The evening grew dark and dusky, shadows falling gently onto the outlines of oaks, beeches, elms and maples, growing side by side with fields and settlements, manning those patches of earth, sometimes green with leaves, sometimes golden with crops, shivering softly in the evening wind. Yet, the dusty road remained heating, well enough almost steaming from the summer day's lingering warmth. The dirt rose and settled back down under the hooves of his grey rouncey, hide seemingly blue in the dimming light of the twilight. That was how he arrived to the door of an inn, worn after a day of riding.
It reminded him of the days of his youth... And a small smile formed on his soft lips as he recalled that it was only two years ago that he set out of his hometown, taking a far better horse than his stepmother would have liked him to ever saddle. The stallion was little older than four years, and was still strong and fresh with youth; it has been by his side for all the time of his travels, just as it was now, carrying his heavy black cloak in the half-empty saddlebags. It shook its head and whinnied quietly as he dove his heels into its sides, prompting the horse to brake, and turn a little at the tug of its reins.
"Whoa, Baiard. Stay calm." he tapped the horse's lean neck lightly with his left hand, letting go off the reins for a moment, and sliding off with an elegance not entirely human; at the very least, it was unexpected from a man that had ridden since morning. Stretching his stiff legs, Daerion stepped from one foot to the other a few times before taking the rouncey by the reins again, and gently leading it towards a couple of other horses, tied before the inn. Baiard wasted no time to bend its grey head towards the water, though to the bard, it looked unsightly at the very best. Raising a brow with a bit of distrust, he dusted his hands against his black doublet, and with a light smile at his lips entered the tavern.
He was pleasantly surprised; it was less crowded than he expected, the air still light and breathable. He wasted no time before getting to the auburn-haired innkeep; an older woman, the red of her hair was already woven through with silver strands, and her round face was wrinkled. She gave him a warm smile, which Daerion kindly returned with the blinking ember of mischief in his emerald-green eyes.
"A dish of trout and potatoes. Well seasoned, if you may. No, no beer." he instructed her, stopping her hands that, most likely by instinct, went to pour a full glass of the gold liquid. He had disliked alcohol save for wine and sweet spirits; beer made him sick, just as heavier meat did. Ofttimes, he wondered whether other Fae had the same issue, or it was a specific issue of his own self only, whether it was a heritage from-
He was pulled from his thoughts by the thud of the plate before him. "Here's yer trout, ser." the innkeep spoke. It appeared that he had spent more time gazing at the wooden boards before the counter than he thought, for the fish was baked, still steaming with heat. He thanked her, dropping the appropriate change onto the counter, and then picking the hot plate up with his gloved left hand.
It tasted delicious. He wasn't famished - he had had a lunch of yesterday's leftovers, cold chicken and stale bread - but a warm meal after a day of riding always had an almost celebratory mood to itself. And after a short while of rest, he had finally reached for the black case, hanging on a thin strap of leather across his chest. A smile played at his lips as he unlocked it, revealing the oaken instrument, its silver ornaments glimmering softly in the light of the candles. His harp.
His left hand carefully unlaced the larger, better crafted glove, protecting his playing hand from even the slightest harm. He took the harp out, ran his fingers across his strings.
Someone from a nearby table leaned in after the sound, inspecting the instrument with a pair of curious watery blue eyes. Daerion's ever-present smile was directed at the man for a moment. "Would you perchance wish to hear a song?" he offered, cocking his head to the side.
"And can you play well, bard?" the man's biting voice answered with a question, a look of distrust in the eyes.
He chuckled. "Have you heard the play of a bard by the name of Illio, an elf with a lute whose voice and face maidens swoon about?" his hands lay on his harp, still half hidden in its case, softly.
A frown of confusion on the man's face told him quite clearly that the answer was most likely to be no.
"You're missing out, then, but he howls like a wolf in the north compared to the play of my instrument. I take this as a dare." he spoke back with confidence, and without lingering further, he climbed onto his table, nonchalantly pushing the plate back by foot. Daring as ever, and just as cocky. Though, it guaranteed him audience. An old trick.
Standing on the table, he drew a deep breath in. He could feel the innkeep's eyes on his back; not vile, only curious. A smile lit up his face once more.
"Ladies and sers, please, lend me your ears!" he called out, his voice booming in comparison to the thread of silk it was before; a waterfall to a churning river, a windstorm to a breeze, and people indeed turned their heads to face the young bard "To prove wrong the distrust of some of the present, I have decided to play you all a song! What do you say?"
A few cheers added him courage; not that he'd really need more of that accursed feat, though. He could see the distrustful patron's eyes glinting in the light of the candles as he first ran the slim fingers of his right hand down his harp.
And he begun to play.
The song was beyond what could be called beautiful; even though it was not the peak of his art, the ears of common folk could hardly see a good play from an average one. Though, soon, they'd begin to recognize that his courage was not for naught. The sound of his voice, masterfully intertwining with the harp's play, quick and lively, yet not forced in any way, weaved a tapestry of sensation before their eyes; they'd take no time at all to see every knight on his destrier, riding through the song, as if they were among them, the smell of grass and the wind by them would come naturally to them. They'd see the stars twinkling on the night sky as clearly as he did when he sang of them. Daerion was no foolish child, playing musicians; he was a bard by name and spirit alike.
