The stream had been cold as a winter’s night, but it had felt better than any warm and fragrant bath I had ever taken. I’d say it cleansed me of more than the filth that covered my skin and hair. For when I arose from the river, I felt reborn. My horrid encounter morphed into a colourful history. Inspiration for song more than a traumatic experience.

At least mentally, I should add. For the sting in my ribs betrayed that several of them would not feel any better for quite some time, and the sore spots all over my back and side indicated where purple bruising would occur in the upcoming hours. Having no idea how to deal with the remnants of a violent encounter, I stretched dilligently, hoping that would help. Then I covered them up with clothing and tried to expel the pain from my mind, for it would not do to dwell on these things.

When I returned to the spot in which I had left my belongings, I was amazed at the speed of which the entire area had turned into a meticulously structured camp.

I slung my wet clothes over the cord that was strung between two trees and already held the dripping garments of some of the other men. That someone had been washing clothes in the stream during my intense soak had completely forgone my attention, but here was the proof that it had, in fact, happened.

My own garments looked positively outrageous amidst the sober cloth of the soldiers, and I couldn’t help but smile at the sight. 

As a bard, the whole reason for my mere existence was to bring some colour to the drab lives of others. And even now, in the midst of nature’s wilderness, as far away from a stage as I’ve ever been, I’ve still brought colour to this austere assembly.

“So tell me. What’s a man like you doing in a bandit camp?” A voice behind me rang out.

Not too startled by his sudden presence, and still amused by my private realisation, I turned dramatically. 

I faced a very tall, dark-haired stranger with a sharp jaw and a prominent nose, whose shirtless entrée showed off a slender chest, decorated with a sheet of writing tattooed over his left ribs in what I reckoned to be Mercian calligraphy.

The tall man carried himself like he was this area’s proprietor. But I knew this could not be the case, for I had already met his captain. His lips were curved up in a mocking smirk, his dark eyes looking down on me in a piercing stare. Clearly he was attempting to establish some sort of dominance.  

“Are you inquiring if I frequent those whereabouts regularly? Or are you merely suggesting my appearance exceeds your expectations?” I flashed him a charming smile.

My quips seemed to have momentarily confounded the man. He raised his dark eyebrows, then lowered them into a frown and shook his head.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, my apologies dear sir. I must have misunderstood your intentions as you made use of only the most common of pick-up lines. I merely sought to inspire you with alternatives.” 

The man before me gaped at me for a silent second, then let out a slight chuckle when the quarter dropped.

“So did the bandits want to murder you because of your horrible sense of humour?” He asked me deadpan.

I reached for my heart theatrically and let out a pained sigh. “You wound me sir. Those malevolent men could not face the presence of one so exceptionally talented as myself, therefore seemed hellbent on ending my existence. But you have my deepest gratitude for thwarting their plans, so I will forgive you your mockery.”     

“Do you always speak like this, or have they hit your head one too many times?”

“Eloquence is expected of one in my profession. I couldn’t possibly demystify my own outstanding reputation by conversing like a commoner.” I gave him a conspiratory smile.

“So, you’re saying you’re a pompous twat.” The man stated with a smirk.

“I suppose I am.” I chuckled.

The man stepped forward and offered me his hand to shake. As I took it, he introduced himself as Joseph.

“Prince Vivace, but you can call me Viv.” I replied confidently, trying to hide the hurting of my knuckles in his crushing grasp.

“I think I’ll call you Vivian, you show pony.”

“I feel I have to clarify that affectionate appellations will not sway me to remedy your lonely nights, dear Josie. As impressed as I may be with your sharp tongue, your homely countenance does not appeal to my tastes in the slightest.” I countered.

A second passed in which the soldier processed my affront, then he burst out laughing.

“You’re funny, Vivian. I’ll give you that. Good thing I shot that asswipe that was gonna cut your throat. Now let’s go and I’ll introduce you to the others.”

The tall soldier beckoned me to follow. As I did so I let my thoughts wander. Joseph didn’t seem like the typical soldier. His sheer length would have been utterly impractical in a structured defensive formation, and made him an easy target in any form of fighting. He lacked the brawn you’d think would accompany a man of his size, which made him seem lanky and weak. Yet his handshake and displayed confidence told other tales. Maybe his excessive experience with literally looking down on people had fed his hubris over time.

He introduced me to his teammates as Vivian, which I should have foreseen.

Lucky for me, my biggest admirer Gareth intervened and presented me to the other men by my stage name, to which his venerating tone supplied additional significance. From that point he went on to tell the story about him and his wife Jeannie meeting at one of my performances.

