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pulchrasilva · 1 year ago

Text

No Man is an Island

Fandom: Roleslaying With Roman

Relationships: (all platonic) Flaredrum, Fiery Melody, King's Flame, Djembe & Flow

Characters: Djembe, Youngblood, Noise, Bard King, Viola (OC), Clef (OC), Sharpe (OC belonging to @cum-villain)

Summary: The Bard College did not tolerate weakness of any kind – and Djembe was slow to discover exactly what counted as weakness here. But amid the casual cruelty of the other bards, he found a rock to cling to: the friendship between two students in the grade below him.

From a distance, Djembe watched the rise of Youngblood the First Chair, and the fall of Youngblood the person.

But no matter how powerless you may feel, there is always something to be done. Hope grows from the cracks in the Bard King’s ostentatious veneer. And in a system that values the power of individuals above all else, human connection can become a rebellion.

Word Count: 6,138

Warnings: bullying, child abuse, child thrust into role with too much responsibility, internalised misogyny and transphobia, accidental misgendering (for most of the fic, be warned), fantasy violence, vague mentions of the horrors of colonialism and such (and the characters' participation in it), loneliness, just a generally cruel environment especially for children, child soldiers, cruel training practices (let me know if something's missing)

Notes: written for @roleslayingweek2023, for the prompt "Bard Guards"

AO3 // Masterpost

Youngblood wasn’t doing much to stand out when Djembe first noticed her.

Djembe had been chosen to perform at the Minor Chord Ceremony, when the new recruits were welcomed into the College and would have the honour of setting eyes on the Bard King Himself for the first time.

Djembe still remembered his own Ceremony, only a year ago. It was exhilarating, heart in his throat and whole body thrumming with a potent mix of terror and excitement. He'd always dreamed of joining the Bard College and eventually the Marching Band, and then there he was!

Looking around now, he could see that same feeling in these new quavers. Backs straight, tiny faces screwed into their best attempt at a stoic impression. To see so many given the opportunity to serve the Bard King – well, that was a gift in and of itself.

The future was bright in front of these kids. Djembe knew it.

He wasn't that much older than them, but Djembe felt some level of protectiveness over them. He was just here to drum, but he wanted to make sure they were all okay. So much was so new to them, and he knew it could be overwhelming to someone young enough to be unfamiliar with change.

That's why it immediately caught his attention when he spotted one of the quavers stepping out of line.

Across the room, a tiefling child had moved to whisper in the ear of the boy next to them. And- was that an elf they were talking to? Djembe had never seen an elf before. He looked surprisingly human, but the pointed ears gave him away.

Djembe let muscle memory take over entirely as he watched, still tapping out the rhythms that had been painstakingly drummed into him.

The elf gave a short answer but not one that put the tiefling off. They slipped their hand into his and, although he didn't smile back, the elf held on tightly.

Djembe had to hold back the first twitches of a smile. It was good that they were making friends already. Somehow, Djembe hadn't yet managed to do that.

Then the doors to the Music Hall slammed open and the children jumped.

Silence fell heavily. No sound but the grand music of the band was heard as the Bard King began his procession down the aisle, surveying those being inducted into His Kingdom.

He stopped at the kids Djembe had been watching. Djembe's brows twitched together before he smoothed his expression back into a neutral one. This was a deviation from the usual Ceremony.

There were no whispers – bards were trained better than that.

A pressure formed deep in Djembe's ears.

The Bard King turned sharply to face the two. With His back to Djembe, he couldn't see His expression or tell whether He spoke – Djembe certainly didn't hear any words. In fact, the silence in the room suddenly felt stifling, except for a high-pitched whining that drilled into his skull.

Had the music stopped?

The two quavers sprang apart as if they'd been scalded. The tiefling's shoulders began to shake like they were holding back tears, but the elf merely looked at the ground.

The pressure increased, until it was almost painful, and the silent ringing increased with it.

Then, in unison, the quavers snapped back to attention. Tears ran down the tiefling's face.

