We spent the next few hours discussing plans with the council. The town had one pegaus it used as a messenger to the holdfasts. The council was ware of risking it; but we convinced them that none of our people would do anything stupid. The message would explain the terms of the deal and that a team was being sent to escort the survivors back to the town before winter set in. Guards from the militia would go along to protect them and ample pack goats would be sent to bring as much luggage as possible. Meacham and Xola would be going with them while Rachel, Sara, Simon and I were staying in the town to acclimate ourselves to the local culture. It would be a couple of weeks before the first wave of refugees hit the town. Not enough time to learn the language; but I already had a good head start.

Of course I still needed a job. I wasn’t going to live on benches in a common room of a ratty common room if I had the choice. I thought about trying to convince one of the more upscale establishments to hire me on; but I didn’t think my travel worn appearance would be too convincing. I tried busking in the streets; but not a minute after I started a guard trod up to me and made it clear I wasn’t welcome. And so I just walked around town attempting to chat people up.

It seemed like most people my age were working and not many of them were impressed with a foreign musician. The humans were wearing warmer clothes than the satyrs. Instead of knee length tunics women wore ankle length skirts with stockings underneath. The men wore shorter kilts with leggings. I felt extremely out of place in my jeans and hoodie. And then it started to rain.

Dejected I made my way back to the One Horned Minotaur where I found the bard, from the night before, playing his lute. He had puffy velvet trousers over legging and a jacket with thick ivory lace sleeves. And an Elizabethan lace collar around his neck. The outfit must have been magic. There was no way he could keep it that perfect under these conditions. It looked brand new.

And something was way off about his lute. It wasn’t that it was louder than any an unamplified instrument should be. But the sound seemed to reach my ears more clearly than one would expect from the shitty acoustics of a noisy tavern. Of course it was so subtle I might have been imagining it.

When he noticed me he stopped playing and gestured for me to come to him. He pointed to my guitar and said something in the Trade Tongue. From my rough understanding of the language he said “Guitarra. You learn from centaur?”

I did my best to explain there were no centaurs where we came from. I don’t think he got it because he made a clip clopping sound of hooves on cobblestones before I should my head and said no. He motioned for me to play. Nervously I played a few songs before he continued in the Trade Tongue, ‘Not centaur music; but still guitarra. Hmm.” He laughed and motioned for me to continue.

I think the next few sets were the best I played in my life. As I played I lost myself to the music. All my worries and regrets faded away and the agony of losing my family retreated for the moment. When I finally looked up the common room was full. I didn’t get a standing ovation; but there was plenty of clapping and even a few whoops from Sara and Zola.