The miscellaneous sighs and eyerolls that followed made me acutely aware of two things. One: Gareth had told this story to every member of the group at least once before, but probably more frequently. Two: no one dared to intervene, which made it likely that the red bearded enthusiast was some sort of veteran they respected, in spite of his tendency to recount the same tales over and over again.

It is significant to note that, however likely senior to the others, it would have been an absolute injustice to call Gareth elderly. The skin around his lively blue eyes showed the onset of crow’s feet, but there were no other blatant signs of aging. He wasn’t balding, nor could I discern any discoloration in his hair, in contrast to the greying temples of his captain. I estimated him in his late thirties or early forties.

To his right sat a man with a full head of curvy brown locks that kissed his shoulders. I couldn’t help but wonder what those waves would look like if they were treated to a proper washing and coiffure. A good haircut could do wonders for this lad, for his features were already quite charming. He appeared to be of a similar romantic sentiment as Gareth was, smiling at the wonders of his love story instead of dismissing it with scorn and ridicule.

From the friendly banter going around, I learned a few other things about the man. Firstly, he was called Gideon. Secondly, the group teased him for the type of literature he read, which was supposedly intended for a female audience. Thirdly, he couldn’t care less. Gideon laughed their jabs away, making comebacks in which self-mockery was complemented by gibes at the others.

Not even having had a proper conversation yet, I had already discerned that I was going to like this amiable person.

Just as I had this realisation, Gideon turned the attention back on me by asking what kind of father could possibly call his son Vivian.

They all must have figured Joseph had made up that nickname, and I could have found a thousand grand replies to choose from. Yet, I wavered. For to me, the word father always had an invisible sting to it.

As one does in hesitation, at least when one is of a musical propensity, I took my lute and strummed.

After a mere second, I received the desired inspiration from the heavens, and found myself singing about a little boy named Vivian. His father had known he would not be there to protect him as he grew up, so he gave him that name to assure he would be bullied, so he would learn to defend himself as a child and become a strong and fearless man in adulthood.

I made the whole thing up on the spot, but I was blessed by the muses and deemed the song worthy to remember. The contrast between the physique of the hymn’s hero and the appearance of the vocalist who sat before them, was apparently (and intentionally) deemed extremely funny, since the whole group of soldiers burst out in laughter several times during my short performance.

I ended the song with a flourish and a bow, as I was applauded and loudly cheered.

There were more questions directed at me, but they were interrupted by the captain and another soldier joining. He seemed a bit younger than the others, the innocence painted on his face unfitting his enormous physique. For a second, I wondered if he could be Sandor’s son.

Their appearance wasn’t alike in the slightest: even though the captain was neither short nor slender, the youth was built like an ox, almost a head taller than his captain, his hair a light blonde and his eyes a stormy grey. Therefore, I wondered for a moment whence this notion of paternity had entered my mind, then realised that it was the softness in the captain’s eyes that had sparked it.

“Y’all introduced yourselves yet, or are you rudely bugging people again?” he grumbled at his men.

The atmosphere immediately shifted as the men sat up straighter and rediscovered their manners.

“My apologies.” The black-haired man with the ill-coiffed goatee that sat next to Lionel started. He gave me a brilliant smile as he walked over to shake my hand, and introduced himself with his full name: Derrick James Vonderberg, emphasizing his surname. I estimated his parents were probably of either noble birth or high renown.

I wasn’t sure if I had ever heard the name before, but made sure my visage displayed the image that I had and thought it was impressive. The eyeroll from Joseph I caught clarified that Derrick was the type to namedrop in manifold situation.   

The young blonde hulk was the last to formally introduce himself. In spite of his towering form, he seemed shy, looking awkwardly away right after he had told me he was called Twain. I had a hard time estimating his age, since his demeanour and his physique told two completely separate stories.

Sandor must have read my mind, for he told me Twain was their youngest member. He had been only fourteen when the Armavians had slaughtered his entire village. The captain had found him after the battle in which the King’s army defeated the intruders, and he had been part of the captain’s battalion since. They had fought many a war, but from what I understood, they had mass deserted about two years ago, which they obviously did not label as such.

The captain called them free agents, Derrick deemed them entrepreneurs. 

The seven men were now mercenaries, hired mostly by merchant caravans needing protection from bandits. The entrepreneurial endeavour gave a whole new meaning to the saying ‘choose your battles’. Apparently, the pay had improved as well. But even though most of them seemed quite content with that fact, the captain’s serious look conveyed the notion that their motivations for leaving the King’s service hadn’t been financially motivated whatsoever.

I wondered about their story, so I asked, but they turned out to be more interested in mine. And though inquisitive I may be, I am not the type to forgo oration when provoked.