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travelerscurseThere's protocol to be observed, both as a field agent returning from the field and as an "Imperial deserter" come to join the rising tide of resistance in Ala Mhigo. But the first thing he does the moment all of that is taken care of is secure a change of clothes out of his uniform and a bath. The bath is in a river and the clothes are simple, used but not quite threadbare yet, but it's a start. He's never liked the more "advanced" Garlean fabrics even without the farce of putting him in a soldier's uniform and it's a relief to be back in something organic, homespun, a comfort he didn't know he was missing until he had it again.
Food is next and the most difficult. He has no money, not that would be good here, anyway, and has traded what he carried for what he has gotten so far. He's down to the clothes on his back, his bow, and his instruments and none of them are things he's willing to give up.
So old habits die hard, perhaps, or maybe it's more like riding a chocobo, you don't forget, or maybe, just maybe, this is it's own form of homecoming. Whatever the reason, he finds himself singing for his supper just like he used to years ago, moving from place to place in a Calamity-pocked world, helping where he could, working where there was work. His voice is somewhat out of service like this, but it's good enough for some tavern songs and the quickly erected pavilion tent does seem to become a tavern once he starts, hopefully making the owner a bit more gil than normal, enough to off-set his own meal and mead, meager though it may be.
He's mostly been playing the violin. It and the harp are his favorites, for their ability to both allow him to sing with them and their ability to keep a tune all on their own where he needs to rest his voice, but the harp is a bit too calm for a place like this. The violin is soothing without being overbearing, and he can fiddle with it when he needs to.
It's shaping up to be a good enough evening, a balm to a soul that has seen precious little of music these past two years in Ilsabard.
Food is next and the most difficult. He has no money, not that would be good here, anyway, and has traded what he carried for what he has gotten so far. He's down to the clothes on his back, his bow, and his instruments and none of them are things he's willing to give up.
So old habits die hard, perhaps, or maybe it's more like riding a chocobo, you don't forget, or maybe, just maybe, this is it's own form of homecoming. Whatever the reason, he finds himself singing for his supper just like he used to years ago, moving from place to place in a Calamity-pocked world, helping where he could, working where there was work. His voice is somewhat out of service like this, but it's good enough for some tavern songs and the quickly erected pavilion tent does seem to become a tavern once he starts, hopefully making the owner a bit more gil than normal, enough to off-set his own meal and mead, meager though it may be.
He's mostly been playing the violin. It and the harp are his favorites, for their ability to both allow him to sing with them and their ability to keep a tune all on their own where he needs to rest his voice, but the harp is a bit too calm for a place like this. The violin is soothing without being overbearing, and he can fiddle with it when he needs to.
It's shaping up to be a good enough evening, a balm to a soul that has seen precious little of music these past two years in Ilsabard.
