"Gladly will I learn what you have to relate, good lady," he said with a smile. "I gather stories from any and all sources! And the mandolin, perhaps, may be part of my payment!" He winked, a copper coin appearing in between his knuckles as if by magic - in truth, simple sleight-of-hand. "If you're satisfied with my performance I'd hoped to gain such food and drink as this establishment provides - I don't much care to drink to excess, I'll reassure you on that," he added wryly, walking the coin from one end of his hand to the other. "But also I had hoped to be paid in information, if you could put me in touch with those of your patrons who may have what I need. Warmer winter clothes, for a start!" he chuckled, the coin replaced by a silver one between one knuckle and the next. "And since my money is not much good here, perhaps your assistance in negotiating some of those transactions?"
He tilted his head slyly at her carte blanche - but even more at her tidbits of personal information. Criminal companions? Music and lore?
"A moment then, mistress Vervain," he murmured, unslinging his backpack and reaching within for the well-padded little harp in its leather carrying case. He left the pack beside him as he set to tuning the instrument, humming his pitch-perfect keys as each string found its voice. When he was ready he looked up, a twinkle in his blue eyes as he stroked elegant fingers over the strings (the silver coin had disappeared long since). After a short warmup he lifted his voice and began to sing, his warm tenor filling the establishment.
"The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon the cloudy seas
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor
And the highwayman came riding
Riding, riding
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door..."
He tilted his head slyly at her carte blanche - but even more at her tidbits of personal information. Criminal companions? Music and lore?
"A moment then, mistress Vervain," he murmured, unslinging his backpack and reaching within for the well-padded little harp in its leather carrying case. He left the pack beside him as he set to tuning the instrument, humming his pitch-perfect keys as each string found its voice. When he was ready he looked up, a twinkle in his blue eyes as he stroked elegant fingers over the strings (the silver coin had disappeared long since). After a short warmup he lifted his voice and began to sing, his warm tenor filling the establishment.
"The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon the cloudy seas
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor
And the highwayman came riding
Riding, riding
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door..."
