The ale was bitter and hearty, and he savored it. People filtered in - now locals as well, not just travelers, all mingling as time wore on. The light outside faded to twilight and then to a cold night. The fire rose higher, and one ale became two, then three. On the fourth, he noticed an outlier's presence, their aura tinged with power. His shoulders tensed as they walked up to the tavern, and then turned in. Fool or no - and he was a fool - he noticed every movement around him, not so far gone into his despair as to drink himself insensate. The outlier called out to Aisel, and then to Orlo, and was welcomed heartily. Villagers shouted greetings, calling the bright power Valla. Their voice was low and clear, their jokes and greetings smooth, and they moved steadily through the hall even as they matched the rhythm of the room, getting closer, moving almost into Doren's line of sight, toward the perch. His heart beat a bit louder, anticipating, all evidence feeding his hope where instead it should have rendered him cautious. Their ease and the clarity of their voice fit that of a musician. They were still moving closer, nearer to the perch. He refused to turn. He sat and hoped, drawing out the possibility as long as possible, refusing the face the truth before it walked up to him and forced him to. If he could not have music, he would have this moment where it was not impossible.

And then his heart lifted, his hope fulfilled. Music. Valla stepped onto the perch, holding a mandolin, and settled onto the chair. She was dressed in worn linens of pale blue and orange wore a loose tunic and pants, a cloth sash tied around her hips as a belt, and a long scarf. Not an outlandish style, exactly, but still odd - colors paler but more varied than the local style demanded, the cut looser, the scarf and belt particularly strange. Her hair was long, and a strange bronze, coppery and bright in the firelight. It was held back with another linen cloth, folded over into a headband. A deep scar ran from her left temple down to her jaw, and another cut her right eyebrow. Despite this, her face seemed open and warm, her grey eyes flashed silver as she joked and laughed, gathering herself on the perch. Then those eyes cut to Doren, cut through him, a bright power flaring in his mage's eye, and he knew that she saw in one look what no one else there had seen in three. 

In an instant, it was over, and she was laughing, shouting a playful rebuke to a villager, then strumming a simple ballad that drew cheers from the crowded hall. And even as the song filled the room, Doren's heart, just recently soaring at the promise of music, sat heavy in his chest. He should leave. No good could come from lingering here, with a threat so close. If she knew what he was so quickly, if she was so calm upon seeing him, if her intensity was so completely camouflaged, then she was a threat. There were several types of folk who might be in such a place that would recognize a Shamed Promised at a glance: the Promised themselves, well-informed opportunists looking to hire him, and then the wild cards, the solitary sorcerers or rogue mages, the witches and the hidden beasts. The Promised, proud and regimented, would never hide their identity. Even the Shamed wore the marks, as he did. That left opportunists and the powerful. Opportunists were threats as well as potential clients, and they could be so unscrupulous that rather than finding a paying job he often found himself working to undo them, but they were also his only salvation now. She could be such a person, but that flash of power he had sensed did not fit. So as improbable as it was, she was a wild card, hiding here in this nameless town. Perhaps not nameless, since he hadn't asked anyone for the name. Irrelevant. The music, the warm fire, the woolen blankets and straw mattress - none of it was for him. Once again, he had been a fool.

And yet, even with this all so clear to him, so obvious, Doren did not leave. He sat and watched, and his musings turned to listening. How many songs would she play? He would wait for another. So long as he left before she was done playing, he would show her he was no threat, and they could pass by one another in peace. Assuming she was that sort of creature, but if she was something more sinister, leaving now would make no difference. They would be like two beasts, wary of each other; he would respect her territory and no fight would be needed. The longer he lingered, the more likely a fight was, but it had been so long since he heard anyone play. Surely, she would play at least two more songs. Listening to one more would do no further harm.

As the musician played, he tried to convince himself her look had not been one of recognition and calculation. She was so easy with the crowd and spoke so normally, joked so freely with the villagers as though she were one herself. Like a perfect version of a town bard. Too perfect, and too normal, though. Too smoothly friendly yet distant from every other person there. Even as Doren tried to ease his own mind, he knew better than to ignore the truth. But oh, the music. It had been so long, and the songs were more beautiful than he had hoped. Too beautiful, his instinct whispered, too expert for an oddly dressed, overly charming musician in a remote town not on any maps. The music seemed to suit his taste more and more as he listened, and he relaxed. What did it matter anyway? A fifth ale. A sixth. It seemed he was further gone down the path of despair than he had thought. No one spoke to him, and he gave up counting the songs. Perhaps she was hiding so desperately herself that she would avoid him. Perhaps she wouldn't. It wasn't like he had any real plans. If they fought, they fought, and if he lost, so be it. He was so tired. He had tried to be strong for so long, over and over, but he was weak - weak to hope, weak to music, weak to exhaustion. He drank and watched her fingers fly on the mandolin. Her palms were wrapped like a hand to hand fighter, or maybe bandaged, as though she'd pressed her hands on a burning log. The pale blue cloth wound up her wrists and into her shirt sleeves. Strange, since a musician would more likely bind their fingers than their palms. Wouldn't those wraps be uncomfortable? Weren't her hands stiff? They certainly did not seem to be as she played. He looked and drank and wondered as he listened, the music sounding sweeter and sweeter to him as the night wore on and his tankard emptied and filled, over and over. Odd. Such an odd person to find here, in this unmapped town.