Karlow and Petunia

Karlow spun Petunia around in his arms gleefully while she laughed, holding her tightly to him and burying his face in her lavender scented hair. He had never experienced the sort of emotion he felt with Petunia. It was real, and beautiful, and deeply meaningful to both of them, and the bard could feel it in the depths of his being. He was a willing slave to it.

All they needed was enough money to escape. Greynor would be far enough away, and Karlow had contacts there at The Bardic College, so he could find work easily enough. They would have to be careful, though; Petunia's husband was a prickly sort. Even though the marriage had fallen apart years before, Petunia's husband, Fodorn, treated Petunia like one of his prized possessions, charging money for time spent with her.

"I have good news!" Karlow crowed as their lips finally parted. Unable to resist kissing her again, Karlow laughed and set Petunia down carefully upon her feet a moment later. "I finally have the cash infusion we've needed. That gig I played at the baron's garden party was amazing! I have a big payout coming up later tonight." Petunia smiled, and that was all it took to send Karlow off into a near swoon, kissing her firmly upon her rosebud lips. Petunia pushed the amorous bard away with a low giggle.

"I have to get to work! And, so do you. You know Pete hates it when you start your shows late." Pete was Petunia's boss, which never failed to amuse Karlow. Karlow's amusement, however, always seemed to enrage the former pirate, and owner, Pete Gallagher. Petunia slapped Karlow's arm playfully, fully aware of what was going through his mind.

"Neither one of us chose our names, you donkey's ass!" She looked at him fondly. He really was the loveliest person she had ever met, and he was so very handsome. His impudent grin always caught her off guard, and it was her turn to swoon into his arms. They parted, breathlessly, a full minute later, then parted ways; but not for long. Karlow waited another half an hour before he pulled his floppy, wide-brimmed hat low over his hazel eyes, and sauntered out of his Midbay apartment with his treasured lute slung over his right shoulder. He was dressed in a green greatcloak, with a matching kilt that was actually the same large piece of patterned material, folded up and wrapped around him in a specific manner. Some people in the city found the look old fashioned and foolish, but Karlow was a bard. Not only that, Karlow was a fantastic bard that knew every story, and could sing any song. He had a voice like a songbird, and a face like an Elvish sculpture; at least, according to Mrs. Rebecca Quimby of Northbay, who cheerfully professes a massive crush on Karlow, even to her husband Jawm.

As the sun sank below the horizon, Karlow set up his gear and began playing at Gallagher's, the bar where Petunia worked, and the place that fate had seen fit to bring them together. Karlow could see her weaving through a sea of tables and leering faces as he played his set. She was wearing a long leather vest to protect herself from half-drunk, handsy patrons, slapping more than a few hands away from her shapely bottom. Petunia was brilliant at her job, remembering orders and faces with ease, and she was graceful enough to twirl around and through the sea of increasingly drunken patrons without ever spilling a drop. She really was a sight to behold, from Karlow's standpoint, and his admiration for her only grew as he watched her fend off what must have been hundreds of proposals.

Pirates could be a tedious lot after a while, thought Karlow.

The evening wore on, and the bard played his gig, pretending not to be involved with Petunia as she flirted for tips all night. He went outside to smoke a good cigar during his break, drank his complimentary mug of ale, and returned to finish his set, which was over by two a.m. Karlow smiled and winked at Petunia on his way out the door. She knew he was going to meet his connection, and a little thrill went through her at the thought of leaving Craysilt, maybe forever, and starting anew in Greynor with Karlow. Counting out her tips, Petunia hid a percentage of them in a handkerchief to keep away from her drunken lout of a husband, Fodorn. She covered the passed-out patrons with clean blankets , left pitchers of water and clay mugs out for those that awoke in the middle of the night, and opened the door to the latrine so they would find it more easily. Still she would find piss in some corner tomorrow; it happened every day, and Pete was so grateful to her for cleaning it up all the time that he let her keep all of her tips. Indeed, all of the regulars at Gallagher's loved Petunia, though she could not see it.

Petunia wended her way home through Southbay, across the bridges and back downriver to Southdock Slums, where she and Fodorn lived in an unpainted shack built of old boat planking and recycled, square headed nails. Flipping back one of the threadbare carpets, Petunia pried up a couple of loose planks, exposing her stash. It was quick work to stow her coin, leaving enough out to satisfy her husband, and she quickly slid the carpet back into place. She had enough, now. She could do it.

She was going to flee Fodorn. Never again would he sell her in the red light district. No more drunken nights of screamed insults. She was going to start anew in Greynor.

Tonight was the night. She would finally be free...