"In the land of ocean's endless might,
Where winds and tides and men do fight,
Stands a town unlike any other known
Borne of Flotsam, driftwood and foam."
Flotsam town was a shithole. Killian had always thought so, but had always seemed to forget the muck of the streets and stench of sargassum before he wound up in her port once more. He smirked under the brim of his hat ,his sun-dried charcoal boots kicked up on one of the rickety tables as he balanced on the hind legs of a chair that groaned under his weight. He lazily strummed out the chords on his lute with ease.
"Heave ho, lads and lasses, where the ocean currents roam,
In the town of Flotsam, we've found our floating home,
With driftwood walls and netting floors, we weather every storm,
In this seafaring haven, where hope is yet reborn."
There were a handful of sailors nodding along to the popular tune, mostly driftless men who stumbled in just as soon as the doors were unlocked, and tossed out once more at the end of each night if they hadn't enough coin for a bed. Killian lightly tuned the instrument between each verse and squinted to gaze out the window towards the harbor. He had been keeping his eye on the cargo vessel which had settled in to dock that morning. It was an Animaerisian steam cog - rare to find in any port this far North - and could easily maneuver the treacherous waters that surrounded the entry and exit to Flotsam. Now bathed in the dying light, he watched the mariners load up the supplies in need of restock as they prepared to weigh anchor come dawn. No captain with a vessel still to their name settled in Flotsam Town more than a noct.
No captain of any repute, anyhow.
"Each building tells a story, as it sails upon the tide,
Once lost and then forgotten, now a place where we reside
A shipwreck's wooden fragments form this cozy little inn
Where weary sailors gather to share tales of where they've been"
Slowly, more men and women alike began to stride into Raimond's Rest - the tavern in which Killian now played and considered many things other than cozy. Once a Regganorian voyager, the vessel known as Raimond's Pride became beached and stranded in Flotsam Town's current like so many others before; the vessel itself becoming the tavern, and its former Quartermaster the barkeep. Many shipwrecked sailors attempt to pay for voyage out of Flotsam with anything they have to their name. Some choose to stay, of course, typically if their age, and thoughts of returning to sea have made them weary. And yet still a good many simply could never afford to pay for passage out, and become as driftless as the debris of which the city was born. After another bout of chorus now joined in by a number of patrons, Killian flung into the next verse:
"In the heart of town square, an anchor stands with pride,
A symbol of resilience, no matter what betide,
For we're a band of misfits, drawn in by the ocean's call,
United by the sea, we'll never fear a squall"
The crowd had grown large and dulled well enough by drink, Killian figured, as he plunged into the bridge, picking up speed with a flourish. The front two legs of his chair clattered back to the ground with relief as its occupant shot to his feet, flicking the brim of his bycocket back as the gathering cheered him on. With each strum came a stamp or a spin around the room as Killian whirled about, gathering groups of seamen into a cacophonous chorus that echoed throughout the city streets from the tavern windows. Now with a rosy-cheeked band of brothers trying and failing to keep their rum from the floor; then with an older couple that spun a merry round at his approach; and then still onto the handsome young lass whose eyeing of him had not gone unnoticed by Killian, nor by her suitor, who grew red in the face from more than just drink as he noticed the way his partner blushed at the performer's smile.
"So come, ye fellow wanderers, from far and distant lands,
Join us in this haven built by nature's vicious hands,
In this town of Flotsam, where our spirits freely roam,
We'll live our lives with gusto, and forever call it home."
Killian hung on the last chord with a bit of flare before silencing the lute with a bow accompanied by an uproar of whooping applause and clapping hands. It had been a slow couple of days moving tavern to tavern, inn to inn, scraping together just enough to scrounge up a room to keep out the chill, and a hot meal to stave off the pangs of hunger. Gazing over to the emptied case that usually held his lute, Killian could see a healthy mound of scalics steadily growing still from passing patrons. His eyes gleamed; it would be enough to pay for passage out.
Just barely, but enough all the same.
The bard straightened himself and replaced the bycocket upon his brow, strolling across the barroom to allow more time for his audience to fund his departure. Nonchalantly, he leaned upon one of the tables and gazed down to fiddle with his instrument all the while keeping a keen eye on his earnings.
