A Life Worth Writing Songs About

Marhala sat on the counter fiddling with the strings of their lute, desperately searching their mind for any inspiration and coming up empty. They sighed and let their head fall back against the wall behind them, closing their eyes. The feeling of their horns hitting the solid wood rattled their skull, making their headache worse, but they didn't have the energy to care.

When the door opened, they didn't bother looking. They recognized the footsteps of their boss, a bitter old elf—and old was really old for an elf—whose patience with them was wearing thinner by the day.

Sure enough, when he saw them, he sighed. They could picture his hands on his hips and the foul expression on his face without opening their eyes. "What are you doing?" He asked.

"Writing," They answered simply.

"Really?" He asked in a mocking tone. "Come up with anything good for once?"

"Not yet."

He scoffed, and they heard him walk closer, fidgeting with items on the front counter, even though they hadn't moved since he'd been in here an hour ago. "I keep telling you it's a waste of your time. A tielfing bard…" He grumbled, and They pictured him shaking his head. "That's not what I pay you for."

"You barely pay me at all," They reminded him.

"That's 'cause you never sell anything. You keep scaring away the customers with your foul imitation of music. Who's gonna buy a lute if they think that's the sound that's gonna come out of it?" They weren't sure if it was better or worse that he was insulting their talent this time rather than their face or their horns.

"I haven't scared anyone away. No one comes in here in the first place."

"'Cause they can hear you from outside. Or they see your face through the window."

There it was.

They sighed and finally opened their black eyes to look at him. "Or maybe it's your shitty instruments they see through the window."

He took a step closer to them, so he was right in their face. Normally, he was slightly taller than them, but from their position on the counter, they were looking down at him. It didn't make him any less intimidating. "I've been making instruments longer than you can trace back your entire demonic family tree, Missy."

They flinched just barely and told themself it was because of his tone, even though a part of them knew it was the word. "You would think after all that time, you'd be halfway decent at it," They growled. "Maybe that's why I can't play anything good."

He narrowed his eyes. "It's an arrogant fool who blames his instrument for his own lack of skill."

"And what exactly are you doing, if not blaming someone else for your instruments not selling? Business wasn't exactly booming before I started working here either."

"You watch your tongue, Lady, or you'll end up just like your father."

It was only their building anger that kept her from flinching again. They hopped down off the counter, forcing him to take a small step back. "Maybe you should watch yours."

Despite only being a couple inches taller than them—less than that if you counted the horns—he seemed to tower over them. "Don't forget, Marhala, you work for me."

Not anymore, they thought, making a decision that was likely going to be either the best or the worst of their life. "Actually, you know what? I quit."

"Excuse me?"

"I said I quit." They pushed him back and moved around him to the other side of the counter. "I'm done putting up with your bullshit."

"Wait," He said when they reached the door.

They looked back, a small part of them hoping maybe he was going to apologize, but when they saw his face, they knew that wasn't going to happen. "What?"

"Leave the lute."

They blinked. "What?"

"You haven't paid for it. Leave it."

They scoffed in disbelief. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"It's mine."

"Not yet, it isn't. You still have another year of working here to pay it off," He said smugly.

Oh, there was no way in all the hells they were working here for another year. "That's ridiculous. It's not worth that much."

"Then why do you want it?"

They clenched and unclenched their fist. Yeah, it was cheap and low quality, even compared to the others in this store, but it was theirs. It was basically all they had. How could they be a bard without an instrument?

"Get back to work, or give back the lute and get out."

They just kept staring each other down for a few minutes until eventually, Marhala scoffed, dropped the lute on the ground where they stood, and left.

It wasn't like this was what they wanted to do anyway. They were meant for something more than working in a shop, selling instruments that weren't worth half their price.

You'll end up just like your father.

His words replayed in their head over and over again as they walked down the street. It wasn't the first time someone had said that to them. It happened any time they stepped outside of their lane, any time they opened their mouth when they weren't supposed to, any time they did something stupid and reckless, any time they acted a little bit 'too tiefling.'

You'll end up just like your father.

Everyone said that like it was a bad thing.

And in some ways, it was. They knew it was. They didn't want to go missing, to never see their family again, to leave them wondering if they were even still alive.

But he'd known the risk when he'd signed up to be an adventurer, and he'd gone anyway. And they couldn't say they didn't understand why.

Her father was normally a very serious man, always one for following the rules, so hearing about his adventures, seeing that tiny glimpse of his more chaotic side, had always been exciting to Marhala. When they were a kid, they'd listened with rapt attention to every story, every word, over and over again. They'd become the first songs they ever wrote. They'd dreamed of one day having adventures of their own.

Neither of their parents wanted them to, of course. After their father disapeared, their mother made them promise not to follow in his footsteps. It was too dangerous, she said. She'd even agreed to let them pursue music as a sort of compromise. She didn't think Marhala make any money off of it, but at least they wouldn't get themself killed. They didn't need to have adventures of their own; they could sing songs of other people's adventures. And Marhala was satisfied with that, for a time.

But now their mother was gone, too.

All her life, Naamah had kept her head down, played it safe, followed the rules, remained as neutral as one could be, and it didn't make a damn difference. She'd been taken anyway.

Marhala may not know her father's fate, but they knew their mother's, and they knew which one they'd prefer.

They knew which one got songs written about them.

And even if they had to write those songs themself, they knew they wanted to live the kind of life that was worth writing songs about.