Delvin woke up laying on a hard slab of stone, his throat parched and his head hurting. He tried moving his hands but they were bound with rope, his strength not enough to break free. Opening his eyes he found himself staring at a stone ceiling with rays of light coming through a high window with bars on it. The smell of mildew overpowered most others besides the stench of stale ale that clung to his clothes. He tried to sit up a bit too fast but his head started spinning, so he lied back down and closed his eyes until everything stilled once again.
Slowly, Delvin sat up keeping his eyes closed this time. Once he was up he opened them and started to look around. All he saw was three walls and a cell door. Lovely, he thought, groaning and holding a hand to the back of his head where an apple sized welt had formed. He groaned as memories of last night flashed in his mind. The mercenaries, then the flames, then a water whip that put out the flames and knocked his ass out.
Damn I got hit in the head twice on the same spot, how unlucky was I? Delvin groaned and started to look around for his lute, but it was gone along with his belongings he had in his pocket. His boots felt lighter, and even his belt was gone. The only thing left was his clothes and the pounding headache that was slowly fading into a dull ache.
He ran his bound hands over his scalp, fingers catching on dried blood. The sting confirmed what he already knew—this wasn't just a drunk tank. Someone had taken their time stripping him, even his stash of coins in his boots were gone. He slumped against the cold stone wall, breath fogging in the damp air. The sound of distant footsteps echoed down the corridor outside his cell. Heavy boots.
The man who stopped before his cell door wore polished steel greaves that clicked together as he stood at attention. The brown tabard over his breastplate bore the mercenary guild's emblem—a clenched gauntlet gripping a sword with a shield backdrop. No helmet, just a face carved from granite, a thick scar running from his temple to his jaw.
The mercenary unrolled a scroll with deliberate slowness, the parchment crackling like dry leaves. "Delvin Cruz," he read aloud, voice flat as a whetstone. "Age twenty-one. Class: Bard. Apprehended last night after instigating an altercation with other registered guild members via unauthorized magic use." His eyes flicked up, cold as ice. "Twenty broken bones across 13 patrons. Sixty-seven silver in property damage. One unconscious barkeep."
Delvin's laughter came out hoarse, shifting into a cough. Tasting blood, he spat on the ground then cleared his throat. "Instigating? That tankard left a dent in my skull before I plucked a single string." He gestured to the swollen bruise on the back of his head. "Your guild's meatheads wanted a song about tits then I denied them and I was assaulted." He chuckled. "Then I gave one of them a little song about a bald man and bad breath."
The mercenary didn't blink, then continued. "Eye-witness testimony confirms you didn't throw the first blow." He tapped the scroll against his vambrace. "But amplifying existing hostilities via [Melody of Mayhem] and inducing mass vertigo with [Melody of Confusion] on a civilian population falls under Section Twelve of the Arcane Conduct Edicts. Had it been outright mind manipulation like your [Melody of the Siren] you'd be hauling ore in the Blackvein Mines by now."
A rusted hinge screamed as the cell door swung and the mercenary stepped inside, his shadow swallowing the thin shaft of barred sunlight. "Here's what happens next," he said, pulling a dagger from his belt. Delvin tensed, but the man only used it to slice the rope binding his wrists. "You pay the damages. You work off the debt at guild headquarters and for each contract you finish you will only be rewarded with half the original pay of the contract until reparations are paid, and you—" The dagger's point lifted Delvin's chin. "—never strum so much as a fucking lullaby within city limits again."
Delvin's grin faltered when the mercenary tossed a familiar lute case onto the stone bench. The leather was scarred with fresh blade marks, the straps cut clean through. "My coin pouch—"
"Confiscated," the mercenary interrupted. He turned on his heel, boots echoing down the corridor. "Report to the guildhall by sundown. Ask for Receptionist Veyne." The dagger flashed as he sheathed it without looking back. "Pray he's in a better mood than I am."
Delvin rubbed his freed wrists, staring at the mutilated case.
The lute inside gleamed under the dim light—mostly intact, save for the snapped high E string dangling like a broken spiderweb. A thick coat of ale had dried across its body, giving the polished wood a sickly sheen. He plucked the remaining strings experimentally; they rang flat with residual dampness. "Fucking barbarians," he muttered, scraping off a glob of congealed something from the soundboard with his thumbnail. The smell hit him—stale hops and something distinctly fungal.
Past the cell bars, two mercenaries from last night's brawl slumped against opposite walls of their own cells. One clutched a bandaged hand, the other sported a black eye blooming purple across his temple. Delvin's smirk returned as he adjusted the lute's tuning pegs with deliberate slowness, letting the discordant twangs echo down the corridor. The one with the busted hand flinched at each off-key note. "Morning, gentlemen," Delvin sings, wiping ale from the fretboard with his sleeve. "Heard you're in the market for songs about tits? I've got a real classic—'The Ballad of How a bard kicked your asses.' First verse free."
The guards at the end of the hall didn't even glance up as Delvin sauntered past, his boots clicking on the damp flagstones. Sunlight blinded Delvin when the guards opened the door out of the cell block. Behind him, one of the mercenaries spat a slur. Delvin responded by launching into an off-key rendition of *"The Drunkard's Lament"*—specifically the verse about syphilis.
Suddenly Delvin froze as he felt a presence behind him. The lute's strings went silent under his fingers. He slowly turned and was face to face with the Guild Knight from earlier, close enough to count the flecks of dust on the man's chest plate. The scar cutting across his face twitched as he smiled, but his eyes remained flat as slate. "Did I not say," the knight murmured, gloved fingers resting on his dagger's pommel, "that you are not to play your lute inside the city limits ever again." His breath smelled of mint leaves. "Correct me if I'm wrong."
Delvin's pulse hammered against his bruised temple. He could feel the mercenaries' eyes boring into his back from their cells. The lute's remaining strings hummed faintly against his thigh, still vibrating from his last pluck. He forced a grin. "Technically," he said, shifting his weight onto his back foot, "this is the city jail which resides on the edge of the city Not directly in the city. Unless the guild's jurisdiction extends to—"
Steel flashed. The knight moved faster than a man in full plate had any right to. Delvin barely registered the movement before the dagger's edge severed all five strings with a single upward slash. The gutted strands coiled against the lute's neck like beheaded snakes. The knight didn't even look at them as he sheathed his blade. "Semantics," he said, flicking a severed string fragment from his vambrace. "Are beneath both of us." His gauntleted hand clamped around Delvin's shoulder, steering him toward the exit. "Walk. Or I drag you."