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There's actually a few, but let's go to the one to the south. It's a little farther on, but if you're tired we can stop at Romya's for a drink.

The pair make their way across the commonlands. No roaming hill giant seems to be tromping around this afternoon, and in no time the sun is sinking behind them as they travel steadily east. When they come to the lake, they pause and dismount, letting their steeds drink and rest for a while. Keats decides to take the last couple of hours in short bursts, knowing that Kamdora is right; despite the invigorating pace that Selo's offers, long journeys are exhausting anyway.

When Drummer and Dexter have had a chance to rest, drink, and eat a few bites, Keats and Kamdora mount up once more and ride on. Shortly they arrive at a village, but Keats bypasses it, instead pulling up in front of a tiny tavern where he dismounts, ties Drummer, and offers Kamdora a hand down from Dexter. Once she is on her feet, Keats walks into the tavern with a broad grin.

Romya! You still serving?

A human matron walks out of a back room with a sultry smile. Easily in her late-middle age, there is still something about this woman...her voluptuous shape, the sway of her hips as she walks, the thickness of her dark, grey-streaked hair done up in the copper and jewels of the gypsies that make her years inconsequential. She had once, undeniably, been a dazzling beauty, and even today she carries herself with the seductive stride of one who is used to getting what she wants. Her gaze falls upon the grinning half elf in her tavern and she laughs.

"Keats Lovesonnet...you haven't been here in months to see me! Why is that?"

She looks beyond him at the Teir'dal woman entering her establishment, and her eyebrow quirks in interest.

"And who is this?"

Keats bows, gesturing Kamdora to come alongside him.

Romya, this is Kamdora, a friend of mine that I'm escorting to Freeport. Kam, this is Romya, proprietor of this fine tavern.

A wink at Kamdora accompanies his next words.

Romya and I go way back.

Romya smiles to the Teir'dal woman and nods with a sweeping gesture. She and Keats chat and banter a bit as she brings out the requested food and drink, setting a bowl before Keats as well, though he hasn't asked for it, and pouring a glass of mead for Kamdora. For Keats, she sets out a glass and a bottle of her gypsy wine but lets him serve himself. When Kamdora reaches for her purse, Romya pointedly but casually avoids her gaze, always managing to be doing something else and unable to notice or accept her offer of payment. Keats grins a bit and shakes his head, catching Kamdora's eye. She understands his expression and puts away her purse.

After an hour or so of conversation and refreshment, Keats gets up and kindly insists that the press on. Romya's tavern was once an inn, and years ago Keats would happily have stayed there, but these days, with the expansion of the village and their distrust of Romya's people, she'd moved to a smaller building a bit away from the village proper, and consequently no longer ran a sleeping establishment. Keats and Kamdora are soon on their way to the large southeastern inn. They arrive just after dark, stable their horse and drogmor, and enter the Inn.

The light and noise inside is substantial, if not exactly "jovial." Keats and Kamdora make their way to the innkeeper's counter; the man looks up and offers a gruff greeting.

"Good evenin', stayin' with us for the night?"

Keats nods, and the man continues, flipping open a ledger.

"We got a room on the first floor, will ya need one key or two?"

Keats shakes his head at the man and holds up two fingers.

No, we'll need two rooms if you've got them.

The man raises an eyebrow at Keats and sizes up Kamdora again with an entirely different expression. Keats clears his throat pointedly, drawing his attention back.

Two rooms, please.

"Yessir."

Two keys to separate rooms, across the hall from each other, are forthcoming, and the pair heads down the hallway to deposit their things.

The morning comes, and Keats awakens, exhausted. He brushes back damp hair that sticks to his forehead and sighs, looking groggily around the inn room. A washstand. Thank the Twins. He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, resting his forehead in his hands as he props his elbows on his knees for a moment. Then he stands up and makes his way to the stand, stripping off clothes as he goes. Keats pours water from the pitcher, dips a rag, and proceeds to wash up as best he can. His shoulders and neck ache from what feels like hours of unrelenting tension.

