#se 1

((The song sung is this one by Junidoe.))

Enri sighed. Seemed the road back to Iccirus was blocked - the skirmishes further north had chased bandits and marauders south and they were making their way towards Driftveil.

Already, a few farming communities to the north had been sacked. Survivors poured into the relative safety that the larger town offered. Still, most were making every effort to cross the bay. It'd be best to put as much distance between themselves and those blood-thirsty bastards. They were worse than those Nordbor raiders - at least you expected it from them.

The bard noted each face as they passed down the main street; men, women, children. Some in ragged groups, some tattered pairs, most singular, alone. Tear-stained, blood-drained, emotionally spent fathers and sons. Still-sobbing women and children. The sniffles and choking of the strong breaking down.

Enri perched on the town's well, wishing he could comfort them.

Then he frowned. Perhaps he could; music soothed many things, and grieving could be one of them.

He pulled his lute from his back, tuned it in preparation to play. A few tentative notes as he stumbled to find a song. He lifted his low tenor voice to the darkening sky.

"Soldiers are singing their battle songs, hearty young lads, they march along, heads are held high and their hearts are strong..."

He choked and nothing more would come. 

Enri let his lute fall into his lap, loosely balanced with one hand. The other he ran through his thick curls, gripping them tightly then releasing them as he physically attempted to hold back tears. He didn't know a single person here, but he intimately knew their pain. The intense ache that gripped and twisted their innards, the yawning maw left where a loved one once stood.

The realization that they are gone, and the only thing left for you is to continue on.

It began to rain. Softly at first, but harder as thunder sounded in the distance. Perfect for crops, were there anyone left to farm them. It seeped down into the bard's cape, cold tendrils fingering down his back and chest.

And still, survivors poured into Driftveil. They trudged along, no end to their ranks in sight. Perhaps there would be no end to it. A perpetual funerary procession, where the graves could not be filled.

Without realizing, Enri's fingers had returned to the strings and he instinctively strummed a chord. Something low - full of sorrow. Another followed and a slow beat emerged. A march towards a final end.

"Mother cries softly a lullaby, tears down her face, she says goodbye."

A dirge for those who'd gone. 

"Brother paints red far across the sky, Father is slain, sister has died."

A dirge for those yet living.

"The country is bleeding, the scavengers feeding, the morning is coming, the night is long. Stubbornness rips all the skin off our pride in the light of the dusk, and we hide our wrongs. Running away to the branches of twilight, the violence persuades us to lie; war is not sweet, we all taste defeat."

Those within earshot watched the bard - intentions unreadable through expressions of sadness, anger, and pain. Perhaps they would turn on this traveling music-man. Tear Enri from his perch and rend him in their grief.

But the song must continue. 

"Victims lay scattered across the field, broken and bent, their pain revealed. Here lies a sword, over there a shield, steely remains, it’s death they yield."

His absol hummed harmony. 

"The war’s never ending, the plights are heart wrenching, when brother fights brother, good men will pay. Loyalty tore us from inside to outside the promise of peace is a distant ray. Stealing away to the hallways of midnight, the violence persuades us to lie,"

His deino, lilted mournfully.

"War is not sweet, we all taste defeat."

"Living is torture when love is gone, misery seeps and joy feels wrong. Survivors bent past the point of song, feeble old hands, keep pressing on."

A crowd had now formed, blocking the square. People became frustrated and shouting could be heard near the back.

Yet the bard sang on.

"The dreams and the hopes of the people have fled, in the dust of departure the lonely call. Sink to one’s knees at the dirt of their grave, clutching petals and catching the tears that fall. Flying away to the skirts of the morning, the silence persuades us to die."

"War is not sweet, we all taste defeat."

Enri, Cancion, and Lealtad drew out a few parting notes after the final chorus and disappeared into the crowd. He sensed that things would soon get ugly, and he'd rather not be part of it.

There was enough to despair over without the grieving attacking on another.

But with the distraction removed, the people continued on their way. People crowded near the ferry, trying to barter themselves across. Those who could set up makeshift tents with bits of wagons and furs. Those who could not, squeezed into every dry place they could. 

Enri managed a tired smile for those he passed, but he knew there would be no comfort for them. The displaced would continue to be displaced, constantly moving in an attempt to find opportunities. But the way they were now, there would be no opportunities.

Without their farms, they were of little more use than hired help. The cities didn't want them, there was enough of that available from the established orphans and beggars. There definitely was no room for more.

Even if their homes were reclaimed, there was nothing left there; of that much, Enri was sure. The marauders pushed this way were of a particularly nasty sort - they didn't care for the plunder, only the fear they could inspire. They would take what they needed, killing any and all who came into contact with them. They would take a few of the larger farmsteads as bases. And everything else they would burn to the ground.

The displaced would become beggars and vagabonds, or be forced into theft and  robbery. Their future was bleak, and it would only get worse with time.

The bard had finally made his way to the outskirts of Driftveil, where a few stragglers had made camp and the town's warriors patrolled. He had no wish to speak with them, and at a whisper, mist engulfed the settlements.

"Hnf. Can you believe that prince Einarr? It's unbelievable!"

"Eh? What're you on about now?"

Lance frowned as he listened to the table next to him. One of the inhabitants wore a faded brown cloak - taciturn fellow with a salt-and-pepper beard. The other was better dressed, balding, and had been complaining about the state of the kingdom for... well he'd been at it since before Lance had sat down and that was at least 20 minutes ago.