The Bard King nodded once, satisfied, and the music rushed back into Djembe's ears. He gasped at the release of pressure, the relief staggering. But his hands kept drumming as if they hadn't missed a beat – had they ever stopped playing?

With a flair of His cape, the Bard King continued His parade down the aisle. All eyes on Him, as they should be.

But Djembe wasn't watching Him. Djembe was still staring at the two quavers.

The tiefling slumped as soon as the King’s attention had moved away and started crying freely. The elf still stood rod straight and trembling.

What was so wrong about scared children holding hands?

***

Djembe didn't go looking for the information, but he found it anyway. It didn’t take long to learn their names: Youngblood and Noise.

After drawing attention to themselves during the Ceremony, they never really stopped. The pair were totally inseparable; they had a bond Djembe had never seen among the other bards.

At any moment Djembe could see the two holding hands – beneath desks when they were in public, out in the open when they didn't think anyone was watching.

It took a few years for all the talk about it to finally fizzle out.

It was weird that a close friendship drew so much attention. Djembe had spent the last few years trying to cultivate a bond that strong.

The two were sitting at a table shaped like a table in the corner of the dinner hall, as they usually did in the brief lunch break between training sessions. Youngblood murmured something to Noise and it set him into high-pitched squeals of laughter.

Djembe smiled slightly as he watched them.

"What are you looking at?" Viola asked.

Djembe pulled his eyes away to look at her. "Oh nothing, just those crotchets," he said lightly.

"Again?" she laughed. "Why do they bother you so much? I know they're weird but they can't be that annoying."

"They don't bother me, exactly, they just..." he trailed off, distracted by another crotchet dropping into the seat next to Noise.

"What's so funny?" Sharpe asked loudly.

Predictably, faces started turning their way. Sharpe grinned sharply – he loved the attention.

Noise clammed up. "Nothing," they mumbled, shoulders turning inwards.

"What, you don't wanna share?" He leaned towards them, forcing them to shrink back, as he snatched a chip off their plate. "Aren't we friends?"

Youngblood frowned.

Before he'd really thought about it, Djembe was on his feet and walking towards them.

"We- we can be friends,” Noise said, barely loud enough to be heard from this distance. “If you want."

Sharpe opened his mouth to reply, a nasty glint in his eyes.

But Djembe arrived at their table before he could say anything more. "Sharpe."

"What?" he snapped back, but immediately faltered when he saw a minim standing across from him.

"Leave them alone."

"What do you care?" he sneered. "The freak could do with a reality check."

Noise made a little noise of hurt and Djembe's eyes flicked over to see Youngblood wrapping his arms tight around them.

"See? He won't even stand up for himself. It's pathetic,” he jeered at the back of Noise's head. “You can't always rely on Youngblood to protect you.”

Furious, Youngblood tightened his hold on them and glared, about to snap back – but Djembe beat him to it.

It was all he could do not to lunge over the table and grab Sharpe by the collar. Instead, he slammed both hands on the table and towered over him.

"Fuck off, Sharpe. Don't you have your own friends to bother?"

They held eye contact for a long moment, Noise's quiet sobs filling the silence. Youngblood whispered something into their ear, and rocked them gently side to side.

As the time went on, Sharpe began to look more and more uncomfortable. Eventually, he relented.

"Fine," he scoffed as he got up. "Whatever."

He was a nasty piece of work, but he cowered before authority – he didn't really have the spine to stand up to an older bard.

As he was leaving, Sharpe turned back to them. "We don't do friends here, Noise," he spat. "You better learn that."

Then he scurried away with his tail between his legs.

Some of the tension left Djembe. It was only then that he noticed.

Every eye in the hall was on him.

"Uhh..." he laughed sheepishly. "Sorry about that everyone."

Relief swept through him as Viola darted in and hooked her arm around his. He would have a stand-off with someone like Sharpe any day, but this attention didn't feel so good.

Viola led him back to their table.

"What are you doing, getting involved in crotchet politics?"

"That's not politics. That's bullying."