Keats looks into the dim mirror over the stand and regards himself resignedly. At least he'd slept through the night, though the way he feels now, he's not sure that's something to be thankful for. In any case, he'll have to get through the day, rested or not. With that determination, he finishes washing, dresses in fresh clothes, and heads across the hall to see if Kamdora's up yet. It's still fairly early, and they have no rush to get to Freeport before noon; they're quite close to the city borders anyway. Keats knocks softly on Kamdora's door and listens for a response.

Their journey through the streets of Freeport had relaxed him, as coming home always does.  A few faces had turned his way, a few shouts of greeting issued as they passed. The bard had smiled and lifted a hand in greeting; despite the bustle and anonymity of the large city, his profile was rather well known and largely appreciated. The surprise and suspicion with which he had been viewed after his...un-retirement...had evaporated at last and been replaced by something that occasionally felt a bit like distant awe. This new reception he'd been getting over the last year or so had discomfited him at first, but he was getting used to it...just in time for it to change again, no doubt. It was one of the double-edged blessings of human cities--memories were short, and both good and ill forgotten swiftly.

Though there is some occasional minor stir as they make their way along the streets, for the most part they are just part of the crowd. Kamdora heads for a run-down inn that Keats recognizes, and he raises an eyebrow. It wouldn't be his choice of place...nothing wrong with it, per se, but it's not as though she couldn't afford better. He casts a glance at her and keeps his criticism to himself. If she'd rather stay here, he presumes she has a reason. Kamdora asks him about his plans, then, and he blinks.

The temple? Oh, heh...no, I'll be at the hall.

Her puzzled expression prompts him to explain.

Marsheart's Chords. It's standard for visiting League members to stay at the hall when they're in town, and Cas is expecting me. I've got a few things I need to go over with him as well, and I'm sure he'll have a new crop of apprentices, maybe a couple of journeymen to introduce to me.

Keats gives a long-suffering sigh at the prospect, but grins.

Anyway, he'll probably take up all this evening and most of tomorrow, though I could be free tomorrow evening for a drink or two if you're not occupied. If you are, though, that's really fine; I'm sure the hall will keep me as busy as I allow. Let's see...

He thinks for a moment.

Dinner and introductions this evening, meeting with Caskin tomorrow morning, rehearsal at the temple that afternoon--Light's Blade, I hope they give me some competent musicians, not the halfwit drummer I had last month--then perhaps a couple of free hours...and then early practice, and worship at the mid-morning service. That's when you'll want to come, if you're interested.

Holding up a warning hand, Keats goes on.

Now, it's not a concert. It's a temple service, so if you're not so inclined, I understand. Not like you've never heard me play before anyway.

Keats smiles reassuringly, giving her an "out" if she changes her mind, but doesn't require an answer of her right away.

Anyway, if I don't catch you at the temple--even if you do come, it's pretty crowded--when will you be ready to head back to the Sanctum? I shouldn't be away too long, but I've got a few days; we don't have to leave right after the service if you still have things to do.

After bidding farewell to Kamdora at the steps of her chosen inn, Keats reins Drummer away and proceeds at a suitably safe pace through the streets of the city, wending his way toward the fairgrounds and the new location of Marsheart's Chords. "New location." He reminds himself that it's been years now; the location is hardly "new" anymore, but he still has to remind himself consciously to head that direction and not angle north to the old building.

Once he reaches the fairgrounds, he stables Drummer with needless instructions to the stablehands about his care and feeding, then climbs the steps and lets himself into the guildhall. As he approaches the door, the sounds and smells of his childhood grow louder--the muted cacophony of instruments and voices, the permeating smells of wood, oils, and resin. Smiling, he walks in.

"Keats!"

He is greeted immediately by Marus and Felisity, who look up with pleased surprise from their discussion in the entryway. The half elf smiles to the two humans and approaches with a casual wave.

Good to see you.

Pausing, he cocks his head a bit, discerning voices from a nearby practice room. An unfamiliar mezzo-soprano...excellent quality of voice, if a bit off tempo for the song. Keats raises an eyebrow and looks at Felisity, who follows his glance, identifying the voice he's considering.

