text: Evidence that the storm had not relented was made apparent to everyone as the warped wooded portal swung open, revealing a prospective customer set against heavy downpour. Though wet, the rich colors of the stranger's garments were encouraging to the barkeep, until he noticed the specific shape of the moistened leather encasement the man set on the counter. The entrant jostled his garbs in hopes of loosening the sogginess that engulfed them. The idea of overcharging a nobleman was reduced to the thought of providing free shelter, or worse, having regulars' funds siphoned elsewhere. Old Pete's thick arm hairs pricked upwards, either from this notion, or the piercing draft that the new occupant had brought inside as well. Pete sucked in through one nostril audibly before speaking. “Something I can get for ye?” He prepared to respond rudely to a number of possible statements this question could bring as the man lowered his soaking hat which in turn lowered his soaking dark mane. His eyes, as obscured as Pete and the rest of the regulars who filled the lower-lit dirtier corners of the room, fixed directly on Pete's, like some unknown serpent. He uncoiled, and responded: “A decanter of your finest wine, ale, spirit, or pleasurable house beverage, and the wherewithal to fill it again once empty.” The barkeep, startled by many aspects of this statement, was forced to reconsider his feelings towards the stranger as he reached for a container. He poured a foul-smelling viscous looking liquid as slowly as he could while grasping the areas of his mind that might contain an adequate thread of relevant interrogation to be used. This act was interrupted, and Pete startled again as the stranger announced, “No hurry, my good man.” Pete realized he would be situated closely to this man for an unforeseeable measure of time and decided to relax a little. The inevitable inquiry could continue at its natural pace. He set the drink in front of the man, who reached his hand past it and towards Pete. “The name's Roderick.” He said, maintaining his politeness and the position of his outstretched palm. Pete stared at the man's face, one of smooth and subtle complexion, then at his hand. His extremities betrayed no signs of past labor, no callouses or scars indicative of dangerous environment, yet the man seemed to hold no rank amongst the higher class. This last observation was denoted by, if nothing else, the man's friendly demeanor towards common folk. Pete decided “Roderick’s” manners may not be contagious and grasped his hand more than firmly in an attempt to illicit a flinch, to find a weakness, to break his so-far resolute composure. He returned Pete's gaze and stranglehold, unwaveringly. “Don't let the case fool you! I don't need these hands half as much as you might think, and I'm a hell of an arm wrestler.” Pete, concluding this was true from the amount of pain shooting up his arm, released, and introduced himself. “Name's Pete.” Though signs that unsolicited information would soon be procured were clear, Pete remained nestled in curiosity. He knew the advantages of patience, but the stranger's last comment was too cumbersome to wield silently. “What's the use of a lute if you can't play it?” A quandary addressed to Roderick, but more currently pertinent to Old Pete. At this, the man's eyes seemed to reflect a light that had previously been absent from the tavern. He looked at Pete, then his beast-skin on the bar as if he beheld its contents. After sizing both items up, the man seemed to have reached a verdict. “I believe I shall tell you.” A short pause, then “On one condition.” Pete finally felt he was in familiar territory again, receiving demands from an alcoholic. He began to unleash one of the many tools in his verbal arsenal he kept for this sort of occasion, but the stranger anticipated this and interjected immediately. “I wish simply to ask you a question, to which your answer will be hinged mine.” Pete relaxed again but remained unsettled. He never committed to anything he was unsure of, and he hadn't been as unsure of anything as he was of this man since as long as he could recall. Reservedly, he responded. “Ask your question, but I won't guarantee an answer. Be wary, I may only cast you out to the storm if you offend me, but many in this room have done worse to men who've done less.” The denizens in the dirtier corners stiffened proudly as the stranger perused them, but when he returned to Pete's leer it was obvious, he was unfazed. “I'm sure it is no new topic for the gentleman of this establishment, yourself included. I'm plainly curious-” His attention turned towards the door, as if expecting someone, then back to Pete with a small sigh of rejuvenation. “Curious if this town is devout. I mean to say, more personally, when last did you worship?” Pete contracted internally, as he had done several times since the stranger's arrival. The mounds of paranoia he encompassed radiated, and he even thought for a moment that “Roderick” had been sent by the state, to test him, his legitimacy, his loyalty. No, this was no man of the government. They were too organized to fling a man to the elements as this one had been. Roderick held close his mystery, but it was his, not some fallacy a puppet would cling to. No, this man was of a different ilk, his own agent. He was as beleaguered as anyone in the tavern, yet his battle raged on unlike many men who accepted defeat or failure. Having attended to this detail, Pete softened, in contrast to most of the men in the room who were newly enraged. This anger was not directed at the stranger, rather stemmed from him, and the grumbling hubbub awaited his next remark. “Lad, it has been longer than I care to remember, and for good reason. Most of the fellows have cause for their qualms with the gods, the ones who believe they exist. They voice their complaints loudly, the same complaints that have never been heard before.” The stranger breathed inwards, allowing the tension of the air into himself. “You asked your question and answered mine, am I right in assuming you wish to hear my story? It may cause you more disbelief than you are currently attached.” Pete had heard many a tall tale, and his wonder paired with the need to calm his compatriots tilted his head forward in a nod. “I was once rejoiced across the land, not only that I performed marvelously with any instrument I handled, but that I composed the greatest ballads and tributes any had ever heard. I traveled almost as much as the folk who came to see my performances. Renowned, I played in any of his majesty's courts you could name, but I wished still to be heard by the entire world. It was not fair I should horde myself for my king, and the wanderlust I experienced was great.” The expressions of elation Roderick had been exhibiting fizzled, barely noticed by Pete. “I set out for the mystic east, against the king's wishes of course. I dared not risk my entourage's lives, either by execution for illegality, or the veiled