She rolled her eyes as she sat down. "Sure, if you want to be soft about it."

"I’m sorry?” he said, incredulous.

She didn't reply, instead getting to work devouring her plate.

Suddenly, Djembe didn't feel like eating.

"You know," Viola said after a few minutes of silence, pointing a chip in his direction. "Sharpe's not wrong."

"About what?"

"People don’t really have friends here. It’s just another thing to manipulate.” She paused, popping the chip in her mouth and grabbing another. We all learn that soon enough."

Djembe laughed. It came out sounding hollow. "So what are you and I then?

"Are you kidding?" Viola said, not a trace of humour in her face. "You're top of the class, all the teachers love you."

His smile dropped. "So?"

She shrugged. "I need to keep my grades up if I want to graduate as a Squad Leader."

And Djembe felt something inside him shatter.

Blood rushed in his ears, an ocean torn apart by storm.

Over the dull roar he heard Viola say, "now shut up, I don’t have long to eat thanks to you."

Djembe didn't want to stay here, in this room, with Viola and all these people who didn't do friends, didn't do kindness. He stayed anyway.

Youngblood and Noise were still huddled in their corner. With the positioning of their arms, Djembe could tell they were holding hands under the table. Although Noise's face was blotchy, they weren't actively crying any longer.

As if he'd felt the eyes on him, Youngblood looked up and made eye contact with Djembe.

He smiled. It was small but clear, even across the distance between them. And, for just a moment, the crashing waves receded.

***

It was getting towards evening, the fiery colours of sunset cast up across the ceiling and shadows pooling on the floor. The muffled sound of hundreds of voices came from the dinner hall – everyone would be there.

Djembe, however, was only just coming back from the training rooms.

Before coming to the Bard College, meal times had always felt warm. No matter the trials of the day, there would be a few hours devoted to family and friends and good food at the end.

Here, things were chillingly different.

He never managed to cut Viola off, even after several years, although he spent far less time with her than he used to. Because although Djembe didn’t want to be used as a rung in the hierarchical ladder that was the Bard College, he wanted even less to be alone.

But he hated sitting across from her, eating dinner like they usually did, like things were perfectly fine. Like they really cared about each other. So, rather than eating with everyone else, he often stayed behind to help clean the equipment after training.

At this time of day, this part of the castle was supposed to be entirely empty. Which was probably why he managed to see something he was never supposed to.

A dazzling blaze of light burst out from the archway directly in front of him. He stopped short and it missed him – just barely. Even without any flame touching him, the heat was terrifyingly intense.

This courtyard was a training area, but that blaze wasn't bard magic. Djembe had never seen anything like it.

Someone cried out from inside the courtyard – they were hurt.

Wary of another flare, Djembe leaned forwards just enough that he could see through the archway.

Immediately, he spotted Youngblood on the floor, braced against his forearms. His head was tilted downwards and his chest rose and fell in great, heaving breaths.

Djembe almost called out to him, asked if he was okay. But the voice of the other person in the courtyard stopped him.

"Again," they snapped.

Youngblood didn't move from his position on the floor.

"Don't be pathetic. Get up."

Djembe recognised them – this was a Drum Major Clef. And from the looks of it, Youngblood was in a one-on-one training session with them.

With a hacking cough, Youngblood rose from the floor. He was trembling slightly.

Clef didn't move from their stance, hands behind their back.

"Good. Again."

So Youngblood did it again. With a melody unlike any Djembe had ever been taught, he summoned a ball of electric blue fire into the palm of his hand. It cast his face in wavering, unnatural shadows, making the sweat on his brow glint.

And, with a whistle from Clef, three tall pillars of shadow appeared.

The only people who received one-on-one training sessions were those on track to become Squad Leaders. But Youngblood was still a semibreve, a whole two years away from graduating. Yet here he was receiving individual training, and from a Drum Major no less. Drum Majors didn't even teach!

The shadows flitted around Youngblood, silent as ghosts. Their forms were so nebulous that Djembe wouldn't be able to tell exactly when each blow made impact, if not for Youngblood's grunts of pain.

