As if on cue, he heard a ruckus coming from what Troan recalled to be a relatively small dining room to the side.
An instrument sounding like some sort of guitar was being played.
Just as Troan turned and pushed open the double doors to the dining room. He saw a youth with short, dark brown hair standing on the backrest of a dining chair, and holding a stringed instrument with fretted fingerboards.
"Ahoy! Ahoy! Mermaid zombie!"
He sang, laughed, and played.
Even though the chair swayed precariously he didn't seem to have a care in the world.
Below, a young lady ran about him in a panic.
She wore a white long-sleeved shirt under a loose leather vest, brown trousers, and dark boots. A green feather decorated bycocket sat on her head of shoulder-length sandy colored hair.
She spread her hands as if to catch him, hazel-brown eyes desperate.
"Get down you'll break it! The Prince will kill me if he learns something happened to it!" She yelled with a troubled, borderline regretful expression.
He chuckled and said, "Don't worry, Jigi. I'll be fine."
She looked at him in disbelief, but she couldn't hide her amusement despite herself.
"Who in the dark hells cares about you, you drunk! I meant the Ukulele!"
"Rolling tides, roaring waves~ Send me to, the sun-kissed lands!"
Wriggler sang and twirled, blatantly ignoring her.
Jigimon chuckled darkly, clenching her fist. "If you don't get down now. I'll send you to an early grave!"
She again tried to grab him.
But with uncanny grace and impeccable balance, he danced and leaped from backrest to backrest around the diner table, always able to keep out of her reach.
Lt. Sol grimaced at the situation, then he glanced at Troan.
Troan stood looking speechless.
Wriggler suddenly stopped upon spotting Troan, and he grinned.
"Oh! Boss! I knew my resurrection rhythm would wake you!"
"He wasn't dead, Wriggler!" Jigimon facepalmed.
"Oh! And greetings Lord Seventh!" She smiled and gave a salute.
Troan's eyes twitched.
He wanted to frown, yell, or even just clench his fists in frustration! But in the end, he caressed his forehead and tilted his head down in a bid to subtly hide an involuntary smile.
"I can't get rid of him, can I?" He whispered to himself.
Despite Troan's whisper, Wriggler still caught what he said.
"It ain't that easy, boss!"
Wriggler laughed before hopping down, the green beads on his neck clacking as he landed.
He wore a dark, fitted short-sleeved shirt beneath a unique dark leather armor vest. Along with dark leather arm gauntlets, trousers, and leather boots. The vest and gauntlets had belts wrapping around them. It was an aesthetic common amongst Navethian armors that even extended to their clothing.
If Troan didn't know Wriggler he would have thought it only served an aesthetic purpose. However, he knew that Wriggler liked to hide his knives within their hold after he was done sharpening them.
The only items that stood out on him were Jigimon's green beads on his neck and a blood-red ring on his left hand.
As soon as his feet touched the floor, Jigimon didn't miss her chance. She snatched the instrument back from him and hugged it like the most precious item in the realm.
Wriggler gave a wry smile.
"Come on, Jigi." He pleaded. "I haven't played the 'Rumba rumba' yet."
Jigimon shot him the stink eye and hid the instrument with her body.
"No! After I return it to the Prince, you can meet him and borrow it yourself! I won't have it destroyed under my care!"
But then, as if remembering something, she glanced at his blood-red ring and shot him a suggestive smile.
"You could also pay me to construct a new Ukelele, one just for you! Think about it—It could have runic sound enhancements!" She enticed, almost salivating at the mouth.
Wriggler shook his head with a soft sigh. Then he shifted his magnetic brown eyes to Troan
"Say, boss. You'd like to hear the 'Rumba rumba', wouldn't you?"
Troan walked forward after regaining himself.
"What I would like to hear is an explanation. Why are you here?" He inquired.
Troan had left him back at Fort Strand, seeing as he was relatively well-liked, and was almost a crowd favorite. Even though some hated him due to the land of his birth.
At the time, Troan considered leaving Wriggler behind to be the most efficient course of action, as he didn't need him for the mission he was assigned.
However, the gladness he felt from having him close by at this moment made him begin to reconsider his choice.
Wriggler huffed and looked at him as if the answer was obvious.
"What do you mean, 'why am I here?' I'm your Swordbearer! I should always be at your side!"
A Swordbearer was the person who carried the divine sword of the 'Ancestor's Chosen,' i.e., those who completed the 'Ancestor's trial.'