Nice. Who's that?

She smiles.

"I don't know if you've met her yet. She's one of our day students; pretty good, don't you think?"

Keats listens for another few seconds, then nods.

Definitely worth honing. A day student you say? Why? She could be an apprentice, easily.

Felisity shrugs, and Keats sighs. That was the way of it...most of the time day students were from higher ranking families and as such had other plans for their futures than life as a bard. Normally they were no-talent kids who were sent for lessons so that they could learn the basic rudiments of music and dance for purposes of fitting in with polite society, but once in a while you did see a genuinely talented youngster appear. Those gems usually had some emissary from the League or even Cas himself show up, knocking at the estate's front gate, asking--sometimes pleading--with the parents to consider an apprenticeship for their son or daughter, but such requests were rarely heeded, regardless of what the youth wanted to do. After the first couple of these failed negotiations, Keats avoided these assignments whenever he could. There was just no reasoning with some people, Silver Tongue or not, and with his adamant belief in living up to one's potential and realizing one's dreams, it just hurt too much to see the aspiring artist bow his or her head in acquiescence to the parents' political ambitions. As a result, Keats focused primarily on training apprentices and journeymen, not recruitment, for the League.

Sighing to Felisity's shrug, Keats puts a smile back on his face.

Oh well. I know how that goes. So. Is Cas around, or should I wait and talk to him later?

Marus furrows his brow, glances at Felisity, and then nods.

"No, I think he's still here. Did he know you'd be coming today?"

Keats shakes his head, and Marus goes on.

"Well, come on. Even if he's busy, I'm sure he'll be glad to know you're here."

The two bards make their way through the hall, past classrooms and workshops, and then up the stairs to Caskin's office. Marus raps sharply on the door and opens it, sticking his head in.

"Caskin? Keats Lovesonnet's here to see you."

"Oh? Come in!"

Marus grins at Keats and opens the door, stepping out of the way with a nod toward the office. With an exchange of thanks and farewell, Keats walks in and Marus heads back downstairs. Inside, an early middle-aged man sits at a desk heaped in scrolls and papers of all types--musical scores, personal correspondence, printed documents, scrawled memos--and looks up with a reserved smile as Keats steps into view.

"Well, look who's back. It's about time."

Keats grins at him and offers a flippant half bow in response. A twinge in his heart does not manifest itself on his face, but internally, he mourns the tension that has developed between the two. Still friends, yes...he counts Cas as a friend. But no matter how many times he comes back, and no matter how much he does for the League, and no matter how warmly Cas greets him upon his returns, the strain of one of their partings has never quite healed. They avert their eyes from it, pretend it has disappeared...and it has faded with time; there is no doubt of that. Still, the breach is there. A hairline fracture now, no longer the gaping chasm it had once been...but there. Keats redoubles the warmth of his smile and speaks cheerfully.

Yep, I'm back! Somebody's got to keep you in line...you look like you're getting slack in your work, old man.

As soon as the friendly jibe leaves his lips, Keats rather wishes he hadn't said it. Way to bring up the past... Before Cas can reply, however, Keats takes a few more steps and seats himself in one of the chairs opposite his guildmaster's desk.

I'm here for a couple of days; I'm next on the temple roster for worship, and a fellow Sigil was needing to come to Freeport anyway, so I decided to come a bit early to keep her company.

At Cas's amused expression, Keats rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

Not that kind of "keep her company."

Cas chortles, and Keats continues over his mirth.

Anyway, I'm here to get my team roster for the next service and see if I can steal them from whatever duties you've got planned tomorrow afternoon; I've got a new piece that I want them to try out instead of the same old stuff. It's a little ambitious, though, so I'll need an extra practice with them; it's not a sight-reader. Oh...do I happen to have some vocalists besides the choir this time? Maybe a soprano or two?

