A Promised, here, and a Shamed one at that, listening intently to tavern music. She'd say that now she'd seen everything, but of course, she had no idea if that was true. Rather than moving into bawdier, rowdier ballads and drinking songs as she often did, Valla played an epic as her second song, an old one about a weak but persevering girl who gives a great but ancient bull a nugget of gold and is gifted with great strength. She goes on to fight a lion, who gifts her wisdom, and a phoenix, who gifts her with a prosperous family line. Eventually, she leads her people in a war against the shadows and rises to sit on a throne of emeralds, sapphires, garnets, and gold. Her lineage grows and rules an Empire of forests, seas, mountains, and fields, a righteous Imperium to last millennia.

There had been a bard here before she had picked up a mandolin, and it was from his playing that she learned that everyone knew this epic. Carram. The name of the first Empress, the name of the Capital, the name of the Empire, the name of the epic. She despised it, but the chords were strong and sweet, and everyone knew it and was comforted by the familiarity. It was listening to this song for the third time that she realized she remembered she knew how to play, and that there would be no better way to learn about her surroundings unobtrusively than to sit on the perch and play for a hall of travelers and merchants. Valla could not remember much of who she was, having woken in the valley three summers ago now with no memories at all, only to be found by her savior, then quickly abandoned. She had been spending her time since desperately seeking knowledge while struggling to hide her ignorance, befriending the villagers and observing the travelers. 

 

The Shamed hated the epic too. This spiked her curiosity and smoothed her raised hackles some. She was not strong enough now to win against a Promised, Shamed or no, and no Promised would leave a threat like her unchallenged. And there was no doubt he had noticed she was not normal. She couldn't remember who or what she was, but she had learned and remembered a lot about the world in the last two years, and Valla knew she hated the Promised. Plain assassins were better. They didn't pretend to be gods or angels, or whisper in the ears of Kings to shape the world to their will. This one was strange, sitting alone and apparently unguarded, drinking flagon after flagon without a glance at the door. Some Shamed went mad, and few lived long enough to do so, usually cut down by their old bretheren. A Shamed Promised who loved music, but hated Carram, and looked anywhere but at her, much like a wolf avoiding eye contact to show they did not mean to make a challenge. Valla played a sonnet next and watched the tension in his shoulders ease. She found herself smiling slightly at the sight.