Despite that, Youngblood kept up with them, parrying each blow with such efficiency he became a vortex of flame. With every swing he took, fire left streaks of dark light in Djembe's eyes.

It was incredible – the skill, the speed, the raw unadulterated power.

It was horrible.

Where had Youngblood learned to fight like that? What magic was he using? How long had these training sessions been happening in secret?

Like a blue blazing sun, Youngblood whirled across the courtyard with the surety of hundreds of hours’ worth of practice.

Then one of the shadows caught him in the back, the sound of a blade ringing in the air. When it pulled back, the movement flicked tiny droplets of blood into the air.

Youngblood fell.

In a blink, the shadows disappeared.

"Get up,” Clef demanded.

"Wait," came the voice of a third person. A very familiar voice.

With the sharp sound of heels against stone echoing around the courtyard, the Bard King stepped into view.

Djembe watched, petrified, as He crouched beside Youngblood and gripped him by the shoulder, fingers digging in.

"You are stronger than this, Youngblood," he murmured in a voice like church bells. "I have great plans for you. Do not disappoint me."

"I won't, Highest One," Youngblood said weakly.

The Bard King unfolded Himself from the ground. "Good," He said.

TClef looked to Him for permission and He nodded.

"Get up," they demanded again.

Youngblood stood.

As the Bard King stepped away, He cast His eyes towards the archway.

Before he could be seen Djembe lurched backwards, behind the safety of the marble walls. A sickening pressure grew against Djembe’s eardrums, a high pitched ringing filling his ears. He remembered this feeling.

Heart pounding, he hurried away, taking care to stay out of sight from the courtyard. The pressure faded as he put distance between them, leaving behind just a throbbing headache.

He couldn’t let anyone know that he’d seen that. In his years here, Djembe had learned that it was dangerous to know too much.

***

Two years later, before he’d even graduated, Youngblood was announced as the new First Chair. Djembe wasn’t surprised. It made a sickening amount of sense, actually, considering what he'd seen.

And it wasn't like Youngblood didn't deserve the position – he was incredible, his skill in music and combat far surpassed the level of even Drum Majors.

It wasn't a question of whether he was worthy of the Chair – Djembe knew that without question.

But he didn't deserve it.

It was too much responsibility to put on someone so young. A whole military at his command, and a whole empire to inspire. He never even finished his final year of training! Youngblood had always been withdrawn, but the weight of the entire College on his shoulders crushed him into the ground.

For years, he enacted the Bard King’s will without hesitation, delivering the Bard King's salvation and retribution with terrifying brutality. The First Chair became a hollow shell, filled only with their Kingdom’s excellence.

Usually, the First Chair didn’t engage directly in combat other than in response to some kind of ambush. They would send out missions from the College, or give orders from behind the front lines in a battle. But Youngblood didn’t hide away from the violence – no, he was always right in the heart of it, his magic a blazing blue beacon to lead the Marching Band to victory.

Djembe watched Youngblood become the Bard King's willing weapon, and wondered what had happened to that child who'd clung to a young tiefling's hand like a lifeline.

Nowadays, when he looked towards the quiet corners of the College, Noise sat alone.

Djembe himself had changed since that day. He knew now the truth of what the Bard King's light did to the world – he knew that he wanted no part in it.

He also knew that he couldn't ever leave. As soon as you set foot inside the College, you were in too deep. To the Bard King, loyalty and fear went hand in hand.

Youngblood and Noise had always been different. Happy, optimistic, but most importantly: friends. They were unapologetic in their affection for each other, no matter how much the College tried to stamp it out of them. Now, seeing Youngblood become the one enforcing everything the Bard College stood for...

No, there was no escape.

Despite his disgust at the idea of climbing the College’s military hierarchy, Djembe had been one of the best in the grade when he graduated, and so automatically given the position of Squad Leader. As such, he’d directed several missions as part of the Marching Band. Just one of them came from Youngblood’s direct orders. And Djembe had done horrible things before, but this was different. He'd always thought Youngblood would be better than that, better than him.

