Great Spirits

∆ Eight ∆

Wren lingered near where they served the ale with a cup to his lips. He was aiming to drink himself into a stupor. It had been so long, so long it almost seemed like a nightmare. He gazed into his cup and sighed. The reflection of himself stared back, almost mockingly, causing him to cut his eyes to the person playing a cittern.

The man looked middle-aged with clothes dyed in burgundy and gold. He had a long mustache and dark blue eyes that Wren was used to seeing in the mainlands as well. They dressed odd Wren used to think. Even now he thought that way. 

Wren drew his attention back to the music. It was a slow and melancholy tone. The woman who sang along had a voice as equally somber. She had a voice made for lullabies to lull one to sleep. 

Wren glanced around the room, seeing the numerous bodies of sleeping men and women strewn across the floor. A siren, he thought with some unease. If he was anywhere else he would find the sight strange, but it happened more often than not. More cafard notes came from the woman which stirred the crowd. Men began mumbling incoherent words followed by laughter and a bottle breaking. Wren yawned when her voice grew quieter.

The night had a sort of restless quiet that did not sit well with Wren. He drank what was left in his cup and rose. Not the night he expected, but he would make the most of it. He scanned the room for Akash and Calla, but they disappeared off somewhere some time ago. Truly, he was looking for his leech of a companion but could find him nowhere. Silas caused him trouble when he was around and caused him trouble when he was not around. Where could he have gone? Wren knew better than to leave him to his own devices, but Silas embarrassed him in that instance. Silas could not have gone far. He had a terrible sense of direction.

Wren rubbed his forehead and inwardly groaned as head pain trickled in. "He pays me back with a little game of look-see." A game in which Silas was good at.

"Silas, where the hell are you?" Wren shouted knowing he would not receive an answer. He could not even become drunk without worrying about him. "I know you're doing this to spite me. I hurt your feelings, I know."

Wren searched the faces and around the room some more. "Damnit, Silas, my head is throbbing, and I do not feel like playing a childish game of look-see with you."

The more time Wren spent traveling with Silas the more Wren came to realize the side of him he thought he long since abandoned back on the island with his mother— his father. It irritated him, at first. Wren wanted to rid himself of the man he thought of as a plague the moment he latched onto him and said he was his. However, when Silas was away from him, as he wanted him to be, it made him uneasy.

"Come, let us rest. I have grown tired." Wren spun around, disorienting himself. Blurred lines swept past him before he found himself sprawled on the floor. He perched himself up with his elbows and continued to look around. Silas was not there. Had he gone somewhere with someone? Wren rubbed his eyes and shook his head at the thought. Silas was dumb, but he was not that dumb.

"Looking for something?" a familiar voice asked. Wren opened his eyes and found a pair of brown ones staring at him. It was the woman with the somber voice. Her black hair laid neatly onto her shoulders as she rose from her crouched position. Although it was dim, Wren noticed her high cheekbones, small nose, and plump lips. Her willowy dress hid her figure from him much to his chagrin, but he imagined it to be to his taste.

"Yes, but a person," Wren finally answered. Someone from the islands like me. Have you seen him?"

The woman shook her head no and smiled. "But you can keep me company, if you do not mind. Everyone here is sleeping. Well, besides you that is."

Wren gave her a quick glance and shifted his eyes away from her. "No, I must pass," Wren struggled to say. Truly, Silas ruined everything for him.