THAT DAMNED BARD

It's mid-morning, but from the looks of Wealtheow's room you'd never know. Not only are her black velvet curtains tacked to the walls to insure that no pesky sunlight sneaks its way into her room, but there is a stationary, human-sized lump in bed. That's Wealtheow, asleep after a long night of partying down at the local combination temple/party hall. But wait. The room's not as in order as it first appears; a curtain on the far wall is not tacked to the wall. Funny, it was a minute ago. It must have blown open. Light is coming into the room. It's getting closer and closer to Wealtheow. It finally climbs up the bed and jabs her in the eyes like a red-hot poker. She has a hang-over. A bad one. Good morning, Wealtheow.

She curses and groggily rubs her eyes, hoping this is only a bad dream. It's not. She's awake and feels like hell, so she reaches for her trusty bottle of brandy and takes a long drink. She'll probably regret this later, but it feels good now so there's no harm done. At least mom and dad - sorry, Lord and Lady - aren't making a ruckus this morning. Mom has a habit of re-arranging the manor at the most inopportune times. Why can't they wait until after two? After all, a twenty-three year-old girl has got to get her rest, and they can't expect her to do that while they're juggling furniture, can they?

Wealtheow stumbles down the hall to the bath, muttering more curses all the way. Not a few directed toward her current beau, Gwideon - if only he were here! - who had some errands to run early this morning. How is she ever going to get him in bed if he needs to be up so early? Boys! But he is cute. Lord and Lady don't approve. Stop spending so much time at the bar. Don't you dare touch musical instruments. That's not the dance we taught you. Put those swords down. What do you think you are, a commoner? You did what with the barkeeper's nephew! Think of our reputation. All of these "conversations" with her parents sound the same nowadays, as they have for the past few years, so she doesn't listen anymore. It's a wonder they haven't kicked her out yet. But then, she's usually not around long enough anymore for them to get around to giving her the boot. She's always off at the taverns or chasing boys. Or, as of late, just Gwideon. He's so mint. He's so witty. Is there anything he can't do? Besides climb into her bed?

The bath water is nice and warm and slightly scented with the aroma of roses. She takes her time. It'll help chase the cobwebs out of her skull. Besides, it's not like she has anything important to do until her "date" with Gwideon tonight. He'd better not have to work again tomorrow. After splashing around for a while, making attacks at the water with an imaginary sword, the water begins to cool down. She gets out, dries herself off, and walks back to her room wearing only her bathrobe, which is actually quite fashionable these days among the youth of Arcana. It's a trend that Wealtheow set herself; nobody's ever accused her of being out of style, not even her parents. Bed is soft and inviting. Wealtheow flops down on it. It goes crinkle. Strange, it's not supposed to do that. The source of the crinkle is a piece of paper. A note, in fact. From Gwideon. He was here. In her bed. And she missed it. What the hell!