Really, he should have known better. How could he expect so much from a stranger? How could he know someone he'd never even spoken to? Had he really been so desperate to see some good in this place that he'd imagined it where there was none?

Djembe would have thought Youngblood was born for this role, delighted in this power – if not for the dark circles around his eyes, the weariness that weighed down his every step.

Sometimes, when the ceremony of it all was over for the minute and people's attentions had moved on, Djembe saw a crack in the mask.

It never lasted long – he was always swept quickly back into the public eye – but Djembe caught it. Youngblood looked forlorn, pained. Regretful, even.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

Really, he didn't know what to think. How much of this dictator was truly Youngblood? How much of that child remained?

So Djembe hesitated, when he turned the corner onto an empty hallway to see a figure, sobbing, curled into a corner on the floor, wearing the First Chair's uniform.

Youngblood was tucked away into an alcove, as if trying to stay unnoticed. But Djembe noticed anyway.

He froze.

With his head in his hands, Youngblood hadn't yet seen him. He could just turn away, leave Youngblood to handle this alone. Did he really want to help someone he knew capable of such terrible things?

But that didn't feel right. Youngblood was distraught, maybe hurt.

The sound of crying was muffled, like he was trying – and failing – to keep quiet. Great heaving breaths, almost hyperventilating through the tears, rattled down the hallway. It was heartbreaking.

Djembe made up his mind.

Before he could second guess it, he hurried towards Youngblood, whose head snapped up as soon as he head the approaching footsteps.

"Don’t come any closer!" the First Chair ordered.

Usually, his words held an authority near impossible to resist. But right now, his voice wavered too much for the command to be particularly compelling.

Despite that, Djembe paused. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," he snapped. "Yes, I'm fine. You didn't see this, soldier. Turn around."

He straightened up and clenched his fists. Tears still glistened on his face.

"Are you sure?" Djembe continued before Youngblood could snap back an answer. He kept his voice soft, soothing. "Because I wouldn't tell anyone if you're not. I just want to help."

And really, that was all it took for the mask of the First Chair to crack and let Youngblood shine through again.

His face crumpled, breaths hitching in heart-wrenching sobs.

It was kind of terrifying, really. Youngblood had clearly endured more than anyone should ever have to, but Djembe had never seen so much as a tear from him. What could happen to leave him so completely shattered?

Immediately, Djembe dropped to the floor beside him. He leant against the wall, leaving a respectful gap between them.

"I’m sorry, I should-" Youngblood gasped out through the tears, "I should be better than this, should be stronger-"

"No. You can cry, I'm not gonna to judge you," he murmured, trying to offer some kind of support. "Let it out, it'll be okay."

But Youngblood didn't cry for long. He clenched his jaw and swiped roughly at the tears that remained on his face. And although he looked steadfastly forwards, his eyes flicked in Djembe's direction.

"What happened?" Djembe asked softly when Youngblood didn't speak. "Are you hurt? Or is it something else?"

Youngblood shook his head. "I'm not hurt."

"Something else then."

"Yeah."

"You wanna tell me about it? I might be able to help."

"You can't."

"You won't know that unless you tell me."

It was silent, for long enough that Djembe didn't think he'd get an answer. Distantly, the muffled sound of voices came through the walls.

"I can't tell you. It... I can't let it get out."

"I'm not gonna tell anyone, if that's what you're worried about. I can keep a secret."

"I can't... trust that."

"I don't want you to be hurt, Youngblood," Djembe said. “If telling anyone would hurt you, I’ll never breathe a word.”

"You're just saying that. Why would you care?"

It was easy to forget that the First Chair was just a year younger than him.

"I can't convince you to trust me, that's okay. You don't have to tell me if you really don't want to. But it looks like you're going through a lot – you don't have to go through it alone. Besides," Djembe laughed unhappily, "who do I have to tell?"

Youngblood stared at him hard, face stony and eyes reddened with tears.

