There was a brief break in the singing after that, his strange eye-ornament’s glow dimming as he muttered some sort of prayer. Another breath. Another roar-sung verse. The foreign soldiers were becoming visibly upset, as were some of the other audience members. In the former case, they were visibly angry and yelling, while in the latter, they seemed merely shocked by the raw intensity of the performance, or perhaps the performer’s sheer audacity.

He wasn’t saying it outright, but they all knew what he was really singing about, and who the song was for.

“Oh you go out there, and bow to none! And cause a stir, as if it were the last one. Curse them into hiding, these thieves who won’t believe the way we’re riding!”

Another brief pause. Another breath. Another repeat of the first verse, a part of the audience now joining in on the chant. The chorus of voices grew as the singer repeated that very verse, three times, four times, five times. By the time the noise died down, his chest was heaving with heavy breaths and his shirt was soaked through with sweat. The glow faded from the brass ornament, he recited that same prayer again, and in a moment…

The intensity was gone. He had calmed himself in an instant, as if taking off a mask. The breathing technique, the strange prayer… Something told Zel that he was using some sort of technique to entrance himself into such a performative state. But she wouldn’t have time to contemplate or question, for the foreign soldiers had had enough.

“This is ridiculous! Bold-faced political provocateur!” the yellow-skinned soldiers yelled in anger, their words crystal-clear and surprisingly devoid of accent. A few of the people in the crowd gave them dirty looks, but none dared intervene - at least, none of the Ikesians. Surprisingly, one of the Grekurians did, a musclebound, immaculately-dressed mountain of a bronze-skinned man.

“Shut your mouth, cat-eater,” he growled. “Willowdale is a sovereign city-state under Grekurian protection, and unlike your feudalistic hellhole, we don’t persecute artists here.”

The soldier that spoke out loudest spat at the Grekurian’s feet, uttering an insult in that sing-song language of his. The Grekurian stepped up, towering over him by a full head. He said something in the very same language as the foreign soldiers, grinning as they shrank back at the realization that he understood their insults.

“Try something,” he continued, courtesy dripping from his words like poisoned honey as he bent down to stare the soldier in the eyes at point-blank. “I’d love to see you locust-men give us political justification to liberate some of those tribes you’ve been using for slave labor.”

One of the three barked something in their native language, and though she would have otherwise been more than happy to participate in such commotion were she directly involved, Zel chose to slink away before she could be made to involve herself. A brisk walk towards the town gate quickly took her out of earshot of the argument, and to the gate.