A Glamorous Night

The hour was late, many of the patrons of the Four Fair Winds having already departed. Secluded in a corner, table candles burned low, that evening’s performers – an ethereal, fey looking woman and a beautiful, silver-haired half-elf – share the last bites of their late dinner.

“That is quite the harrowing tale, Osborin,” Sheryl says, raising a sparkling glass of feywine to him. He takes a sip of his cocktail, the mixed drink a similar shade of blue to his skin, hiding the grin that wants to spread across his lips. He is familiar with the sparkling drink his new acquaintance enjoys and its supposed effects.

“I would be inclined to believe it,” she continues, “were I not a storyteller myself.” One side of her mouth curves up into a sly grin as she tilts her head back and takes a sip. “Of course, we all have a past, somewhere we came from. Such things shape us and the kind of music we perform.”

Osborin grins back. “Hm, but don’t we tell stories to escape? Escape from various things, often the past. It can shape you in different ways – it can mould, it can forge, it can break down and reassemble… sometimes.” His expression suddenly brightens. “But what would I know, I just share other people’s stories. I was grown with a silver spoon in my mouth. Not golden though, which is a shame.”

Casually, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Oh, and today’s performance – that was just a bad day.”

Sheryl’s eyes sparkle with amusement but she remains silent.

Osborin glances around, seeing how empty the lounge is and a bit of the vibrato leaves him. He sags forward, arms resting on the table, head bowing over his blue drink, gazing into it like he will find secrets at the bottom of the glass. Keeping his eyes cast down he says, “I’ve never played anything as beautiful as you did today. Where did you learn to perform?”

Sheryl carefully sets her glass down, bright blue eyes watching the bubbles dance for a moment. When she looks at him, the preternatural golden glow to her skin seems to have dimmed, whilst the gem in her diadem gets a little brighter.

“Like many people here, I did not always call Daring home. I hail from the Summer Lands.” Osborin’s eyes flicker to her glass, understanding now why she is seemingly unaffected by the beverage. “If you have ever been to the Feywild, you may understand how everything – every emotion, every thought, every sensation – feels more there. I have always had an ear for Songs…” She trails off, eyes closing as she seems to be listening to something. Osborin watches her for a moment, shifting a little in his seat. Sheryl opens her eyes and there’s something unsettling about the way she looks at him. “I developed my talent with the help of a mentor. He taught me much about music, amongst… other things.”

Osborin raises his eyebrows in a suggestive way. “Mm, do I sense a salacious story? Ignoring for now the fact that your spoon was leafy-green-magic, tell me more about your… teacher. What did the fey think about this kind of student-teacher relationship?”

“It wasn’t like what you are thinking, not whilst I was the Student and he the Teacher,” she demurred. “I was very young when he took me under his wing. It was me who approached him first actually. I heard him play and all I wanted to do was dance and sing and dance some more! At first he was not convinced that a mortal would be able to play music anywhere nearly as good as the fey but I picked it up very quickly. Some said, unnaturally so.” She gives a small humourless chuckle. “Jealousy is an ugly emotion, but it is a thousand times worse when seen in the feywild.”

Sheryl takes another sip of feywine.

“And you, Osborin, did your silver spoon give you anything other than a cocksure attitude?” she coaxed, a hint of teasing challenge to her voice. “It is clear you have talent, I heard it in your performance. I am curious though; why do you perform? After having such a hard life, why come to Kantas? Have you been here long?”

“That was almost insulting!” Osborin huffs and Sheryl chuckles companionably. “But why do I perform? You already said it – I have talent. There’s really not much to it. I’m good at it and I always liked stories. And there’s no better way to captivate an audience with a story than to put it into a song.”

Sheryl inclines her head in agreement though to which part of his statement he is unsure.

“I also had a teacher, but I think he was just some hobo. Just appeared out of nowhere sometimes,” he continues. Sheryl arches an eyebrow questioningly. “A bit creepy, now that I think about it – way too interested in a young boy. What is it about music teachers and young students?” Osborin asks, raising an eyebrow towards his fey-like acquaintance. “Had that creepy glow around himself as well… Hm, kind of like you,” he says briefly stumbling over his words. He recovers with a sly grin. “But it looks good on you.”

“You flatter me,” she quips lightly.

“After some practice I got the hang of it and soon my music made me quite popular among women. I’m sure you can see why. Eventually my escapades brought me together with a woman of quite high status…” His eyes go distant as he starts reliving the memories. “I was young and naive – you’ve probably heard many stories like this: She was married, I thought we were in love, we got discovered, she didn’t want to live in exile, so I had to run. I knew her husband had a reputation…” Osborin’s eyes grew dark, wistful, and then angry. Sheryl is intrigued by this sudden intense shift in mood. “Now there’s nothing for me to return to… Kantas just seemed like a good place for a runaway. I’ve been here over a year now, almost a year and a half, but the first months were spent wallowing in my own misery.”

The anger slowly melts into sorrow, his head slumping forward. Sheryl studies him closely, her expression unreadable. He raises a hand, index finger out, catching the eye of one of the waitstaff, a middle aged human man, who comes over to their quiet corner.

