Talkik the Grey

Another beautiful day in Stormreach . . . . the torrent of rain had just paused long enough for those wretches stuck in doorways to slog through the mud seeking sturdier shelter. The Rusty Nail was unusually busy, the afternoon crowd lingering over ale cups, unwilling to brave the pools of slime and accumulated street garbage which threatened to slide half the ramshackle city back into the sea. As many of the taverns here in the outskirts of "civilization" the populus was presented fairly accurately. Burly and unwashed warriors of varying races challenging each other in tests of strength and stamina, their shouts and jeers mixing with the roar of approval from the watching and clang of weapons in the grimy arena off to the side. The more scholarly types making vain attempts to examine objects, decipher script from musty tomes, or glean information from the scouts, explorers and charlatans who frequented the bar. The conscriptors of the Silver Flame and Sovereign Host, with occasional disapproving stares at each other, seeking to spread their individual gospels among the inebriated poor, looking for converts. The humidity made the smell of pressed crowd almost overpowering, a foul miasma of body sweat, spices, perfume, stale beer, spoiled food and less identifiable odors. Alone and practically invisible, a man sits along the side of the bar, soaking it all in, seeming to observe everything. He nurses a mug of tea currently much in favor with halflings as he takes note of the crowd surrounding him. The man seems to be an almost studied affectation of the "average man". Older than most, perhaps in his fifties, general height and build, though obviously in good shape he does not convey the bulk typical of those trained in combat. His face is weathered, tanned, lines trace the path of years. Silvering hair, cropped short, with a thin light beard, and loose, comfortable travel clothing. His eyes, though grey, seem at once strangely young but endlessly deep. He says little, watching, watching, waiting patiently, nodding politely to those he seems to know.

Eventually the bar matron addresses him, "Come friend Talkik. The day is morose, the crowd is lively, why not gift us with your words? A song perhaps?" The man turns to her and speaks mildly, "and what payment do you offer fine lady? My tab is current, my debts are clear. What do you offer for the voice of a traveler?" The matron considers, an unexpected counter for her request. "I have heard you sing before, you have a fine voice and your skill with instrument is doubtless equal. Two silver for a song, one gold for four songs. Should you give us a night's entertainment, I will also throw in warm food and dry bed."

Talkik seems to weigh the matter in his mind, a pause, "keep your silver, sparkle has such little interest for me, and treasure can be found in many places," the man seems to whisper to himself "and in many forms." He speaks louder again, "but I say this, I will trade you, my words for yours. I will provide your alehouse with a full nights entertainment in exchange for your life." She gasps in shock, he smiles almost impishly, "I wish to hear your story, your life, your adventures, all the triumphs and tragedies you have seen. That is *my* offer." After a moment of composure, and a shared laugh at the questionable joke, the agreement is reached. Talkik moves to the large central hearth of the tavern, pulling his travel sack with him and retrieving the fine darkwood dulcimer from it. He settles and begins an ancient elven lament, ready to fill the evening with history woven to music. Perhaps, perhaps there will be as much knowledge to gain from this night as there was to give in the guise of song.