"Wondrous show you've put on" Came a soft voice that stuck out from the rough noise of the tavern. "How long is it you've been playing?"
It was the young lady from the audience. Of course, Killian had already known that, as he'd chosen an opportune moment to sally over whilst her porkish companion was away.
"A little longer than I've been walking, but not so long as I've been able to draw breath." He replied easily. "What is it they call you?"
"Abigail," said she after a moment. "the Smiling Storm"
Killian regarded her with interest, raising his eyes to meet hers.
"A story behind a surname such as that, no? Especially to possess one being as young as yourself."
"Aye" she responded with a grin and turned to gaze out at the open sea. "I was but one of a handful of those who'd survived the wreck that landed us here in Flotsam when I was just a babe. While the tides had claimed my mother, my frantic father'd found me washed ashore and giggling just as if I'd been to a puppet show. My father and the remaining crew decided on my name there and then."
"I have a mind to call you by Gail, if we were to know each other better." Killian smartly hinted in his reply.
"I'd prefer Abbey, as I'm more inclined to treat you as a nun might." She coyly retorted, continuing on crisply to feign disinterest. "It is rather impolite not to give one's name in return when one has willingly offered theirs."
"Ah" Killian took on an air of his showmanship once more. "Across the drudgeried ports and tavern-hearted slums of the Dracticos Isles, I am hailed as Killian of the Nine Strings."
He smiled like a fox as Abigail giggled. "A fine name for a musician, but that lute of yours has but six strings." Killian was hoping she would mention the fact as an excuse to tell of his exploits.
"A common misconception, Nine are the lands I have journeyed to in order to perfect my trade, as thus the number continues to grow." He paused to see if Abigail had taken interest, and was giddy to see her hands neatly bridged under her chin, her emerald eyes focused on him in enthralled attention. "I picked up the lute at my home in Caportos and soon grew restless, and so hopped aboard a mission ship of apostles bound home to Pyanari. While aboard they taught me the nature of the Guzheng - a plucked instrument of ethereal sound. I soon left the company of monks and learned the nature of the banjo in the Western Boglands, but soon departed on a Padasirian cutter as the swamps I found to be far too sticky. I was in the ship's company for many months throughout the Clarimo Sea where I found interest in a small instrument the sailors kept aboard called the Uke that carried a simple merry tune."
"Boglands to a Padasirian cutter?" Abigail interrupted, "Are you certain you were not assailed and taken in by pirates?" she laughed.
"They were a friendly enough bunch, but to tell true I was never certain" He chuckled at his story. "We parted ways near the shores of Incanterra, where I luckily met with one of the few elves to wander outside the borders of their nation. After a little persuasion, she was willing to teach me how to play on her beautiful lyre. Stowing away on an Animaerisian trader much like the one now at rest in the harbor, I was nearly caught by the navy as we reached New Albion, but snuck into the city long enough to learn the fiddle after hearing the queer melody from a street performer. Next, I headed further north to Regganor, where I-"
"Regganor from Animaeris? Surely not over land with how dangerous the border crossing must be since the war."
"I did make a worthy attempt by passage of the Magmine River." Killian admitted. "Though the ferryman refused to take me through the mountains and into Regganorian territory, and so, being denied passage, I slowly hopped from port to port in the Dractorian Sea until I found myself on the coast of the old country."
"Was there ever a time you settled in the tribelands between the two?" Killian was thoroughly enjoying the young lady's interest in the tales of his journeys.
"Hashamwe? Luv's Lillies I tried, but the harbors are few and far between and crude to boot, while most of the coastline is none more than sheer cliffs. Though the mandolin - which was taught to me in Regganor by a gleeful lighthouse keeper - was derived from a primitive instrument learned by one of the Hashami tribes."
"Have you ever made it further north to Dvargkall? I've heard few Mid-Island ships make the journey, especially during the months of frostfall."
Killian nodded gravely, imagining the chill of ice on the windy evenings when the frosts first began to thaw, when the Dwarven longships would have carried him to the mountainous lands. "It was a hard journey, but once again one that I was fortunate to make. I caught a ride amongst a group of mercenaries just south of where the Greyscape Mountains mark the border of the northern lands. Late storms of frostfall set us to camp for several days on a Regganorian Isle."
