Tribune Fire
Sir Heinrich is on horseback, stopped on the side of the road talking to a giantborn, showing him the clockwork etching on the blade of his falchion. The jotun seems duly impressed.
A small crew, a group of bards and musicians, enters from the south. They sing as they walk:
Yet war, comes on the morrow-- The ache of the dawn, and our pride-- Careful, now, and gather the leathers Come sunrise, we're in for a ride!
At the end of the last line, the word "ride" comes with a growl, then a scratch of claws across leather. Kuumvu ends the scratch with a deeper thrum-thrum, an ongoing tempo that aims to build tension.
As the thrum-thrum continues, the group finds places to sit and settle among the merchant stalls. One of them tosses a hat onto the street.
Sir Heinrich resheaths his sword as the giant-kin glances at the new arrivals and shakes his head. The giant-born turns and heads into the Fire Lodge, and Sir Heinrich guides his steed slowly forward, coming to a stop in front of the profferred hat. He says, "Good evening, gents. What war do you sing of?" He drops a few coins into (or near) the hat.
Thrum-thrum. The tempo picks up with the toss of the coins. At Heinrich's questions, one of the bards laughs roughly, and then nudges her fellows, who speaks up. "The War of Blar!"
"The Alexandrians, the Arvek, on the cusp of victory--the Crimson Tide clutching their Ziggurat!"
"...the Child of Thul, hidden beneath..." a third adds in a whisper.
The drums pick up, building, building...BUILDING...
DOWN the alley we hear their horses! Down the alley, the steam of their breath! In the alley it will flow a red river-- When we show them the true death!
Kuumvu slams downwards the drum, blending in with the other drummers--other singers, performers. It creates a thundr'ous clamour and sound, like war itself.
Well-trained as a cavalier's mount usually is, the effect of the war drums' crescendoing rhythm upon the mighty destrier is visible as he neighs and lightly bucks. Hank mutters soothingly to the horse, gently stroking the beast's neck, but the look on his hobgoblin face is solemn, as if deeply meaningful memories are evoked by the song.
The knight was very young when he fled with his mother from his native Bludgun, refugees from the Thulite regime that first stole then eliminated his chivalrous father.
At dawn, we gather our horses And I take one last look towards the sky Together, we raise our blades-- --Now! Give the war cry!
The drums take off, sharing the tale of the thunder of horses' hooves, of the ride of the arvek, the Alexandrians towards the Ziggurat.