Work Text:
The inn is lit by candlelight, the mood is mellow, for there is a singer in tonight, and he is tricked into being less alert than if he were on a job, some mead already inside him when he starts to truly listen. The singer, a woman, young in years, but perhaps not in experience, is singing in the old tongue that few here truly understand. But he can, and every lyric is an indictment of the orphans he has made, the betrayals of the knife that killed his own mentor, and he cannot drink another drop, he cannot move until she is done, frozen in the grip of her songs.