Then, he sighed. "I’m not... who you think I am." His breath hitched, new tears pooling in his eyes. "I'm not the person the College shows me to be."

He looked at Djembe and his face crumpled again. The despair was clear in his words as he whispered, "I'm a woman."

Djembe blinked. That wasn't what he was expecting at all.

"What's wrong with being a woman?"

"I'm the First Chair!" Youngblood cried, voice wavering. "I can't be a woman!"

"I don't see why not."

"Because the First Chair has to be strong, ruthless! Women can't be that."

"Hey, that's not true, don't say that. Besides," he said as he elbowed her gently, "I've got one woman right here who's stronger than anyone I know."

"That's- that's not true," he- no she, and wasn't that wonderful? - protested. "I'm weak, Djembe. I'm weak." Youngblood crossed her arms over her knees and rested her chin on top. "If the Bard King finds out... I can't disappoint him."

"Hey," Djembe said, prompting her to look at him. "You're not weak, okay? No-one is weak."

"Okay," she whispered, although she didn't seem to believe it.

Djembe paused, then put a hand lightly on her shoulder. "What are you afraid of?"

She sighed. "I don't know. Maybe I'll lose my position, be kicked out of the College. Maybe I'll lose-" her words stuttered as another sob worked its way out, the end of the sentence coming out wobbly, "-lose people."

Djembe's heart broke for her, this lonely girl with the weight of the whole College, whole Kingdom, on her shoulders. And more than that, the eyes of the Kingdom watching her every turn. What a cold, cruel world to do this to someone.

"Have you talked to anyone else about this? Noise?"

Youngblood's brows furrowed. "You know Noise?"

"Uh..." he paused, very much aware that the time he'd spent watching the two was more than a little weird. "I wouldn't say we know each other. I know of Noise."

"Huh," she said. "I didn't know anyone did."

"But have you told them? Having a friend on your side can make a world of difference."

As if reaching for something that was no longer there, Youngblood's hand twitched. She curled her fingers into a fist against her leg.

"No." She looked away again. "Noise and I, we haven't been on the best terms lately. He thinks I haven't been giving him enough time, and maybe he's right. We're working on it, but..."

"But?"

"I don't know," she said slowly, miserably, "whether our friendship will survive another betrayal."

Djembe never said it to anyone since arriving in the Bard College, never quite feeling safe enough to do so – and now, he realised that that gut instinct had saved him.

But he couldn't let Youngblood go on thinking she was alone here. He had to say it.

"I'm like you," he blurted out before he could think better of it. "I'm a man now, but I didn't used to be."

She paused, incredulous. "Really?"

Djembe laughed, a little nervous. "Yeah, I- yeah. I'm not really open about it anymore, but I never kept it secret before coming here."

"You mean everyone knew?"

"Sort of. It wasn't a big deal, really, so all my family and friends knew. As for the rest of the village, we'd tell them whenever it came up." He smiled, looking into the distance as he reminisced. "They... they understood, and they helped me to transition into who I wanted to be." Coming back to the present, Djembe turned to Youngblood. "What I'm saying is: you won't have to be afraid forever. You'll find people who love and support you as you."

Youngblood stared at him, wide-eyed and desperate. "Really?"

"Yes, really. I promise."

"Sometimes it feels like..." she trailed off, glancing at him hesitantly.

"Like what?"

"Like this is a... a cruel place."

Djembe stopped. He didn't know what to say. For so long, he'd thought he was the only one who noticed that. It was a thought he'd never dared express – dangerous. Treasonous.

"Not- not that I don't have faith in our King, but-"

"It's okay, I understand. I'm coming to realise that too.”

It was silent for a moment.

Then Youngblood got up. “I should go. Before anyone notices I’m gone.”

“Of course.” Djembe followed her lead and stood. “Listen. I know that this place doesn't really encourage friendship, but you should have someone on your side.” He took a deep breath. “If you ever need to talk, about this or about anything, I'm here."

Youngblood tilted her head to the side. "What's your name, soldier?"

"Oh! I’m Djembe."

