When Eamon finally arrived at the Beggar and Flagon, it wasn't until fifteen minutes after he should've been, and he knew if his wife caught him coming in late, the crowd would be waiting another twenty. Her shrill reproach was already ringing in his ears; he could feel her ridiculous little hoof poking into his skin as she rambled on, a purgatory so annoying he'd rather go to Hell.
His only hope was to take the back door and pray she was otherwise occupied.
Sucking in his belly and throwing his lute over his back, Eamon slipped in the rear of the tavern and hid himself, first between the tables most crowded with drunks, then between bodies of hopefuls lined up beside the stage, all waiting for a turn on the mic he'd left open for an extra time. His only clue to their talents was the knock of his instrument against their props -- some thuds, some bumps, some tinny clanks -- but he was in his own head, improvising a set list, brainstorming alternates in case the mood shifted, cursing himself for being late and missing his opportunity to tailor his performance to the crowd. Tonight just won't be one for the books, he thought to himself. It'll likely still be better than what these poor bastards have to offer for free.
Then, the crowd hushed, lulled by the sound of a hoof's rhythmic stomp. For the first time, Eamon's eye was drawn to the stage, where a boar -- broad, thick-furred and rugged -- began to sing in a bass that gave goosebumps to the floorboards. Spellbound for the first time in a long time, Eamon perked his ears, tuning into the lyrics with curiosity. It was bold, to sing of a hunt, among drunks in the middle of Faline, where the hulking body of a monster who once sat at the left hand of the King remained a nuisance to everyday people even after her violent death. But this wasn't just about Hagia. Eamon knew too much about folk music to have an impression that foolish. Five hundred doors and forty there are, I ken in Stalhúð's walls. This, like so many of the songs he'd learned as a boy by the sea, like so many he'd collected from lonely sailors in every corner of Ritha, was also about home. This man was wild once, like he had been. Between the other boar's bass and his own tenor, he thought, should they ever harmonize, it would bring down the house.
He didn't register that the ballad had ended until the raucous applause shattered his contemplation. As the boar took a humble seat, Eamon took a moment to get his bearings before climbing up himself onto the stage, cranking up a grin, and shouting, "Did ya miss me?!" He squinted into the light, seeking, finding, and memorizing the great silhouette of he who had sung before.
------
As he had anticipated, tonight's set was mediocre and few of the Beggar's patrons noticed. Likewise, Marie-Victoire seemed oblivious to his tardiness; in fact, she was nowhere to be found. It was just as well, he thought, dismissing a contradictory disappointment that she hadn't been watching. He had something he wanted to do anyway.
"You, mate," said Eamon, bounding up to the boar's table with all the sweat and adrenaline of an hour-long solo performance, "Are gonna put me out of a job." He parked beside him, hanging his lute on the back of a chair. Now he was close, he decided the ruggedness was handsome. "You've a hell of a voice and a serious set of stones to try out that subject matter on this crowd. Who are you?"
wc: 620