7 Ymiden, 717
The temptation of free food had once again proven too strong and Cal’nist cursed his poor life decisions. He was crowded in on all sides, at one of those looked forward to feasts sponsored by the city of Ne’haer. It was the Feast of the Heavens, where each and every Immortal was celebrated, even the ones that Cal’nist personally felt no one should be tempted to follow at all. Still, the bards were an added bonus. So, on the one hand, Cal’nist could enjoy the food and the music, which were definitely enjoyable. On the other hand, he had to suffer through the press of crowds and, horror of horrors, the children’s shows. While he assumed people usually found these shows adorable, especially if there own child was performing, Cal’nist just found them painful to watch.It wasn't as if he generally disliked children. But they simply weren't good actors or singers most of the time. Even with Cal’nist’s broken Common, he could tell that. Give him a skilled and experienced adult any trial. Still, if the occasional children’s show was all he had to worry about, Cal’nist would have been able to enjoy the holiday. No, the real terror from festivals and from public outings in general was the small talk.
Even in his old home of Desinid and with his own parents, Cal’nist hadn't been particularly skilled at making conversation. He was more the quiet shy type, more willing to listen than to speak. It had given him a reputation as a loner, and, as his familiar Whisper was prone to reminding him, often and loudly, his time in Ne’haer hadn't done much to disprove it. He tended to mind his own business, not wanting to give away how much of a foreigner he was. He did practice his Common whenever possible, but he did it in the comfort of his home, not wanting to risk ridicule. At home, he’d practice the common greetings and phrases he picked up here and there. Mastering Common was one of his goals, though, as it would make his life significantly easier.
As he gathered his plate of delicious smelling chicken and vegetables, Cal’nist resolved to pay attention not just to the meaning of the stories today, but the words they used. Hopefully that would help his understanding of the language as a whole. He spotted some open seats and made a beeline for it. Whisper, his familiar, was quiet for now. However, Cal’nist was never sure what would set her off, exactly. Settling in, Cal’nist began eating while he turned his attention to the latest Immortal being celebrated.
As he listened though, his blood ran cold as one name caught his ear. Surely this current individual couldn't be saying what Cal’nist thought he was saying. But as he listened clearer, the bard’s words remained unchanged. ”Praise be to Lisirra, mistress of pestilence and plague, who strengthens us through her arts and culls the unworthy. May she never find us weak.” While Cal'nist didn't understand half the words in that sentence, he got the gist of it and he was shocked and appalled. Cal’nist knew that the festival was supposed to reference all the Immortals in some capacity. But, while he wasn't an expert on the subject, he knew that Lisirra was bad news. She was Moske’s enemy, although Cal’nist had some vague recollection that the two had a complicated history.
He could feel Whisper bristle with anger in his mind, the sensation of her fluffing her feathers in anticipation of a threat, somehow translating into a mental message. He could feel heat building in his chest, and he took a few deep breaths to control himself. Once he felt calmer, he muttered a prayer to Moseke in Xanathea, ”Moseke, guardian of all that grows, keep my roots planted and strengthen me and my resolve. Protect me from the forces that seek only to destroy, so that I may protect those who need it.” Then, Cal’nist ducked his head and hoped that no one would try and question him or inquiry about his distress.