Trouble at the gate

Esmiralda and her companions, the Optimist Monk Broo Fang Tane and the odd, loutish warrior Seymurh, have traveled to Veral Ski, one of the largest cities in all of Korin, to report to Queen Pheadora on the death of their companion, Merrick, who held a prominent position within the queen's Ministry of Human Preservation.  Tane has already entered the city, having left on his own before the sun rose. Mira and Seymuhr are at the gate.

The line at the gate stretched behind us as the sun climbed into the sky. I looked ahead and leaned out of place, scratching my head at the delay. To our left, carriage after carriage rolled by and passed under the thick stone entryway with barely a pause. Only those that showed some of the wear any recent disrepair were halted--and those only briefly. Still, we lingered with the rest of the pedestrian petitioners.

Ahead of us, two guards meticulously prodded a stooped old man carrying nothing but a crooked stick. They stood back, conversing with each other with one of them, a short plump man whose hair gleamed with some type of oil, rubbing a sparse beard between his fingers. He held out a hand then, apparently asking for some form of payment.

"Beware the petty in puny positions of perceived power," I muttered.

"It's not right," the man with the skins over his shoulder called back. I didn't think I had spoken loud enough for him to overheard. "We're waiting hear all mornin' and have to bend and scrape our knees. But them..." He gestured as yet another carriage sailed by.

I grunted. I was in no mood to carry on a conversation. I was starting to wonder if I should have just used my Traveling Stone to carry us directly into the city. Surely any perils such a display of the arts would encourage would be secondary to this confounding waiting.

"I know what we can do to occupy ourselves," Seymuhr said.

"Do tell." I watched as the old man pleaded his case and, eventually pulled a dull penny from a dirty pocket and shuffled on. If the guards were going to make everyone pay, we might have an issue. I had precious few coins left and I was unwilling to part with any of them.

"I've a few new poems to try out," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"Oh. Great."

The line thickened near us as the other petitioners sensed the possibility of entertainment. I felt sorry for them. I had heard Seymuhr's battle poems before, of course, and found them somewhat lacking in emotional tone--although they tended to be very descriptive.

He cleared his throat, motioning for the crowd to come closer.

"Slimy mountain cave
crammed with shuffling undead things
just hit them again."

One or two listeners nodded appreciatively, although the confused look on their faces told me that they weren't quite sure what to make of Seymuhr's words. I just pressed my lips together, fingers entwined in front of my belly, and tapped my thumbs against each other.

"Maces swinging wild,
Mighty blows turn my foes to
pools of human goop."

"Ooooh, ahhh," I heard someone say. "I understood that one, so I did." There were nods of agreement.

"You're a pool of human goop!" Another yelled.

I froze. The small crowd went silent. Seymuhr, who had been about to bellow forth another verse, paused and looked at the man, who had been chuckling and poking another bystander in the ribs with his elbow in an attempt to get him to laugh along.

Seymuhr rubbed his palm over his bald head and dropped his voice to a low, menacing snarl.

"What did you say?"