be a healer."

The barmaid clutches her hands in front of her chest, pressing the thin rag against the cut, but only partially staunching the flow. Her face has gone ashen with startled pain. "I should keep working," she murmurs, doubt in her voice, looking back down at the tumbled pottery shards. "Should clean up..."

Emrabeth appears just as pale as the young barmaid, the smell of the blood slowly drifting in the air "That can wait," Emrabeth says and takes the young woman gently by the arm and steers her toward the stairs. “Won't take her long to fix you up and then you can get back to cleaning this up.”

After a quick glance at the bar, they girl nods and lets Emrabeth guide her, muttering half-audible apologies the while. They reach Zandrianna's room, and after looking down at the bloody bar cloth with a shudder, Emrabeth knocks on the door.