dangers that lay before me in foreign lands. As I traversed the rolling hills of his majesty's lands, they smoothed slowly. The lush overgrowth became undergrowth, the soils loose and particular. Soon, my road led directly into the Great Desert, for which I had been prepared, but which still frightened me more than anything I had faced before.” Here, Roderick took a large gulp, then another. He set his mug down harder than he had yet. “I wandered those sands for a time which I felt was immeasurable, always following the direction the sun would indicate. Eventually, my rations were as exhausted as myself, and I decided to rest by one of the handfuls of plants I had seen in this forsaken wasteland in hopes of catching a local inhabitant. The glimpse of shade the shrub provided was enough to cool me to sleep.” So far, Pete figured the man was exaggerating his fame, but the rest was then more liable to be truth, as an artist shunned by his country could easily have wandered into a desert to find a better audience. “When I awoke, I believed myself to be dreaming what seemed to be a man standing over me. As my vision cleared, his azure skin and tooth-colored horns that curled back and over his head assured me that this was in fact a dream. As such, I confronted the creature in hopes of obtaining foresight into my current predicament, being stranded in the desert without recourse. He snarled as I began to rise. “What business have you here, son of man, so far from anyone who might hear you scream?” Beyond the obvious threat being presented, I dismayed, as this meant I was still too far from any civilization. In my dreams, I do not relent. If the monsters of my subconscious wish me frightened, they will not succeed without a fight. “What business have you to ask me that, of what concern is my presence here to you?” I stared the beast directly in his eyes and noticed they were closer to that of a goat's, the strongly shaped slitted pupils seeing more of me than I of him. He cackled with what might have been amusement, revealing long cankerous fangs. “I could have devoured you as you slept, mortal. Knowing this, you now know you owe me your life. I wish to know who you are and why you come here to my realm, where the wise dare not enter.” Feeling quite weak, I assumed I wouldn't be able to fight the thing if he *did* decide to eat me, so I unsheathed my lyre and regaled him with my story.” Every man in the bar was focused on this preamble to the finale, and much more anxious than Pete to refute it. Anyone claiming to have encountered mythical beings was either lying through their teeth or deranged. “The horrific figure considered me, then said just this: “I would curse you, foolish one, for setting foot where you should not have. Now I see you have already been cursed, with your own ego. As your life is mine, I shall improve it, that you may lift your curse yourself. Pray, do not attempt to play your lyre again.” The creature tilted his head back in more maniacal laughter, and I felt my head swim as the world turned black. When I awoke, I found myself on the edge of the woods that converged with that terrible desert. Knowing not how I arrived there, I turned my back on those sands forever, grateful to be alive. I made my way to the nearest town, foraging what I could on my way to quell starvation. I did not feel different, yet I knew somehow I had changed since my ill-fated journey. Once I had settled in the town's inn and filled my gut, a man who recognized me over-excitedly requested one of my most memorable melodies. Never to disappoint my fans, I released my instrument and began to play. At once, every string on the damn lyre was torn apart. The wooden frame, made of the sturdiest oak, cracked down the spine and splintered into my tightly gripping palms. The terror than shone on my face and my lack of response to my admirer left him to slowly back away from my table, apologizing. This thing had been built for me by the finest craftsman in his majesty's service, and a very long time ago. I had possessed it almost as long as I had my fame and ability, and I realized it was not the lyre that was damned, but myself. The truth of the situation crashed down around me, and I crawled into the bottle I drank from, never to come out again.” Roderick downed his drink with determination, then motioned Pete towards the empty chalice. Pete filled it again, wondering which of the fellows in the room would assault the man verbally. To his surprise, none said anything. Perhaps they felt his story was like their own, only they didn't invent a blue horned monster to explain their misfortunes away. Minstrels were one of the few joys these men had left in their lives, and far be it from them to put down a man who was already as depressed as themselves. “Is that the lyre? The broken one?” asked Pete delicately, not wishing to further dampen the man's spirits, as his clothes were still damp enough. Roderick nodded, and unclasped the lid to reveal a lavishly ornamented lyre, fit for an angel, though its state in ruins as described. “Why do you lug that thing around then?” The man stared at it as a loving mother would her child. “As a reminder. It isn't just this thing, but all instruments. I can't handle a one of them, and if I do, they collapse, irreparably.” Pete struggled to believe this, as he had once struggled to continue believing in the gods when his family was taken from him. This skepticism had served him relatively well since, save the negation of faith Pete had in anything, but it seemed of little help at the current moment. “You don't believe me, I know not a one of you does.” admitted Roderick almost bashfully. “I can prove it if you'll let me, if any of you have an object of musicality at your disposal.” “What do you care if we believe you or not? Why bother reliving it if you say to us it is true?” Pete was trying to save the man the embarrassment of harassment that would follow his unsuccessful demonstration. “I have continued traveling these lands, to inspire the hearts of disbelievers. I know that there are unknown powers at work, but many refuse to recognize them. My hope is that when I have healed enough broken souls, I will be forgiven, and my reason to live restored. At least, I may provide a cautionary tale, that none may share a similar experience.” A man slowly emerged from one of the many shadows in the room, and approached Roderick with a tube fashioned of metal, riddled with specifically placed holes. All the focus of the room was on him now, every man clinging to this event, rolling over their pasts and wanting more than anything to believe. Every hope they had once denied, the dreams they had once had, sprang out of the ether and almost achieved tangibility in their minds. Bodies tense, none dared to move as Roderick slowly licked his lips and placed the flute to his mouth. As he exhaled, the glistening silver that dripped down and scalded his hands burned almost as much as the tears on Old Pete’s face.