The discussion continues intently for several minutes while Keats and Cas look over the lists and make some alterations as necessary. When Keats is satisfied with the roster, he smiles and stands up, shouldering the pack he's brought up and picking up his lute by the neck. He shakes hands warmly with Caskin, then asks about lodging. Being assured that there's room in the masters' quarters, he thanks Cas and heads down the stairs. Keats walks across the grounds to the masters' building and finds a room--one of the privileges of master rank in the League is a private room when one is available. Setting his lute down, he drops his backpack beside the bed and washes up. Dinner would be served promptly, and he has no intentions of missing it.

---

Nor does he. Seated at the main table with the rest of the resident and visiting masters, Keats catches up on the news of the day, Freeport politics, rising stars among the journeymen--carefully spoken in tones too low for the nearby journeymen to hear over the din of the communal meal--and the most incorrigible apprentices. News from Qeynos highlights the discussion; Joffrey Clay is visiting from the Windspirit's Song to a warm welcome, his good humor and well-known talent making him the unofficial guest of honor tonight. The meal is good, and once it has concluded, Keats lingers over the coffee and dessert with his peers, sharing bits of news of his own about the happenings abroad and with his own guild. Late in the evening, the gathering breaks up amicably, and Keats returns to his temporary quarters to get some rest.

---

The next day, Keats is up early and making the rounds with Cas and Sten, observing the newest crop of apprentices at their lessons and being introduced to the handful of visiting journeymen, two of which he had not yet met. He smiles approvingly, accepting their practiced deference as a matter of course, and asking them about their plans for the future, whether they'd be pursuing their masteries or taking up positions in smaller communities right away.

Soon, however, most of the hall gathers for lunch, and immediately thereafter, Keats stands in a practice room as his team arrives. A larger team than usual...a drummer and another percussionist, two lutes and a mandolin, a pair of flutes and a mellow horn, and, true to his request, a small ensemble of solo-quality voices to augment the choir. Excellent. Keats smiles as they file in and take their seats. Most of them have performed under his direction many times before, but he notes that the two new journeymen have been assigned to him--one on flute and the mandolin--and one of the female vocalists he doesn't recognize at all. She seems unreasonably nervous, her gaze remaining fastened on the floor, which concerns him; this is routine performance but a major venue. Stagefright has no place in the main sanctuary of the Temple of Marr. He makes a note to speak to her afterward and to ask for a replacement if the vibe he's getting doesn't alter in the course of practice.

Welcoming them, Keats explains the three prepared pieces that they would be using in the service; all understand that these are guidelines, not carved in stone. Worship leaders varied substantially in their modes of conducting, and Keats is one of the more flexible, preferring to have a rough plan in place but then to submit to the living spirit of praise in the sanctuary as it ebbs and flows. One of the pieces is quite traditional--simple call to worship. A quick "from the top" run-through is all that is needed there. They move on to the next two pieces, both of which require call-and-response, multipart harmonies, and sensitivity on the parts of the team. The first, despite its seeming simplicity in the practice room, promises to be more of a challenge on the temple dais, and the second...

Initially it puzzles the team. It sounds only half finished at first, more like an impromptu musical meandering than a polished chorus. As Keats plays through the movements of the piece his team follows along on the sheet music in their hands, glance at one another, then look back at him skeptically. He is wholly focused on the song and the lyrics, and it takes him a minute to sense the slight tension in the room. Keats looks up from his lute at his players and singers, mirroring their expressions of skepticism, though his is also tinged with restrained impatience.

Are you following?

Most of them nod reluctantly; a couple do not.

Again, from the top.

He gives them the upbeat, and they follow his lead, though not as intently as he would wish. He suppresses a frustrated sigh, however. This isn't the same as drilling a group for a concert performance. Technical perfection is not enough. There has to be more for this...and the "more" sometimes doesn't show up until the final moment. It always makes him a little nervous, but he has faith in not only his writing, but also the energy of the congregation. Sometimes the congregation leads the team as much as the inverse.

After a couple of hours, Keats calls an end to the rehearsal, thanks the team, and tells them to meet him in their usual ready room before service in the morning. The group nods and disperses, and Keats makes his way back to his quarters.

