Renalt Readies to Return to Hetha

So, they were to be travelling to Hetha. Renalt absentmindedly drums his fingers on the deck as he thinks. It’s been some time since last he saw the City of Exiles. If he does recall correctly, they do love a new working. Mayhaps this be the right place for the musician to debut his new song. If only he finishes it this eve. At least the final pair of phrases, the epic one of a hopeless yet meaningful battle, which seemed to enthuse his companions quite well in their recent endeavors, and the one of tragic downfall and ultimate falling of the mage to the unwinnable war. While not the full song, as long as he has those two phrases completed enough to play for a crowd, it will feel enough like a song that the audience should be receptive. The tragedy will not hit as hard without that second phrase of a better future seen, but it should still work.

He leans up against the rail and begins to strum chords. Trying to find the right ones to center the melody of that tragic phrase around. He wants something that holds that somberness in the listeners hearts without being truly saddening. As he’s testing it out, a voice rings out nearby, spoken at a normal volume but piercing through the relative silence of night. “Ren,” Den says to him.

Renalt looks up from the middle distance to look at the Elfi’ika. The massive man is standing before him, in the skintight outfit from the ancient mage’s house. He smells nice, and seems to have a clean face, at the very least. The musician gives the killer a grin, adding, “I see you washed your face at least. A good start. All it took was our imminent approaching of a new city.”

The massive man shakes his head and lets out a sigh. Refusing to admit that Ren might be right, that Den could really use a bath. “Speaking of,” Den offers instead, “I was hoping you had a pair of belts that might match my leathers?”

“Mayhaps,” Ren replies, barely thinking about it. He’s going to accept, but knowing more and making his friend wait is such fun. “Might I query you as to the why of the matter?”

At first, Denlo doesn’t reply, he just shows the musician the raid-leader’s blade. The silent warrior adds, “I want to hang this off my belt. At least for long enough that I can get a proper sheath for it made.”

Ren actually considers the option, stopping his testing of chord combinations. Hanging that sword off his belt would make it look less like he’s actively trying to kill anyone, but it would make it harder to pull if they were actually in a fight. “Going to be more trouble to use,” he warns his friend.

Den has an answer almost immediately. “A raid-leader’s blade on display, ideally I won’t need to use it in town.”

Makes sense, Ren muses. Onlookers will look at them and think that their little group killed a full raid party. Might be a challenge to some people, but would definitely be a deterrent to most. With a nod, the bard agrees to the request, though he does make a condition as well. Try to work his friend up to taking that bath. “I can do that. But if I am to do that work, you too shall have to play your part. Clean that leather armor today, so it has an appearance to match my belts.”

Den nods. “Will do. Already cleaned the sword, as you can tell.”

Seriously, Ren warns, “And when you wrap the blade, do be quite careful. I shall be expecting it returned in equal condition.” After the serious statement about condition of items, he realizes the opportunity for a joke. A joke that furthers his goal. He can’t help but smirk before he adds a simple, “Perhaps a tad more dirty, but I do understand the difficulties you oft have with cleanliness.”

Denlo chuckles at Renalts correction, not a full laugh but still a chuckle. Shaking his head, Denlo jokes back, “Just for that, I’m going to nick it. Just a little, because we both know you won’t notice until it’s too late.” And turning on his heel, the massive man heads back below decks. Hopefully to clean his armor. Renalt turns back to the muse. He can worry about what belt to give Den in the morning.

It’s approaching night time by the time he’s finished the final phrase of his Fall of the Forgotten One. Heading down, the door to his makeshift washroom is shut. He wanders into the hold area, where all but Felazo sleep. Sister Hilan is lying in her hammock, not looking good. Denlo is scrubbing his armor. Ren shakes his head. Sari was above decks, watching from the mast. Which left Felazo. He was not about to kick their captain out of the washroom. He looks at the dark leather armor that Denlo is cleaning. It’s not dyed, but it is rather dark. But Ren knows his wardrobe, and he can certainly find a dark brown belt or two. Heading over to his bags, he starts to sort through his clothing.

He has two. A braided number, which he is not going to risk Denlo having been serious about nicking his belt in retaliation, and a flat one that currently has no buckle connected to it. Perfect. “Dearest Den,” Renalt begins, “Doest this strap seem suited to thine arm and armor?” He raises the flat belt.

Den looks up from his armor, and nods, before adding. “Where’s the buckle?”

The musician shrugs at his friend. “If you truly wish it, I might could find a fasten which coordinates well with the blade and the armor and the other metals about, but I figured ‘twould be easier for thee to simply cinch it to thy belt with a subtle string or thong, as with your pockets.”

He takes it in and nods. “Makes sense.” He raises his hand and Ren tosses the belt over. Then Denlo, after catching the belt, gets back to work cleaning his armor. Trying to make it as clean as Renalt’s belt is.

