"Who are we? Don't know about those squalls, but I of course, am the rightfully-so, self-proclaimed best of the best of the bards, "sire"." He smirks with his nonchalant sarcasm, his eyes remaining in a constant crackle of a blazing orange as he gives a mocking bow. "And we'll be takin' everything ya've got. Let's hit it!"

He strums his yart with a soft finesse, and it's as if the sound itself could be seen. A minor illusion, perhaps.

But what isn't, is the sparks of embers that crackle to life at his fingertips. His fingers start to pluck at finely crafted iron strings that held a strange enchantment upon them. His fingers moved unnaturally, as was the twisted yet somehow screech of the yart as its vibrating strings came under a fast strumming.

Soon, the strings became heated metal at the tips of his fingers. Then a sudden pause as he pulls out a fiddle's bow, who's strings were made of the same thin metal. He played a song of anger and madness, and restrictions, and freedoms.