Dawn's pinkish hues become quickly golden in the liminal space that Freeport occupies between Ro and the Commonlands. As soon as morning light floods the streets, Keats is out of the hall, having woken and dressed before sunrise. In the relative quiet of the city's early morning, he walks down to the Brownloe Bakery that he has frequented since his early youth. Smiling to Pincia, he orders a muffin and black coffee, though he dumps several spoonfuls of sugar into it. Pincia drops the muffin into a paper sack for him and fills the large mug he's brought with him. Keats pays her, waves goodbye, and takes his breakfast with him as he angles north toward the Temple.

Stepping through the massive gates of the Temple of Marr, Keats finds his breath taken away again by the sprawl of the temple grounds. It always hits him like this; no more awe-inspiring sight exists in any city. It's still a couple of hours before the services begin, so Keats finds a corner of the grounds to the west and takes a seat to eat his muffin and look over the morning's music.

The courtyard of the Temple of the Twins does not remain quiet for long. Activity steadily increases, and about half an hour after Keats sat down, he finishes his coffee, stacks his papers, and gets up. The bard regains the central path through the courtyard and climbs the white stone steps of the temple, pausing, as he always does, mid-climb. No matter the hundreds—thousands—of times he climbs these steps... He closes his eyes for the briefest of moments before continuing on into the temple.

Half his group is already there in the ready room when he arrives. He immediately sets them to warming up while they await the rest. The remaining players arrive in short order, apologies on their lips for their tardiness; Keats impatiently waves away the apologies, sorting them into their parts and inserting them into the warm-up scales and exercises. When the players have sufficiently prepared, Keats runs them quickly through the songs he's selected. The feel is different here in the ready room than it was in the hall practice room—there is a focus, a higher level of attention to the music and the lyrics.

After only one rehearsal of each piece, Keats calls an end to the music and leaves them for a moment. He does not go far—only a few steps away to sit down in a chair and close his eyes, bowing his head slightly. The voices of his team swell and then dissipate as each seeks a moment of solitude to pray to the Twins. Almost immediately, Keats moves from sitting to a kneeling position beside his chair, resting his elbows on the seat and his forehead on folded hands. The rest of the room fades away as he is absorbed.

Sweet Sister...

He comes humbly, silently before Her, but the welcome...Warmth suffuses and envelopes him in the communion. More warmth—hands rest upon his back and shoulders. He does not know how long he has been like this, but he slowly realizes that a few members of his team have gathered around him, kneeling beside him and joining their voices to his in prayer—with him, for him. Distant noise presses into his consciousness, and he realizes that their presence serves a dual purpose, encouraging and supporting his prayer, while at the same time gently reminding him that there is a congregation awaiting their entry so that the service can begin. Smiling and wiping his eyes, Keats nods his thanks to the two masters who have flanked him and gets to his feet. He takes up his lute, settling it on its strap, and leads the team out onto the dais.

The strange shift in acoustics is the first impression of the grandiose sanctuary of the Twins. From the quiet, almost muffled tones of the ready room, sound seems to bound away in the vaulted auditorium, rounding off the pristine walls and rolling back in neverending waves. Even the full pews do little to dampen the noise of it, but as Keats takes the center of the dais and smiles to the congregation, the low roar quiets down.

Good morning, everyone.

He would normally ask the congregation to rise to their feet, but most have already done so. He smiles again. While he usually prefers to open with an upbeat, enthusiastic song, he hasn't felt that leading when he has been preparing for today. There has been something introspective and reverent, though joyful, in his mind, and so he begins the music.

The melody is familiar, the lyrics well known. He's sung them for decades, but in the past few years they have come to mean more to him than they ever have before. The congregation's voices join his, softly at first and then with building volume. By the second chorus, a soloist voice from his praise team rises above the others and causes him to look in that direction—the young woman who had seemed so nervous. It wasn't what he had expected, but he smiles; her timing is perfect, so he slowly lowers his own volume, fading out to let her shine. The girl suddenly realizes that she is the premier voice of the song, having effectively usurped the lead from him. She shoots Keats a panicked look, but he meets her eyes, still singing but softly, nodding a bit to her in steadying encouragement. Her faltering voice rallies in response, drawing a smile from him as he steps back from the edge of the dais—the movement is not significant but rather symbolic as he temporarily cedes the song to her. The light in her eyes shows mixed terror, joy, and determination as she proceeds to let her voice soar, drawing the congregation along with her. Keats watches for a few choruses, then resumes his place when it is clear that the song is winding down.