“Some of the feywine for me as well please… And make it blue,” Osborin orders. The waiter looks to Sheryl who shakes her head. He nods, picking up the elegant china plates from their table and briskly walks off to prepare Osborin’s drink.

They sit in silence for a moment.

“Would you say then that Love is your muse?” Sheryl asks quietly at last.

With a snicker he responds, “I made music before this supposed love and I keep doing it now. I don’t need a muse. They’re the same as gods, useful for those who cannot help themselves. My inspirations are as varied as life itself.” The now bitter half-elf downs the dregs of his blue drink and continues with a sneer. “Is that why you play so well? Because you get help from a muse?”

“Your bitter tongue is a poor weapon to use against someone who is only trying to speak to you as one artist would to another,” Sheryl says, a tone to her voice that sends shivers down the spine. From the corner of his eye, Osborin swears he sees the shadows around them coil towards him as the planes of her face grow sharper. “I do not insult your way of creation nor your way of music making yet you walk the precipice of doing so to me.”

The warmth in her eyes has become a scorching heat as the gem in her diadem casts an even brighter light. Sheryl quirks her head to the side and shadows grow still, making him wonder if they were really moving. As quick as the change to her own demeanor came, it is now gone, the soft golden glow returning to her skin.

Sheryl brings her left hand up, resting her chin in it as she looks at him thoughtfully. “It seems to me that your struggle comes from within – perhaps because you do not know yet what truly gives you inspiration. You deflect, you sneer,” her expression shifts, a wicked half grin bending her lips, “you even try to insult,” it shifts again, becoming soft and compassionate, “but all that does is leave you wanting.”

Looking into her eyes, Osborin slowly lifts his glass to take another sip, but midway through remembers that it’s empty. He looks around his shoulder, partly to break eye contact after the small but intimidating outburst. “Where’s my drink?”

Not seeing their waiter, he continues, a humorous smirk returning to his face. “There’s nothing bad in a bit of insulting, everyone should be put off their high horses occasionally. But maybe it does take someone better than me to find the saddle. I do apologize – I meant insult, but no offence.”

“But my struggle comes only from my hatred and loss. I want revenge, yet I doubt I will ever have it. But very well, let’s say I am missing inspiration. What is yours?”

“Mhm,” Sheryl intones, thinking.

The waiter comes over at this point, placing a tall flute on the table to match Sheryl’s. Its contents are a sparkling blue that matches Osborin’s skin tone, who exclaims, “Ah, I’ve been looking for you.” The waiter gives an expectant look, but in response he receives only a waive of the hand. The waiter bows and then leaves them to their conversation.

“What inspires me will not help you realise yours, Osborin,” Sheryl says, picking up her glass with the hand she rested her chin on. “A bard’s journey is as much one of self discovery as it is telling the tales one hears – or experiences. Perhaps your teacher will appear to you again and you can ask him, though it sounds like you have not seen him in many moons?” she asks.

He shakes his head.

“I am no great teacher but advice is something I can give if you are open to hearing it? You do not need to take it, but know it comes from someone who would see the world be enriched with the music of your True Song.”

Osborin gives her an accusatory look. “You’ve been so inquisitive, and yet you avoid questions yourself. I will listen to what you have to say, but I cannot promise anything beyond that.”

Sheryl nods. Then she leans forward, the pull of her gaze drawing him in to listen to her words.

“You have passion and an ear for story. You are filled with desire but you know not for what. If you do not know yourself, and I mean know every part of yourself – the good, the bad, and the wicked – you will never be able to sing a song that would make even the gods weep.”

She raises her glass to him and then downs the rest of her drink.

“And people think that I’m full of myself. But I appreciate the advice and the sentiment. But probably enough of this for today.” He looks at her empty glass. “Please don’t tell me you’re leaving already. The night is young, let’s exchange some more stories and songs, but none about us.”

“Another time, I think. I do hope you enjoy your glass of feywine.” Sheryl flashes him a warm smile. “Until our path’s cross again, Osborin, as I am sure they will.”

Before she leaves, Osborin interjects, “Just so you know, I’m staying in this tavern, and my door is always open”

She gives a throaty chuckle. “I will certainly keep that in mind,” she says.

Sheryl stands up with an otherworldly grace, inclines her head to him, then makes her way out of the lounge. He sees her approach the waiter from earlier, speak to him briefly, then continue on up the grand stairs to the mezzanine level where the stately rooms are.

Seeing where she’s heading, Osborin thinks to himself, Hm, her rooms are probably better suited for those kinds of things.

After that he sits for a long time staring into nothingness, not drinking the feywine, for he doesn’t want to drown out the feelings that he dared not feel for so long, the feelings brought on by the memories of his family, his love, their loss and all the sorrow that followed. He sits until the dining room goes empty and quiet, and after a little while of solitude, he goes back to his simple accommodations, as he likes to think of them – though he has had to endure worse rooms.

In the morning, after a surprisingly restful night, as such nights tend to be, the groggy half-elf finds a note for him written in Elvish at the front desk on his way out, saying, I enjoyed our conversation last night. Should you need anything, you can come to me.