Log file from Mike - Aaelin.

The Inn of the Silver Badger(#3069Rnt)

	Cheerful voice exits the bright, and often open windows of the Inn of the Silver Badger. During the day, the bright sunlight beams into the large entry chamber; the tavern. At night, the tavern is alight with brilliant lights of the torches, hidden in sconces upon the walls. 

	Maids and barmaids weave in and out of the usually crowded chamber. Always does a smile seem plastered upon their lips. Some come from the kitchen, on the other side of the front door, to the doors right. Others come from a stairway, opposite from the front door.

Contents:

Milranata(#2170PeAcF)

Obvious exits:

 West <W> leads to Kitchen.

 Up <U> leads to Second Floor.

 Out <O> leads to Street of Peace.

Milranata walks into the Inn with an absent expression on her face, obviousely too deep in thought to notice the details of her surroundings. She takes a seat at an empty table and lays her harp in her lap, lovingly running her fingers along the carved frame. Then with a small sigh the Yilras Aelf looks up and motions for a serving girl to come to her. "Bring me a glass of water, girl," she orders in a soft voice. Milranata stares blindly at the retreating form of the girl then blinks, as if realizing where she is for the first time, and looks around the room.

Opening the doors of the inn quietly, and stepping into the inn even more quietly, Jerric glances around the inn's common room for any familar faces. Seeing none, he shrugs, and glances around again, this time looking for interesting faces. His eyes find the absent minded Milranata, and moving towards her, he takes the glass of water from the returning serving lady. Placing the glass on the table in front of the aelf, he says, "This is what m'lady ordered, yes?"

Milranata looks at the glass in front of her then up at the man with her glittering catlike eyes. She nods slightly, "Indeed it is. I thank you for serving me my drink, young man."

Grinning slightly, he says, "Young? I suppose you could say that." He walks around the table to where a second chair is, but does not sit, instead leaning against it, "As I can easily see, you own a harp. You are well trained in its use, I assume?"

Milranata measure the man coolly with her gaze, "Better than anything you've heard before."

Jerric grins, shifting his stance a bit, "Don't be so sure of that, I've heard more than you might think in my seventy-seven years. Sevens are lucky though, so perhaps I have found someone with talents better than any I have heard before." Holding a hand out to her, he says, "I'm Jerric Travance, m'lady."

Milranata looks down at his hand and makes no move to take it, instead picking up the glass and taking a sip of the water. "My name is Milranata."

Grimacing slightly, the half-aelf retracts his hand, clasping it in the other and leaning his elbows on the table, "A pleasure to meet you, Milranata." His eyes note slight differences to her, but he doesn't comment. Definately not of the Ananya though. Odd. "You would play a song for me sometime, to prove your talent?"

Milranata puts the glass down on the table and looks at him, considering in her eyes. Then she nods, "If you wish it, I will play now." Her hands lower to the harp in her lap, and she almost strokes it.

Jerric nods his head slightly, his emerald green eyes on her eyes. "If you would, I would be grateful. Great music is rare in the world, and a treasure beyond measure." Standing up, he moves off a foot or two to lean against on of the posts that support the building.

Milranata moves her chair back from the table and positions her harp upright. She touches the strings of it softly without sound for several moments, then a melody starts flowing from underneath her fingers. An old melody, starting quietly but overtaking the room bit by bit. It is beautiful, and yet it is sad beyond measure. It speaks of killing. It talks of war. It sings of war between kin. Milranata's voice joins the melody in an ancient tribute to an ancient battle where brother turned against brother and son against father. Old pains, old wounds. Old memories.

Jerric nods in time with the music, listening to it closer than perhaps any other in the room. The tell is not unknown to him, he shares its heritage. The War of Brothers, it speaks of. He closes his eyes for a moment, allowing the music to shape his imagination. The skill of Milranata cannot be disputed. She truly is the best the half-aelf has heard.

Milranata laces her voice through the delicate melody of her harp, lost to the music and to the tale. Indeed it is the War of the brothers that she sings. The War into which she was born. The War into which she has lost so much. With a pain that comes deep from a soul, no matter how tormented and shredded she sings out the pain of people long dead, lost to the horrible battles. Her fingers touch the strings gently yet the melody that fills the room is strong. Milranata's voice, so soft when she speaks, now has as much force as the words it sings. Clear and strong it creates the images that are long imprinted into her heart

The inn's common room is quiet except for the sound of the harp and the singing, everyone's eyes on the bard, the hears listening, their mouths shut unless open in a sort of stunned astonishment. The Half-aelf leans against the pillar, one foot proped against it and his arms crossed, his head tilted forward again. They will remember this, he thinks, all these men and women will never forget this song.

Milranata fills the room with her song as she reaches the peak of her anguished tale. And then slowly the song stats to recede, as a wave which washed onto the shore and was pulled back into the ocean. The battles are gone. The people are dead. All that remains is a bard's song in a small inn. A memory. Milranata's voice is the first to leave the melody, which continues flowing from underneath her fingers before even it dies out. But only after the song has entered the minds and hearts of those who heard it. Milranata's eyes open, she closed them while singing, and she looks down at her harp, running her slender fingers down it's exquisitely carved frame

Smiling slightly, as he had been for several minutes, Jerric says to Milranata, without looking up, "Beautifully done, my lady." He uncrosses on arm and waves it slightly at those gathered in the inn before bringing it back to rejoin the other, crossed. "These people will remember this song until they die, and will likely be better people for it. Music is a very powerful gift."

Milranata looks up at the man, her eyes cold, the feeling she awakened locked back inside. "It is indeed." She moves back to her table and lays her harp upon it, picking up the glass to take a thirsty gulp. "I assume the song was to your satisfaction, Jerric."

Jerric nods his head slightly, eyes still closed, head tilted forward. The smile remains. "Indeed, it was, Milranata. The best I myself have heard, and the best these people would ever dream of hearing. They are simple people, locked in the time of now. They have no windows into the past. But you opened a door for them to see through anyways. A great talent, one of the greatest."

Milranata glances up at Jerric with a strange expression in her eyes, "Would I that I was locked in such a peaceful time."

The smile turns to a slight smirk, for a moment, "Peaceful? You could say that. No wars being fought, no one dying for a useless cause.. No legends being born." He shakes his head slightly, "These people, some of them, long for the time you sing of, where they could do something other than hoe a field, where they would be able to think they were serving a purpose, defending their people. Perhaps not the correct thing to wish for, but all men long to be a part of something bigger than themselves."

Milranata shakes her head, "I sing of a time of pain. I sing of death. Death is an ugly thing, young Jerric. Even if it hides in beautiful music. Perhaps if my music deceives I should stop singing at all."

Jerric chuckles slightly, "I know very well you sing of death, Milranata. But these people do not truly know death. You do not deceive them, it is merely something they cannot truly comprehend." He looks up at her for a moment, "They think of the glory of battle, of being the hero of their people. Not a hope likely to be fulfilled. So sing, Milranata. Give these people dreams. If they comprehend the pain, the death, they will avoid it all the more. And if it comes to a war in this peaceful time, their hopes will help them defend their homes with a strength of will they may never possess again." Straightening from the post, he turns towards the door, then looks over his shoulder at the bard, "Goodbye for now, m'lady. Keep your harp tuned."

Milranata leans back in her chair and watches Jerric with glittering yellow eyes, "Farewell, young dreamer. May hope not abandon your heart like it has so many others."