"Thank you, Djembe." She gave him a watery smile, eyes soft and full of yearning for a kinder life. "Thank you."

***

Youngblood never took Djembe up on his offer in the end. He didn't know why – maybe out of fear for him, or for herself.

Despite that, whenever they passed each other in the corridor, the brief seconds of eye contact took on a whole new significance. It was an acknowledgement of their shared pain, their care for each other, a tiny moment of rebellion against everything the College stood for. Knowing there was someone else here who understood the true cruelty of the place made Djembe feel a little less alone.

But he was just as trapped as he'd always been.

And so was Youngblood.

Every day, in ceremonies and in casual conversation, the constant he, man, him that people applied to Youngblood grated on Djembe. And he noticed her tiny, almost imperceptible flinch every time.

Then a year later, out of the blue, Youngblood vanished. And Djembe panicked.

Usually the death or replacement of the First Chair was treated with sickening extravagance, a chance for prayer and opulence to celebrate their service and welcome in the new Chair.

Youngblood got none of the usual fanfare. There was no funeral, no Chairing ceremony for her replacement.

It was like they didn't want to draw attention to the change, like they wanted to sweep Youngblood's disappearance under the rug.

He couldn't show his worry and fear, but it ate away at his insides. He spent every waking hour wondering what had happened to Youngblood to make her vanish without a trace.

A glorious death in battle would be properly commemorated, so it wasn’t that. But that didn’t rule out death in other ways.

Whatever had happened, it was something the College didn't want to be known.

It must be something that shattered the careful illusion the Bard King had built, something that went against everything the College stood for. What that was, exactly, he didn't know.

But it was bad for the Bard College so surely – maybe, hopefully – that meant it was good for Youngblood.

And things at the College only got worse once she’d left. Security increased immediately, guards marching through the castle 24 hours a day – more to keep the trainees in than to keep any danger out, it felt like. Any slight deviance from the usual schedule was caught immediately – Djembe couldn’t even escape the dinner hall anymore.

In Youngblood's absence, a new First Chair was chosen, someone nobody would have expected: Noise.

For the first few days, it seemed Noise hadn't expected it either. They were only a year out of training, and hadn’t even graduated as a Captain!

And, overnight, they began to wear an eyepatch. Nobody mentioned it (at least not openly), but everybody was saw it.

But Djembe was sure he was the only one to notice the other changes. He’d taken to wearing long fingerless gloves, he was never seen without them. And, although the way they moved didn’t really change, any quick movements of their left hand had them wincing slightly.

Something terrible had happened to Noise too.

Perhaps worst of all, Noise didn’t look right without Youngblood’s constant presence by his side. And without that protection, that support, the Chair twisted the previously carefree child into something horrible.

Just as with Youngblood, Djembe watched Noise change. They were loud and arrogant, making a show of revelling in the spotlight.

But in some ways, he was quieter than he used to be, with nobody to talk to who would really listen. His silence came with an air of bitterness, of pain, that made Djembe want to do... something. But, powerless as ever, what could he do?

It wouldn’t take Djembe much longer to find an answer to that question.

He didn’t get news about Youngblood until about a year after she'd disappeared.

He had been promoted a few months ago, and was now stationed in Fantabulous Neon as its Drumline Section Leader. There wasn’t much combat to be done here, thankfully, so he was mostly in charge of guarding the main gate into the city.

It was such a relief, to live out from under the Bard King's thumb, the College no more than a pebble in the sky. That distance took a great weight off his shoulders. They could get away with a lot more here.

Kindness could go unseen – and therefore unpunished.

It was a day like any other. Djembe was watching as Snoot haggled with a couple travellers from behind the door. As usual, they were overcharging them for the price of just entering the city. Finally, they came to an agreement on 5 gold.

With a move that he'd practiced a thousand times before, Djembe scooped 5 gold pieces from the pile and pocketed them before Snoot could see.

The door swung open and the travellers stepped through.

Time to give them a bit of a warmer welcome.

