1??????????Soul Bound


    1.2????????Taking Control


    1.2.2??????An Awakening Epiphany


    1.2.2.34???Hold my pint


    Kafana: “Omobono, do you think it would be ok if I did a song with them?”


    Omobono looked astonished, then highly amused.


    Omobono: “I shall find out.”


    Omobono took a drum out of his stash and when the current song finished he banged it loudly several times, to get everyone’s attention, then held up both hands until they were quiet.


    Omobono: “My friends, do you all know Kafana Sincero?”


    There were cries of “Savior!”, “Twice-Born” and other even more embarrassing titles. Damn that Imprimatur of the Deities for preventing her turning off her title and aura of power. She stood there while all eyes fixed upon her. At least the golden glow from her skin hid how much she was blushing.


    Omobono: “She has come down among us to honour the memory of Antonio.”


    More murmurs of approval.


    Omobono: “She has a song to share with us. But she is shy! She fears you will consider her an arrogant outsider who is selfishly interrupting. She fears you will not welcome her as kin, the way Antonio welcomed her.” then, much louder “Is she one of you?”


    She tried glaring daggers at Omobono, but couldn’t maintain eye contact as she was swept into the centre of the courtyard by many hands. When she looked back, not only was he laughing merrily, he’d also snagged her mug and was quaffing from it.


    Kafana: “The song I wish to sing with you is one that I love, but it is quite complex so what I’m going to do is ask those who want to join in to step forwards and then I’ll use a little magic to teach the words and tune to all the volunteers.”


    She looked around and picked up a short stick while almost everybody crowded forwards. Someone brought her a table, and she was helped up onto it. She had everyone hum and used Merciless Conductor to bring everyone into a group performance with her. Most of the humming was in tune, but not all of it. She could fix that! She used the shared mana pool to cast her vocal improvement buff, not upon herself, but upon everyone else, setting up gestalts by vocal range. For the next three hours, none of the singers would drop a note, nor sound out of place in a good town choir.


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    Then she drew on the mind gem still held against her by the harness. She concentrated on sending them the music of Carlo Gesualdo, without the details of the musician. Gesualdo had become known as the Prince of Darkness, after he’d bloodily slaughtered his unfaithful wife along with her lover. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, his Se la mia Morte Brami (“If my Death longs for me”), was one of the most hauntingly beautiful choral works she knew.


    She didn’t sing herself. Instead she used her stick as a baton, playing the singers as her instrument, using her position in the group magic to control not just the tempo and intensity, but every aspect and intonation. She’d conducted before, but this perfect responsiveness was a dream come true. She could feel the power building, fed by the emotions of the funeral, and realised that if she didn’t direct it somewhere, it would choose its own destination.


    Healing, she decided. Not physical healing. She didn’t want more inexplicably youthful fifty year olds walking around. Mental healing. She visualised grief flowing out without leaving damaging mental scars, like she’d previously directed physical infection to leave bodies without causing physical damage. Omobono has talked about kinship and Melafon said grief was easier to bear when shared. She visualised the singers’ lives and stories woven together like a basket, bearing a load together that would break just a single twig.


    She felt the visualisation snap into place and the group’s mana flow into making it reality. The last notes of the performance faded away, leaving a companionable silence. People from different groups stood around and looked at each other warmly, many exchanging hand clasps. The feeling of togetherness was palpable.


    One tall figure standing at the back of the crowd caught her eye in particular. She had knee-length straight black hair and an aloof emotionless look upon her pale face. She appeared incongruously dignified, but it was more than that, like she was not entirely of this world and was above these petty goings on. Intrigued, Kafana stepped down off the table, but when she looked around again, the figure had gone. She made her way back over to Omobono instead.


    Omobono was looking confused and, after a few moments, she figured out that she was talking to his Vessel, so she introduced herself and they chatted for a few minutes. When Omobono returned, he looked smug.


    Omobono: “Thank you. It was a narrow thing, but I think I posted the recording first. My viewers will appreciate it.”


    Kafana: “You didn’t give me a choice. I don’t appreciate being tossed into the lion’s den like that. Or having my drink stolen, for that matter. You owe me.”


    Omobono: “History is fickle. I edited the recording a little. It now shows an earlier performance I did, followed by me claiming my performance could not be beaten, then you come along. I entitled it ‘Kafana says: hold my pint’. From now on, everyone will see it as a voluntary surrender of drink. What is truth, if not an agreed reality?”


    Kafana: “You are outrageous!”


    Omobono considered the allegation, like a connoisseur judging a wine: “That is true.”


    Then he added: “But I am popular despite that. And truthfully, do you regret being nudged into performing?”


    Kafana sighed. “Not in the slightest. But you still owe me a favour. If I ever happen to visit Ghana, I expect you to be my devoted guide and protector.”


    Omobono: “We have a deal! But now let us listen, I think the skald is about to perform.”