The music has a rousing effect for most, and most of those present spring into a chorus of rhytmic claps, matching the musician's beat.  A few spring to their feet and begin dancing at the familiar tune, as if they can sense that it's their last chance and, tired as they may be, they're going to enjoy it while they can.<br/><br/>The doors to the tavern spring open as the<br/><br/>Mid-swirl the dancer tips her head in approval at Krin's choice to wind things up-- "That's the sprit, muse-- let it fly!" as she whirls from partner to partner in the room's only open space.  The girl defly avoids crossed feet, an overturned chair-- she's almost untouchable, but that doesn't stop her from grinning boldly at Cael, though the swarm of crowd that fills in as he takes to the stairs blocks him from her view then.<br/><br/>The leopard-skin clad man stands suddenly, no more than a few feet from Oz at this point, who gets spattered with the dregs of a hefty pint as the table clatters about at the sudden movement.  "I tell you before, and I tell you again now, there be no city of the dead!  If you find it, you no wish you ever DID, so shut your fat mouth you crazy old FOOL."<br/><br/>Katarzyna feels a sudden itch in her mind, as if of something forgotten and nagging mingled with the discomfort of being stared down in secret.  Something nags at her, hinting at the door where the drink-addled trader is giddily pinching at the wench whose hooks are in him.  The girl seems wrong to Katarzyna, somehow.<br/><br/>The crowd-- four, perhaps five dozen people in the alehouse, are raising a noisy ruckus as they dance, but so far no violence seems to erupt.<br/><br/>Lucille feels a sudden spike of cold, as if a drop of icy water has somehow slid from the base of her neck and is trickling down her spine.<br/><br/>Glais, somehow, over the music outside, thinks he hears a familiar sound.  As if the tune has called up some phantom from his memory, he can hear, with certainty, the hooffalls and synchronized footsteps of an army.  No one else seems to notice.<br/><br/>Krin will feel the sweeping pull of the song tugging at him, as it has before, but somehow the energy of the crowd and the passion of his performance seem to be overwhelming him, and he finds the music crecendoing and flowing from him with an ease that is powerful and passionate-- even for him.<br/><br/>Cael, too, feels an odd calling-- his name, in a voice deeper than any he's ever heard, echoes in his ears.  The noise of it is more potent than the raucous room's din so that the music seems distant, muted-- like cotton has been stuffed into his ears.  He realizes then that the voice is not a voice, in fact-- the voice is the sound of trees creaking together, heavy trunks groaning with strain their trunks stretch and twist in the torrent of some great storm.