Silver made her slow way along the path leading to the door of the White Wolf Tavern. At one time, this building had almost been a home to her. It was certainly a place where she knew the staff and the regulars, but she had not visited the establishment with any frequency for quite a long time. Still, Bessie, the matron of the bar, was always welcoming and always agreeable when Silver asked to sing. It brought in a crowd, she said, gave the locals a good night out and that encouraged extra tips.
At one time, this had been a weekly event, but it had been a year or more since she had last stood upon that stage and poured her heart out to the listening ears of the patrons. Tonight, she meant to do exactly that. She felt restless, nervous, but not in a bad way. Indeed, she had been looking forward to this for the past two days. Hampered, as she was, by her weakened leg and the stick she had been forced to adopt, she was no longer able to run, jump, climb or even dance with any decency. She wanted – no, she needed – to do something to work off some of that excess energy. This would do nicely.
Her voice wasn't perfect. She knew this. She was no great artiste or songstress. She had never needed to be. For her, singing had never been about being the best or the most beloved. It had been about release. At first a coping mechanism, a way to keep up her spirits in the darkest days of her life, it had later become a tool in her arsenal against the denizens of the barrows. Wights didn't need impeccable vocals. They needed only the right frequencies, unbridled passion, and unshakable will. That was where she excelled.
Stepping into the warm, dry interior, she was met by three familiar faces; Tem, Bert, and Jannik, the three men who had so often accompanied her performances in the past, with whom she had practiced song upon song. She hadn't expected them to be here tonight. She hadn't had a chance to speak with them, to ask them to join her. Perhaps Bessie had done so instead? Regardless, she smiled warmly to each, hugging each man and thanking them for being there.
Greetings exchanged, a short conversation about what would be played and in what order, and off they went to the main room and the staged area that Bessie had put a makeshift barrier across to separate the players from the audience. Right there, in the middle of the roped-off area, was a bar stool.
Silver sighed. For one night, just one, she would have liked to be allowed to forget about her injury. She really should have known better. Bessie, a stern but fair woman, had a natural tendency to mother everyone, Silver included.
Shedding her coat, she tossed it to one side before parking her behind upon the stool. The brand new dwarf-craft cane – courtesy of the wonderful Balnirar – was propped carefully nearby. Within reach, of course, but not so close that she might knock it to the floor and lose it, nor scuff the thin veneer of wood.
Behind her, the three men set up their instruments. Before her was a sea of faces, some known, some unknown, and a babble of voices as couples and groups spoke to one another, some doing so loudly in an effort to be heard over the others. She watched them for a time, saying nothing, doing nothing. They hadn't noticed her yet and that was fine. She didn't need or want their attention yet. That would come soon enough. For now, she simply soaked in the atmosphere. After the recent turmoil, the scare, the dread, she was simply pleased to be out of the house and about to do something she loved.
A light tap upon her shoulder, a murmured voice in her one remaining ear, another few seconds to allow its owner to settle himself down again, and then she began.
The first song started out slow, soft, her voice struggling to cut through the chatter of the drinkers. She hadn't expected anything else, hadn't wanted anything else. This one was hers, a song of her own devising from long ago. One she sang to herself when she needed reminding. She had practiced it in the past with the trio of musicians but had never sung it in a tavern before. As she went on, one person after another fell quiet, eyes turning toward the stage. She didn't notice. Eyes closed, she sang her heart out. The chorus lifted. More people turned to listen.
She didn't wait for applause when it ended. She simply launched into the next song. Another one of her own devising. This one an ode of longing and emotional upheaval. Behind her, the players exchanged a look. They knew what she was doing. They knew what would be coming next. The crowd, many of whom had not heard her sing before, had begun to suspect that this would be a night of sorrow and inner pain. Some few were already considering leaving for somewhere less depressing. When she paused at the end of this one, head hung low, they remained silent. Perhaps they were uncertain how to react. Perhaps they were moved by what they had heard. It didn't matter. It was all a part of the performance. Start slow, start sad and then...
Jannik hit his drums hard, the guttural sound pounding across the silent room. Bert quickly thereafter joined in with his lyre. Silver snapped her head up, a wicked grin across her lips, a challenging glint in her eye. This time there was no apology, no longing, no wistful wish or forlorn regret. This time there was naught but forceful defiance, wrapped in a melody that demanded people stamp their feet along to the beat. Unable to move as she wished, Silver did the next best thing; she remained perched upon her stool, swaying to the thumping percussion, clapping along and encouraging others to do the same.
Next came a fast-paced song she had learned in Umbar. Some who remembered it from the last time began to chant “Bear! Bear!” at her, a request she denied with a hearty laugh and a shake of her head. She would most certainly not be doing a jig atop the head of the stuffed animal this night! She would, and did, however, spend a goodly amount of time punching her fists toward the ceiling, her only outlet for something so demandingly jaunty. Those who recalled the words joined in, their voices mingling with hers until the tavern was naught but a din of clapping, stamping and shouting. She reveled in every moment of it!
Someone, she didn't see who, jumped the rope and ran over to plant a hat upon her head. Taking it off, she only laughed all the more at the sight of an old, ragged Corsair's cap. Deciding to go along with it, she plonked it right back in place before beckoning Tem over to whisper a change of plans during a short period of instrumentalism. With a grin, he maneuvered his way around to tell the other two and another song was inserted into the set. This one, learned upon the deck of a Corsair ship many years ago, was perhaps the filthiest and most profanity-laden song she had in her repertoire. It drew gasps, blushes, and glances of horror from some of the more reserved patrons. Many of the men, however, laughed and, quickly catching onto the chorus, joined in whenever they could. Bessie looked fit to faint!
As funny as she found this to be, she knew that such performances, whilst cathartic, weren't just for her sake alone. She needed to keep the crowd happy, all of them, not just the few who appreciated such dirty humour. Although she may have wished to continue belting out Southern tavern songs, or singing her own feelings – past or present – for all to hear, that was not how one kept a mob pleased. As such, the rest of the songs for the eve were ones that she knew would be old favorites of the local people. Fun, hearty, catchy and familiar. A couple of them were a little ribald, but nowhere near as bad as the one she had sung earlier. It was a more comfortable - for them - brand of smut.
Many such were sung before she rose to take up her cane, giving the illusion of having finished. As she knew would happen, as was customary, the crowd called for one more. Just one more. Casting a glance over her shoulder to the boys, she winked. They knew what she wanted. What followed was one of her favorites; a song comprised of pure, unadulterated joy. An ode to freedom and adventure. How many times she had sung this to herself along the roads! And how much better it sounded with instruments behind it! For this, she stood, unable to dance perhaps, but also unable to sit. This was not a tune that she could remain seated for and, it seemed, neither could many of those present for they spun and cavorted where she could not.
An hour, two, had passed from the beginning of the first song to the ending strains of the last. Happy and more relaxed than she had felt in days, Silver took up her coat, bowing to the audience before making her merry way down from the stage and out through the crowd. She almost stumbled once or twice as pats rained down upon her shoulders or back, winding her way through the bodies until she made it to the quieter entrance hall. There, she leaned back against the wall, expelling the last dregs of her built-up tension in a cheerful huff.
