Donovan smiles as five rowdies become three and then two during the scuffle with the gambler. The stranger was handling himself well though that was thanks in no small part to the blessings of the bard's music. Donovan knew the fight was a sure thing for him and turned his attention back over to the harlott and the suitor she deserved at the door. What he saw was an unmistakable sight: magic at work. Her would be lover lolled about on his feet before falling into her as he lost consciousness shortly after her touch.<b>Great</b>Donovan thought as he watched the scene play out, extending the song he was casting his magic through with a drawn out chorus.<b>The cunt has spells. I hate witches!</b><br/><br/>The bard's thoughts and attention were diverted somewhat by the handsome noble who approached him and spoke to him from behind whike tucking a little tip into his pocket. Donovan shuddered ever so slightly at the man's closeness and a smirk built on his face as he sang. He nodded to the man and offered him a more then friendly wink as he left.<b>Rufus huh?</b>He thought as he watched him leave paying particular attention to the nobles well toned ass as he walked. It had been ages since the last time he enjoyed attention of such a handsome rich boy. Ages ago, another lifetime ago Donovan had enjoyed a secret affair with the son of a duke and thanks to his brief encounter with this Rufus he was hit with a wave of nostalgia. Fancy oils, expensive feasts in between sessions of furious fucking upon silk sheets in sprawling mansions, oh he could definately think of a few things Rufus could do for him...<br/><br/>Then, as soon as the thought popped into his head it was replaced with jaded cynicism. Lust that had tried to rise up became drowned in depression as Donovan just couldn't manage to hold onto that feeling. His song then stopped abruptly and with it left the blessings he was giving the gambler and the curse he placed on the enraged rowdy that remained. "What's the point..." Donovan says under his breath, more to himself then to anyone else as any sembalance of false joy leaves his face. His act, for the moment, abandoned for a more genuine expression of cold lament. Stone faced, he takes his seat upon the stage once again and places his lute in his lap while watching the woman step into the fray to back up the gambler against the one remaining shitheel hoping the spectacle will distract him from that aching pit of emotional hollowness in his gut but knowing full well that it won't.