"That feather-brained royal twit has suggested negotiating with Nordbor. Negotiating! His father spends 15 year campaigning against those monsters and Einarr would make it for naught. Good thing that brother of his is holding out - says he'll fight to the end, even if it means going against family." Fancy-pants settled back in his seat from some intense finger-waggling. "Mark my words, this'll won't end until Reinhardt is seated on the throne."

"Surely you jest," the cloak took a swig from his flagon. "No one'd be so foolish as to entertain petty squabbles in war-time."

"Hmph. It's more than a brothers' spat - the fate of our kingdom is at stake! And I don't trust any so-called treaty cobbled together in the hands of those Nordbor dogs."

Faithe finally returned with food and drink, a dark scowl in place of her usual smirk. She slid a flagon of deep amber ale and a bowl of steaming  sawsbuck stew across the table, then sat down.

"'Nothah shipment's been hit - supplies fo' th' guild. Up neah 'bout Icc'rus . Folk sayin' they even got a ship downed in th' harbor."

Faithe glared into her own flagon as she spoke and Lance grimaced as he picked at his stew. Their brother had warned that Flea's guild was on the move; he'd tried to steer a few clear of the knights' shipments, but there was no way to dissuade all of them. It was inevitable that some would disrupt the supply lines.

Lance attempted to change the subject; be the uplifting one for a change. "Sure was nice seein' twinkle-toes again - been, whah, two years, now?"

"Yeah, therabouts." Faithe gave a weak smile but it died a painful slow one. She looked at Lance, eyes questioning.

"Why it always seem thah, soon as somethin' good happens, bad news rolls in like a thunderhead?" She stirred her stew for what had to be the twentieth time in a minute. "An' errythin' always seems t'go bad t' worse."

Lance stared back, hoping that - just for once - he'd find some good words to give. He sighed and rested his face in his hands.

"I dunno, Faithe. Maybe life's just a bitch."

Faithe snorted softly. What better response could she give than to laugh? But laughin' wouldn't come, so she just smiled and shook her head.

"Y'know Lance? Maybe you're on t' some'in there. An' who knows, maybe thins'll --"

"WHAT?!! HOW COULD YOU SAY THAT!" Fancy-pants next door stood so fast his chair tipped backwards. He fixed his cloaked friend in a pointed stare.

The quiet one stared back with clear sky blue eyes. There was no doubt to be found. He frowned and scratched through his beard.

"Seems it may be time to try something different. All this warring has led us to the brink of defeat, maybe it's time we stop thinking in terms of wins and losses and start considering lives at stake."

"So you side with Einarr and his doomed diplomacy?"

Faithe and Lance were tense, hands on their weapons and listening close. If this got out of hand, they'd be on it in a heartbeat.

The man in the cloak took too long to answer, so fancy-pants jumped in again. "Don't you understand what's at stake if he goes through with this?"

Lance had had enough of the loudmouth's complaints. "Do you?"

As the well-dressed one realized that he'd become the center of attention in the tavern, the wind went out of his sails and he spluttered.

"Wh- I- Y- Of course I do! Th-this 'treaty' will only result in the end of our way of life. Those barbarians will steal our homes and our food and our families. They'll stab us in the backs and when they've bled us dry, they'll leave for better lands."

He looked around the tavern, assessing how well his peers were taking his words. A few nods of agreement encouraged him and he stood a bit taller (didn't help much, but made him feel better). He turned back to his friend across the table.

"Think of our families, our sons and daughters, our grandchildren--"

"Dammit Richard, I am thinking about them! I've already outlived three of my sons, and my youngest is gearing up to be next. My grandsons ask me every day when their fathers will return and I can't answer them."

"Jack--"

"Don't. Don't you tell me to think of my family. I think of them every day. I think of them and those no longer with us and I wonder when it will end."

Richard's frown deepened and he looked down at his own hands. "Diplomacy will fail. We can't reason with those animals. They only know fighting and killing. And Prince Einarr's attempts will only result in leaving the kingdom weak."

Faithe stood, shifting attention away from the two men. "I don' know 'bout whether it'll work or not, but I do know this - I'll protect and serve this kingdom by whatever's nec'ssary. In war-time I'll fight. In peace, I'll farm. But the longer we fight, the more folk die, an' the harder it is t' reconcile anythin'."

She shook her head, remembering the letters she'd had to deliver, the crying mothers and wives. There wasn't glory to be found in war.

"And what do you know of such matters, woman?"

Faithe's eyes flashed as she regarded the idiot before her.

"I am Faithe th' Joyous, daughter of th' Wild Tauros Freedman; I trained in th' warrior's guild with my brothers to fight. To protect those around us. To shield stupid folk like yo'self from th' horr'rs of war. I've been in battles with both beast and man, an' I got th' scars t' prove it. Folk are just gon' keep dyin' 'til there ain' nobody left to die. Or an agreement is reached where we stop fightin'."

Lance regarded Richard with a cold glare. If Faithe weren't so good at sticking up for herself, he'd probably have attacked the guy right then and there.

Then someone in the back shouted, "Yeah? Why should we believe a word you say? You guild warriors have Nordbor scum within your midst! You've accepted it into your ranks - you're already tainted."

Enough was enough. Lance stood as well, bristling.

"The knight-captain trusted 'im enough to let 'im into the guild, 's fer a damned good reason. An' he hasn't turned on us yet. 'Sides... that 'scum' has proved himself more trustworthy than any of you lot. Yeh'd turn on yehr own grannies if yeh though' t'would benefit yeh."