Descant's Grand Ball Prep.

[Raven]

Descant scribbled another item off his list. The list that had quite possibly saved his life. Without it the whole task had seemed unsurmountable. Even with it, it was still a logistical nightmare. Venue, chairs, tables, catering, who to invite, who not to invite, performers, musicians, bouncers and decorations. That was only the -start-! The whole thing was starting to become a whirlwind of problems once more, he could feel the headache beginning again.

Exiting the merchant's shop, he couldn't even remember which one it had been. He was struggling to even remember what he had agreed to or what he was recieving. A glance down at his notepad only showed him that whatever it was, he was apparently successful in negotiating for it. There was just so much to do and so little time to do it. Gloved fingertips would knead his temples for a moment, at least the sun was slowly sinking below the horizon, it's glare easing away and helping to remove some of the pressure that was building within his head.

Gods above, he was just so, so tired.

Before he even realised it, the sun had retreated for the day and night had fallen rather unceremoniously upon the bard. It was blessed relief if somewhat surprising. Had he dozed off while standing there in the street? His eyes burnt from the effort of remaining attentive for so long and even that brief reprieve had done nothing to ease the infernal scratchiness that he had been enduring all day.

As if that wasn't bad enough, his fingers -screamed- agony. Once silken and soft sable now felt like he was continually dragging jagged glass against his most precious digits. The infernal notepad that had become his continual companion of late would be tucked away. He'd almost consider taking off those gloves, almost. The temptation was great but not nearly enough for him to be so weak willed and surrender.

He knew, however, that there was no rest for the wicked. There were tavern's were he needed to play tonight. He had set himself tasks, tasks that he could not even consider failing in. One had been a challenge offered up by another. One was a challenge taken on by his own pride. The last was an obligation that had consumed his life. No, the bard had been accused of many things, hell, he was guilty of many things but no matter what may or may not be whispered about him. There was one thing at the very core of his being that he could and would not ever alter.

It was that core that he relied upon now, drawing strength from it even as his body cried in protest. It would be with that determination that Descant would start his trek home, to take up the burden of his instrument. It would be that path, however, that would end with Descant facing a fellow dressed in black. It was not the most original of colour, but it was most definitely intimidating within the darkness of the alleyway.

The figure would raise a hand, whether in greeting or a polite suggestion for him to halt, one would be hard pressed to guess. Des would assume the second and freeze in his tracks, a glance over his shoulder would curse him with the unfortunate knowledge that another shadow had detached from the night and was blocking his exit.

"'lo, Des. Don't worry. Only us. Captain wants an update."

The bard would wince. The fact that they were even here talking to him could only mean one thing. The Captain was -here-. Oh, he knew the man's name. Just as he knew who the smirking fellow with his hand so idly resting upon the hilt of his axe was. Just as he was aware of who the man at his back must be. He wasn't going to even -think- their names, however, not out in public at any rate. Hell, never the Captain's name. The man was a genuine legend in the far north. Des himself had often sung about him. Why was he even here? Had someone screwed something up? Was something -bad- about to happen? The questions that his once weary brain started spinning out were causing the bard to grow paler by the second.

Endless cycles of worrying and further worrying until a hand claps him upon the shoulder. The other fellow was speaking to him now.

"Kind o' insulted ya not invited us ta the ball, Des."

The bard would begin to protest as the the Axe-Wielder moved closer to the bard. Joining the Shadow-Clad so that their conversation could flow more naturally while still keeping watch to make sure that their abrupt meeting went unnoticed.

"It's for -polite- society and people with manners. We're not even supposed to associate with one another."

"Eh. Cap'n sent me to find ya both. Make sure ya ain't dustmans 'n find out if'n things are right or not."

Axe-Wielder would shrug.

"Not much to say. I've had no luck so far. Wherever it is, I haven't even heard a whisper."

The Shadow-Clad would grunt, both dismissively and tauntingly. He was quite gifted at that Descant noted. Usually he was a lot more offensive and easily riled, the Captain definitely had his hands on the reins.

"Wha' 'bout ya, bardie? Other than bangin' 'alf the fair folk 'n wastin' coin."

"Everything is fine. As always. I'm not ev-."

The Axe-Wielder would smack the bard in the back of the head, he didn't even see the man move. Luckily for him it was just a gentle way to make him shut his mouth. The Shadow-Clad looked about to do a whole lot worse.

"Don't question. You should be enjoying this. Easiest task you've had yet, though probably not the gilded cage and insufferable nobility you're used to."

"Ya, I get stuck makin' dustmans of bandits. Chasin' ghosts. Scouring crapholes." Shadow-Clad would shake his head, though there wouldn't even be a shred of doubt or question at his particular assignment.

"Is there anything else? Should I expect more visits?" The bard let impatience into his voice now, rubbing the back of his head and eyeing the Axe-Wielder warily.

"Nay, boy. Ya free to chase ya skirts. 'e'll talk to ya in future. M'not s'posed ta be in Myrken anywho." The Shadow-Clad would offer them both a companionable nod and then he'd turn about and disappear. The fellow was far, far too polite. It made Descant even more uncomfortable than the man usually made him. Only the Axe-Wielder remained and Descant couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"You know that I've heard rumours abo-" Once more he'd be cut off, this time that disgusting, foul axe blade would be pressing against his chin.

"You've heard nothing. You keep your damn mouth shut. My business is -mine-."

Despite the threat of the axe, despite his common sense. Descant would press on.

"You are supposed to be keeping a low profile. You're supposed to show up, drop off some coin and be on your way again. Not dallying with-." The bard would once again fail to see the blow, this one knocked him to the ground. The Axe-Wielder hadn't stooped himself to using the wicked looking axe, no, he had settled with punching the bard swift in the stomach.

It had the desired effect, it had knocked the wind right out of the bard's sails. Left him gasping for air. By the time he could finally breath again the other had already left. A pouch of coin left in his place. Descant would gingerly rub his stomach, taking up the pouch in his other hand. Once, long ago he and the Axe-Wielder had been fast friends. The bard couldn't fathom what the older man had gone through while he had been down in the southern lands. Things had been tough during his brief stay in the north. Des did not look favourably upon that time.

Could they have gotten that much worse? Or was it something more? One with his frayed temper and the other without his usual caustic nature. Maybe it hadn't only been the townspeople who had become infected with the impending sense of doom that had seemed to permeate the Wood. Thank Gods for 'The Bard'. A smirk from Descant and he'd get to his feet, dust himself off and continue on.

It was all he could do and despite their faults, he was sure that both of his companions were pushing onwards as well.

He didn't envy them their tasks at all.