They were usually picked by the Chosen themselves and were usually a most trusted and capable individual.
Their responsibilities not only included carrying the divine sword, as the title implied, but it also entailed assisting their charges in any circumstance that required them.
Troan let out a breath, his shoulders loosening as he gazed at Wriggler.
"I thought you would understand this, Wriggler. Your presence back at the fort would do more good raising the soldier's morale. They always seemed to enjoy your party tricks and—unique sense of humor."
Wriggler rubbed his nose, a bit embarrassed.
"Well, thanks for the odd compliment. But without you there I always felt someone's bloodthirsty gaze on my back! It grew daily, and it wouldn't have been long before someone stabbed me in the ass for hurting their 'feelings.'"
"Well, you do ramble a lot," Jigimon interjected. "And you can be such a troublemaker sometimes. Not to mention, there's also the topic of your origin of birth."
Wriggler rolled his eyes noncommittally and looked away.
"Yeah, there's always the typical racist and bigoted bunch, but nothing's special there."
Wriggler was born on the continent of Naveth, across the corrupted seas, far west of Davor.
It was a continent known for its diverse races, demonic creatures, and hordes of navaric monsters.
Fallen gods were known to walk the lands and demigods became warlords, waging war over resources and territory. If there was anything that scholars and adventurers agreed on, it was that Naveth was a very chaotic place.
There were three well-known passages between both continents separated by desert, forest and sea. The first two were treacherous, but it was possible to make it across if you were powerful. The only option that offered a safe passage was the sea channel, called 'Channel Abbey' or just 'The Abbey'.
It was a narrow path of the corrupted sea, colossal zombified, navaric sea monsters do not reach.
For centuries this channel has been guarded by House Seasult, blockading access between both continents, as it was feared that strange occultic items and beliefs could spread across continents, amongst other reasons.
But this changed about nine years ago when King Vitrus consented to the Empress's will to officially open the Abbey, changing what had been the status quo for nearly a millennia and enabling Navethians seeking a better life to surge into Luen.
Due to an awful history between the inhabitants of both the continents; Naveth and Luen, Nauvausians tended to view anyone from Naveth with distrust. However, other kingdoms were more than half inclined to accept them...
As for why or how someone from Naveth came to be Troan's Swordbearer—that was probably a story for another time.
Troan groaned and shook his head.
"Forget it then. I never actually ordered you to stay behind, It was a choice I left for you to decide."
He then looked around the room. "Did Fro bring you from the north?"
'Fro' was his pet name for the Lady Frozen, his half-cousin. No other person dared call her that, not even Wriggler, as reckless as he seemed to be.
"Yes, golem. I did."
A tired feminine voice echoed from a doorway across the room.
It was a young lady about Troan's age. Her black hair was long and disheveled, likely from sleep.
Her sharp, frosted blue eyes gleamed momentarily as they roamed Troan's form with relief hidden beneath them.
Then she looked away and plodded into the dining room wearing a silver satin sleeping gown.
Not bothering to acknowledge anyone else, she fell into the head chair of the dinner table and gazed at the empty plates that lined the table.
Her expression became distraught and she looked at Wriggler in disbelief.
"Where is the food?!"
Wriggler revealed an amused smile and said, "I made sure to let the cooking staff know that you'll soon be waking up. Oh! You should have seen them yourself. The frenzy they got worked into trying to prepare you something before they experienced your tantrum."
"My tantrum?" Frozen sharp eyes beheld Wriggler with a certain danger behind them.
However, before she could open a case on Wriggler's choice of words, the main doors swung open, and in came maids, streaming in with various dishes and a few pitchers.
"Well, would you look at that," He said, shifting back, and giving way for a maid to pass by. "It seems like we're gonna have quite the feast today."
Jigimon reached for a napkin, an impressed smile tugging at her lips.
"They beat their previous record. I guess you could call it 'the Frozen effect'!"
Wriggler smirked at the irony.
Meanwhile, Frozen's eyes gleamed with desire at all the food.
Troan stepped forward and examined a pitcher placed on the table.
"What is this?" He asked a maid.
"Ale, my lord."
Troan frowned.
"You shouldn't serve her alcohol. She has a condition."
Then he looked around in search of someone.
"Where's Valerie?"
Bang!
Frozen slammed her palm on the table.
"I will drink whatever I desire!" She declared, glaring at Troan with gritted teeth.
Silence...
"Whelp, here we go." Wriggler grimaced with a small smile, expecting a show.