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 Running Into Each Other, Tag: Kel!
Owen Impar
 Posted: Jan 13 2018, 06:49 AM
In search of a way to clear the Mists from his eyes

The day was early, the sun just beginning to burn away the night's chill. The air hung, crisp and still, perfect for music. The notes danced through the air, as Owen's fingers picked out the melody. He had come into the town in the early hours of dawn, when mists still clung to his skin and clothes with light, cold gossamer kisses. He had scarce little sleep the night before, but new it was too early for bother any innkeep and expect civil treatment, and so he had sat himself down on a partiularly wide street corner and, for something to do, began to fill the morning air of the little town with music.

By now, the town had begun to awaken, and the smell of fresh bread baking, the rumble of wagons and the steady rhythm of people beginning their day began to fill the air. Owen soon began to draw a small crowd. His purse contained enough to gain him a room and a hot meal, but not much more, and it was always smart to have a little spare. So, he put more skill and thought into his playing as he heard coins clink on the stone before him. Just a few coppers, by the sound of it, but it was something.

He was beginning to merge from one song to another, a cheerful lively tune that lent itself well to morning sunshine, good work, and light conversation, when a call echoed across the street.
"You there! No begging!"
Owen paid it no mind, until the sound of heavy boots approached, and a kick caught him hard in his ribs before he could react. The notes of the song fell apart like a jangle of spilled coins, and Owen was knocked to his side, more intent on keeping his precious harp safe than minding his balance.
"I said, no begging." The growl of the guard was calm with quiet rage. Owen could not reply, the kick had driven the air from his lungs. He simply knelt on the ground, clutching his harp to his chest, gasping and trying not to choke on his own tongue. A second pair of thumping steps approached.
"What's this then?"
"Just some riffraff."
Even without his sight, Owen could picture the two guards all too easily. Large bear-like men, that doubtless wore their heaviest armour and swords, despite there surely being little call for it in a town such as this. Bored, from the endless weeks or months of patrolling quiet streets, power drunk, even this early, and looking to stretch their muscles.
"Not...a beggar." Owen finally managed to choke out, as the air slowly returned to his lungs. One of the pair scoffed.
"Then what'cha call that racket you were making?" one of them asked. Owen didn't suppose it mattered which of them spoke, to his mind they were virtually indistinguishable
"Music," he responded, finally able to draw a full breath he turned more towards the guards, so they wouldn't think he was disrespecting him. "I'm a bard."
One of them laughed, while the other stepped forward and spoke.
"A bard you say? That's a pretty little toy you got there..." Owen's heart froze in his chest, as his beloved, his precious harp, was cruelly rent from him his grip.
"Give it back." He felt like a small boy ordering a bully to put down his favourite toy. But this was no toy. His livelihood, his strength, his hope, his one comfort on cold nights, everything he was, now dangled precariously in the hands of some overgrown... brainless suit of armour. Owen set his jaw, and steeled himself. "Give. It. Back."
He could almost hear the guard raise his eyebrow.
"And what if I don't, huh?"
"I'll... What could he do? He had his fire, but that would likely do little more than get him thrown behind bars. But it had been a long night of walking in the cold, and he was tired enough to not trust his silver tongue to talk his way out of this, and he didn't have enough coin for a bribe. And they had his harp.

A heavy hand clapped itself on his shoulder.
"Now, just come along with us and-"
"Give it back." It seemed no matter what he wanted to say, all that came out was those three vital words. Without his harp he would be worse than a blind man. It would be like losing his hands and his voice at once. He would be little more than the pitiful beggar they thought him to be. His fear was an icy lump inside him, but it was quickly giving way to hot, desperate anger. The grip of the savage hand tightened.
"Now, look here boy-"[/color] They had his harp! And he was likely going to prison anyway. Gathering his strength, he drew on the heat within him, and with a breath it burst forth from him, encasing himself in a wreathe of flickering, flaring flame. He heard the guard yelp, and the grip was gone from his shoulder. Desperately hoping that this show of power would incite the guards to obedience rather than aggression, Owen put on his best powerful magician voice.
"Give. It. BACK!"
Khalidah Sherwood
 Posted: Jan 13 2018, 10:49 PM
Healer MageSidhe-Vampire
27 years5'10"
Too many damn rebels to heal!

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She had been tracking the guards from a distance away. Like other rebels that had sworn to fight at the rightful king's side, Khalidah had taken to traversing along the rooftops whenever she was in a town or city. It meant that she could stalk the guards, learn the patrol patterns. But aside from all that, it also kept her out of the way of general foot traffic.

Lockley was a quaint little town, and to most people, seeing a woman dressed in shades of green with a heavy brown cloak about her shoulders, striding across the rooftops was certainly something that made them stop and look. But only for a moment. Odd as it seemed, most people just ignored her peculiar behaviour rather than call the guards. It was less troublesome... especially when the woman was gone by the time the guards arrived. That usually resulted in the complainer being questioned and dealing with trouble for 'wasting precious time'.

Climbing off the room of one building, Khalidah landed in an alleyway behind where a group of children were kicking around a crude round ball made of inflated and stitched pig's bladder. The toy bounced towards her, rolling into her feet. Khalidah picked up the ball and walked towards them, offering it to them; holding her fingers to her lips, signalling them to be quiet as she did so. The children smiled, taking the ball from her grasp before running deeper into the alley, laughing all the while. Khalidah grinned as she watched them leave before turning her silver-grey eyes back towards the guards she had been following.

Her eyes landed on the bard they were accosting and her heart nearly stopped.
“Owen...” the name barely made a sound as it fell from her lips, her eyes wide. They had kicked him, snatched his harp from his grasp. Khalidah moved a few steps forward, before halting. She knew the bard, true, but could she risk helping him? Indecision weighed on her. No, she should help him... he had helped her when they had first met.

The burst of flames, causing one of the guards to yelp out prompted Khalidah into movement. She had no choice now, this was getting out of hand.

Pulling the hood of her cloak up to disguise her pointed ears, the sidhe-vampire ran forward into the square, hurrying towards Owen.
“Brother, you know you shouldn't wander off!” Khalidah exclaimed, falsely, lying through her teeth as she gave the impression that the blind bard was her relative. “Our dear mother would be worried sick!”
The guards eyed her suspiciously, though Khalidah kept her face in enough shadow to obscure her definite fae facial features.
“I'll take him home at once, he won't cause any more trouble!” she continued, now speaking to the guards, still playing the worried sister. “But please, may I have the harp back? It belonged to our grandfather, it is very dear to us”.

The guard that held the harp threw it to the ground before, quite roughly, shoving Khalidah down into the dirt. Khalidah landed hard, wincing through the pain, but she did not lift her head. She would not risk the hood falling from her head.
“Make sure he does”, the man spat at her before the two guards clattered off down the street. Khalidah lifted her head slightly to make sure they had left before standing up, patting at the dust that coated her clothing.
“Brainless suit of armours”, the woman commented aloud, using her true voice now. She picked up the harp, reaching forward to put it into Owen's hand. “They strut about like peacocks”.
Khalidah watched Owen's face. Was he alright? She did not say who she was – would he remember her from voice alone?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

TAG;; @Owen Impar

This post has been edited by Khalidah Sherwood: Jan 13 2018, 10:49 PM

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