“Hi!” Djembe said brightly. “I hope you weren’t given that hard of a time entering by that guy outside. They can be a real jerk sometimes.”

When he looked up at them, he had to cut himself off.

She looked different. Her hair in long braids that trailed down her back, little blue flowers woven in. The circles beneath her eyes were less pronounced. She was skinny, but her face glowed with happiness and health that had been terribly absent for so long.

She was so different she might as well have been a different person. But Djembe recognised her immediately.

Youngblood froze too, knowing she'd been caught. Confused by the sudden tension, her friend looked between them, brow furrowed. They stared at each other for a long moment.

Slowly, a brilliant grin spread across Djembe's face.

Youngblood was here, she was safe and she was so happy! Djembe had never dared think it possible, but here she was! She'd escaped the Bard College.

She was free.

Hesitantly, Youngblood smiled back.

And when she asked, Djembe was more than happy to tell her how to avoid running into any bard guards – especially Noise.

***

Under the cover of night, a figure slipped from the bard barracks. They closed the door behind them, already knowing the trick to closing it without a sound.

They made their way into the centre of the city, towards the Palace Inn. With artificial light glaring down from every side, nobody paid much attention to what passed through the shadows.

The backdoor of the Inn, which opened into the kitchen, was left unlocked. Silent as a ghost, they descended the servants’ staircase. The further down they went, the more untouched these stairs were. By the time they’d reached the lowest level of the building, a thick layer of dust coated the floor – interrupted only by the figure’s own footprints, layered with fainter ones from previous journeys.

They tread down an unlit corridor until they reached a particular door – the only one rimmed with the faintly flickering glow of candlelight from within. As the figure put a hand on it to push it open, layers of cheap paint flaked off. On the centre of the door was pinned a single green fern leaf.

Despite its shabby appearance, the door didn’t creak as it opened. The hinges were well-oiled.

The table inside was far too large for such a small room, and covered in old stains and globs of wax dripping from the candle.

A woman sat at the table, wedged between it and the wall, studying the map spread across it. Her head snapped up as the figure entered.

Then she smiled. “You made it,” Flow said lowly.

She’d traded her usual sparkly attire for something more subtle – all dark colours, with a jacket over the top to stave off the cold of the stone walls.

Djembe nudged the door shut behind him with his foot. “You’ll never guess who I saw on door duty today.”

“Oh really? Who?”

“The old First Chair, the one who went missing,” he whispered, though excitement coloured his voice. “Youngblood.”

“Really?” Flow’s eyebrows shot up. “As in Noise’s old friend? That’ll be interesting.”

Djembe slid into the seat across from her. “Hopefully not too interesting – I don’t want Youngblood getting caught.”

It was quiet for a moment.

The thought was terrifying. Youngblood must be on the run from the Bard College – coming to Neon was like walking right into the lion’s den.

Then Flow broke the silence. “I’d always assumed he was dead.”

“So did I, sort of.” A small smile crept across his face. “But she’s alive! She looks like she’s thriving.”

“She?” Flow caught immediately.

“Yeah,” he said. “She.”

“Huh. Good for her.”

Djembe’s smile widened. He hadn’t had a close friend, a family, since leaving his town for the Bard College.

He’d told Youngblood that she’d find her people. And it looked like since leaving the College, she had.

Djembe had found his person too.

“She’s like me,” he said, and he wasn’t even afraid. “I wasn’t always a man.”

“Good for you too,” she said, casually but with pride clear in her voice.

He laughed. “Thanks.”

It wasn’t terrifying to be known, not by Flow. It wasn’t even a moment of earth-shattering significance. It was just… comfortable.

“Right then!” Djembe leaned across the large table towards the Drum Major of Fantabulous Neon. “What’s the plan?”

She spun the map around to face him and leaned in.

His friend and co-conspirator grinned. “Take a look at this.”

#roleslaying week 2023 #roleslaying with roman #rswr youngblood #rswr djembe #flaredrum #fiery melody #king's flame #rswr noise #rswr flow #rswr sharpe

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