Ren does not go through his clothes, nor does he lie down. Neither of those would be productive. He does write down roughly the songs chords and lyrics, though he knows those will change. The lyrics he has now are not memorable enough to hold in the minds of poets around the Sea that Once was Not. And if it is to be sung, it must be memorable. And, ideally, reference key landmarks or remembered mythic figures for the people to emphasize when near. The truly great songs don’t just tell a story and send a message, but also connect the audience to that story, to that message.

By the time he has noted down his personal symbols to make up the melody and the first draft of the words, Felazo exits the bath in a clean set of robes. “I am heading up topside, which will indubitably lead our lovely Sari to come back down,” he says to the hold, then reveals to whom he is truly speaking to by adding, “So, if you wish to claim the tub before she feels the need to clean off for the people, do so now.” Ren smiles. No one else that he could be talking to, what with Hilan being asleep and Den being, well, Den.

The bard nods. “If you do not mind too strongly,” Ren offers as he goes to gather his bathing things, “I do believe that book from which you discovered the tomb may be well an aid in analyzing your new figurehead prior to installation. You may wish to grab that and some tools prior to your ascent.”

Felazo chuckles. “Of course,” he replies before heading towards his cabin.

Renalt starts to hurry up in his gathering. That offering should give him an extra minute and a half. He rushes into the bath with a set of sleeping clothes. This bath is not for musing, just for cleaning and scenting himself prior to arrival in civilization. Get the stink of that swamp off of him. He says the word and the bath begins to fill.

While he is finishing his oiling up, he hears someone at the door, then a pause, then Sari says loudly, “Goddamnit Ren, you came down a while ago. Why aren’t you finished in there yet?”

Ren laughs. Felazo was right about Sari. “Our dear captain was occupying this chamber of bathing when I did find myself returning to the bowels of the Ekzokia. Worry not too much, I shall not be as long as some eves. The muse has already blessed me with progress, and so I need not use the relaxation to find her.”

Sari sighs. “Fine,” she says, before she heads deeper into the hold. Likely going to converse with Den silently. Renalt can recognize the two strong, silent types of the crew do actually like one another, even if they do not express much. The human man gets to work keeping his word, and focusing on rubbing the oils over his skin to trap all the dirt and grime prior to scraping. Then, after scraping, he anoints himself in his scented oils, before leaving the water to close his pores. He dumps the bath and begins to dry himself off. Then, wrapping himself in his sleeping robe, he gathers up his things and heads back out.

Sari is seated on Hilan’s bed, checking up on her cursed friend, while clearly ready to rush into the bathing chamber as soon as it was ready. Denlo has his now fairly well cleaned armor up on a broom leaning against a barrel, and he is moving his blade around on it. If the musician were more of a gambling man, Ren would say that the Elfi’ika is deciding exactly how he wishes to wear his sword. But he knows better than to bet on something as uncertain and trivial as someone else’s thoughts. And so, instead, He collapses onto his hammock and says, “I told you, Attentive Alessari, ‘twas not to be too much a wait.”

Alessari’s head jolts around. “Don’t call me that,” she scolds on instinct, before adding, “And thank you for not taking too much time.”

“You are welcome, most hospitable huntress,” the musician replies, “And I do humbly apologize for the accidental address, solicitous Sari.”

The noble huntress laughs as she picks up her own things for washing. “You don’t have an ounce of honest humility in your soul,” she says to him.

Ren clutches his heart in exaggerated offence. “That, dear madam, is blatantly false. I may not have but an ounce, but I certainly have an ounce.”

Den looks over from his project, tilts his head, then says, “I’d say no more than ten drams worth.”

That caused all three of the people in the hold still awake to start laughing, and the laughter was loud enough to awaken the Sister from her rest. “What is it?” Hilan asks as her eyes slowly open.

Renalt smiles. “I do believe, Sister, that our dear Den did make his first joke. ‘Twas alright, though the surprise did heighten the experience.”

Sari shakes her head as she heads to the bath. Sister Hilan nods. She looks towards Denlo and adds, “The armor does look nice.”

“Made a promise,” he says coldly. Then he returns to determining his outfit.

Sister Hilan looks back at Ren. Ren lies back in the hammock, but keeps his head turned to face the Sister. “That song you played to open the tomb. You claimed it to be a funerary dirge, but it sounded different. Almost like a joyous love song.”

Ren nods. “Kuren-si’ika aren’t dirges in the sense that we or the elves sing funerary dirges. In the ways and practices from the Dead Lands, ever since their gods turned apocalyptic, death was not to be mourned, but coaxed. Hopeful excitement and lovely joy were encouraged in funerals, to help keep the apocalyptic gods at bay long enough for a peaceful burial and a seal to be set. And so the dirges they brought to the Vyroltea were originally happy tunes.” Sister Hilan nods, and Ren does admit, “Over time, of course, outside the noble Nation’s most isolate enclaves, the Kuren-si’ika became more and more melancholic, with outside influence, but they never lost that spark of joy and hope that separates them from our funerary songs.”

“Fascinating,” the monastic sister muses aloud as she returns to her feverish sleep. Ren, too, lets himself drift off.