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The cell was cold and damp, clearly not well maintained, though Arandaris hardly noticed or even seemed to care. His voice, a surprisingly warm sound in the stale, stone entrapment, echoed hauntingly through the hallways, calming those imprisoned there, giving them something else to think about rather than their own current circumstances.

Silent the night when Ogres came,
attacked without warning, to kill and to maim.
Goblins there too, with spears raised in lust,
doing what creatures as they do, and must.

Still feel the flames, and hear the cries,
for justice in Loftland tonight.

“Quiet, You! Enough o’ yer catterwailin’!” His jailer, a rotund, middle-aged man, was clanking the keys into the padlock on his door, and that was something far more important than the state of his accommodations. The young sailor stood with a small groan, brushing off the cell’s muck and grime as best as he could, and failing miserably. A full day and night in the town’s jail had definitely left its mark on him, for now.

“Hey! Songbird…c’mon out, an’ be quick about it. Yer’ time’s up and I’m sick o’ lookin’ after ye an hearin yer crooning.” The guardsman belched, noisily pulling the chains away from the lock and opening the door with a rusty creak.

“Would’ve sounded better with a mandolin playin…” Arandaris mumbled back, all but unheard.

“I’m guessin’ that next time you’ll be thinkin’ twice afore startin’ a brawl in old Olzwad’s tavern, yessir.”

Arandaris frowned at the memory, not finding it especially worth remembering, but rather the contrary. The lump he had on the back of his head from one of the large bouncers did little to change his mind on the matter. In truth, however, Arandaris had not actually started the brawl…that honor belonged to the fiancé of the young lady he had been quietly “entertaining”.

Sharaenl? Charamel? He wasn’t really sure he remembered the lady’s name, but then again, he hadn’t known her all that long before her troll-sized beau had come bursting into the room, finding them in a less than appropriate state of dress.

The young sailor’s protests that they were merely performing some relaxation techniques in preparation for a music lesson went unheeded. Surprising, really. Arandaris hadn’t thought the other man clever enough to see through the bluff…

“Are ye even listenin’ ta me??” The guardsman barked, snapping the blonde sailor out of his thoughts. Arandaris quickly murmured something under his breath about how he had of course been listening, and added a quick apology that seemed to satisfy the brute. “Yer personal effects…such as they are…are in there on the table. Get em’, and get out…or I’ll toss ye back in the cell fer trespassin’.”

With that, the jailor turned and walked away, leaving Arandaris to collect his things…once again a free man. The green-eyed minstrel didn’t tarry, sweeping up his swordbelt, his lute, and the rest of his meager belongings, hustling out to the street.

Once there, the young sailor was met with a light breeze of fresh air that turned a bit sour with the smell of rotting fruit. Ah, the sweet smells of a port city. The town was not exactly his favorite place, but it was a bit more forgiving than some other cities with ports near...well, wherever they were, where his dalliance the day before might have earned him a missing hand…or worse.

A moment, however, was all Arandaris allowed himself, as he hurried down the crowded streets of town, heading as quickly as possible towards the city docks. It was just possible that his ship, or rather, the ship he had sailed in on, was still in port, and if so…he still had employment. Every ship needed a bard or storyteller, or at least he hoped that the Captain still thought so.

As he dodged back and forth through the surprisingly heavy flow of people, Arandaris reflected on his time of imprisonment. Not his first, and if his luck held true…probably not his last. The blond-haired young man chuckled at this, wondering exactly what his parents would think if they could see him now.

Not that his Father had never really seemed to care too much what Arandaris did, so long as it wasn’t connected to him. The green-eyed sailor had been born the accidental son of a hard-nosed, traveling Priest of the One God and a well-endowed Tavern-wench…a development that had not pleased the man of the church at all. He had instructed the barmaid to keep his identity a secret, and in turn, offered to make sure that mother and son were taken care of, quietly.

Arandaris had grown up happy and somewhat carefree, living as they did in an upper room of a tavern. Being raised in such an establishment, while not the most proper of child-hoods, was not without its merits. The young man learned to play cards, sing bar-songs, and most importantly, wash dishes with the best of them. Along the way, he picked up a few other skills of a far more questionable nature, often from drunken sailors and thieves that found the boy to be an apt student.

A small, rolling vendor’s cart almost collided with Arandaris as he neared the docks, shaking him once again from his memories. He ducked around it, and clunked along the wooden planks of one of the weathered docks, grinning when he spotted aging ship he currently called home. The Gypsy Moth floated nearby, though it was obvious that her crew was preparing to cast off. Not immediately, but within the hour for sure. As Arandaris approached, he saw Pinion Bob, the ragged-haired first mate eyeing him with a scowl.

“Where ya been, lad? Th’ captin’ was thinkin’ to ship out without ye. Might, still.” He said. “Storytellers be easy ta come by, these days…”

“Yet not so easy as a good wench, Robert, an’ with half the trouble a lass’ll bring.” Arandaris replied in a near perfect imitation of the first mate’s voice. “C’mon Bob, t’was just a little disagreement on the wrong side o’ the ale tankard was all it was, an’ I’m back before final check, ain’t I?” Arandaris continued with a grin. He continued up the dock and onto the boarding plank, giving the man a confident wink as he stepped past him, and Bob chuckled despite himself.

“Then get down to the hold, then, and be ready ta work yer arse off on this run, lad..ta’ make up fer the time ya’ missed here in port. Ain’t gonna be no loungin’ about fer the bard on this run.”

The blond-haired bard could hear little actual anger in the older man’s voice now, and merely ducked below decks with a wave.

(OOC: As to why, specifically, Arandaris is in Port Peril? His ship docked there and when he returned from yet another drunken shore leave, this time, he was left behind)