"You're fortunate then that no Regganorian soldiers caught wind of your presence."
"That we were, though their "soldiers" are hardly more than bands of highwaymen nowadays, not unlike the Dwarves I had held in my company. Though the rest afforded me a rare encounter with a company of Valkyries heading the opposite ways - a sort of diplomatic embassy headed to Privatis to treat with the Regganorian King." Killain smirked as Abigail batted her eyes in wonderment.
"After much convincing, the Valkyries agreed to teach me how to strum a perfect melody on the entracing harp."
Abigail's eyes were now wide in awe, hardly believing all that she had been told. "Did you ever then make it to the Dwarven lands?"
"Once the weather grew more fair for sail, I made way to the harbor of a mining town where I was taught the charm of the balalaika. After my months were spent and I'd learned all I could, I set out to reach my final destination - that is where I aim to reach now."
"I take it your goal was not beautiful Flotsam, then?" Abigail asked flirtatiously.
"Not entirely," Killian responded, "but where I am setting out for very few attempt to reach nowadays. I wound up in Flotsam aboard an ore ship to restock my provisions and rest before sailing back North and to the West to the land of the giants."
All the awestruck wonder formerly present in Abigail's eyes were replaced now by a sort of blank confusion. "You speak of the crags of Skjarandell? An honest man's ship hasn't sailed within their waters since the last of the giants died off - at least a century gone by."
"That may be true." Killian strummed a chord to test his tuning. "For the ship of an honest man, as you have said. Luckily enough there are plenty of smugglers between Dvargkall and the Dracticos Isles, and I was fortunate enough to uncover the location of a Dwarven sanctuary where those in the business conduct trade."
Abigail laughed aloud at his ploy, though it did not phase him. "And what exactly is it that you expect to find in the barren lands of the giants?" she pried.
"The Titanstrum" Killian replied in almost a whisper, his eyes aglow with earnest excitement. He hurried on in explanation. "Legend tells of an instrument carved of entire trees, with strings fashioned from the sinew of mammoths."
"And how would a man of your stature ever fancy to play it, if it were to even exist in the first place?" Abigail jibed. "An instrument of such size would be as large as this inn."
"If it were plucked or if it were strum, I will play it." Killian shrugged in determination, then with a wicked grin: "I have been told by many that I have a talent with my hands.."
Abigail rolled her eyes and sighed, turning to look towards the bar counter at the bard's obvious flirtation. "I doubt Dreggar would agree with your advances."
Killian followed her gaze to the drunken lout at the bartop - it was the flushed man she had been accompanied by earlier. It seemed as if he had been in the process of purchasing another round on his way back from the latrine, but was now caught in a heated and slurred argument with another patron. Killian cringed as he watched the two come to blows after the man named 'Dreggar' emptied his flagon on the head of his opponent.
"Doesn't seem to be a very soft touch, does he?"
"A very astute observation." Abigail replied, her eyes still locked on the unfolding brawl.
"Pardon my saying so, but he doesn't exactly strike me as your type."
Abigail glanced up at him again, her hands cupped under her chin in amusement. "And what exactly would my type be? Lanky bards playing for scalics in shabby backwater inns?"
Killian shrugged. "Perhaps not, but maybe charming warrior-poets living the life of a wandering rogue?"
"That does sound more appealing" she conceded.
The pair watched as the bartender - along with a handful of other patrons - assisted in tossing Dreggar and the man he'd been grappling with, out the door. Abigail stood, finishing her drink before she leaned over to Killian, her lips almost touching his ear.
"It seems I might have room to spare this evening anyhow. I'd hate to be cold on my last night in town. Third door on the left."
Killian watched breathlessly as she retired up the stairs, his eyes hungrily following every movement until Abigail was at last out of view. Returning to reality, the bard put on once again his performer's smile as he saddled over to collect his earnings, as well as the many compliments and pats on the back he received from his inebriated audience. Counting the coins, he was elated to find enough to fill his stomach for a number of nights - even enough to afford a room if he so desired, though it seemed as if tonight he would not need to. Tying up his payment into the coin purse at his waist, he thanked the barman and, with one last look out the window into the night of the harbor, made way for the stairs of Raimond's Rest.