From there, he segues smoothly into the next piece—another slower piece whose opening features the two sopranos paired with his own voice in a difficult unison that quickly slides into a more comfortable harmony. From there, the song leads into a choreographed responsorial of give and take between the male and female voices...a beautiful blending of sound and harmony that glorifies the Twins.

They come to the close of the second song, and Keats pauses for an instrumental break, lowering his head over his lute as he plays, allowing for free-form worship in the sanctuary while he changes to the odd key of the final song. Though his eyes are closed, he knows from the sounds of the congregation that they are enraptured—not in his music, but in the worship of the Twins that fills the great room. Hands are lifted, voices raised...some kneel at their seats, while others stand...a few have even come to the steps at the front of the dais and kneel there, petitioning their gods for their own personal concerns...

After a minute or two of pure instrumentation, Keats begins to sing softly. Again, the lyrics sound almost extemporaneous. His team joins in dutifully at the bridge...and something builds. A tension rises...but before the crest of the wave breaks, Keats returns to the instrumental briefly. Strangely disappointed, the team joins in on the second verse. There is a sense of trying to find what they have missed...there is something there...and now the bridge...

The emotion that explodes in the room at the chorus staggers the team. Natural—it seems that it could not have gone any other way, and yet...they never saw it coming. In the practice room, in the ready room...how had they missed this? How had the untrained ears heard what theirs had not? Humbled but inspired, they prepare to sing out once more, but Keats restrains the song instantly, holding them back, much to their dismay. Confused, rebellious glances land on Keats's back, but the team is well trained and follows his direction.

They do not have long to wait. Halfway through the bridge, he builds the intensity once more, to their relief, and again the chorus bursts forth, even more powerfully than before. The team on the dais, the people in their pews, all are swept up in the music. Keats does not restrain them again, freeing them to repeat the chorus—and they do, readily, eagerly. He smiles. Glory and reverence—a sense of being precisely where he needs to be—he sings to the Twins of Marr, Light and Love, in thanksgiving and honor.

Eventually, the song is over. Rather than letting the chorus dwindle, he cuts the singers and closes with another few measures of instruments only...then nods to the morning's celebrant. The robed human man starts toward the dais, and with a start Keats realizes today Plur is leading the service. As the older priest ascends the podium, Keats meets the blue eyes of his friend once more, this time with recognition and warmth. Plur returns the half elf's smile with a simple—yet somehow personal—expression of benevolence, and Keats offers a slight bow as he steps back. Plur takes the center stage and turns to the congregation, raising his hands toward them, palms out, as he speaks the salutary blessing...

As Plur concludes the praise and worship and begins to speak, Keats sets his lute down and walks with his team off the platform. The nervous young lady glances to him; she seems worried and about to speak, so he heads her off.

Well done this morning, Gen.

He has time for no further words of praise; these do their business handily enough. She is taken off guard and forgets what she had been about to say. Keats smiles quickly to her, then just as quickly walks away down one of the aisles, fielding the quiet words and gestures of approval from the congregants and taking a seat to listen to Plur's message.

Plur's message. Somehow that still just amazes him. Plur has been such a good friend for so many years...it's sometimes hard to remember that he has a life apart from being Keats' personal confessor. Yet Keats knows perfectly well that Plur has become one of the main priests of the Temple. As he has become one of the primary worship leaders.

What a far cry from decades past...what a distance from getting Plur into trouble for shirking his acolyte studies to sneak into taverns with a League apprentice...

Plur begins to teach—he's never been much of a preacher, but a thoughtful, clear-spoken teacher—and Keats reins his mind out of the past and into the present.