In the corner booth of Hardrog's Cafe, Strummer sipped his Dragon Juice and watched a table-full of rowdy Bangers who threatened to disrupt the young Folkie performing on the small stage. Strummer sat lazily in the chair, one booted leg up on the table, and his mug cradled in his hands. His appearance was unique to say the least, but the most outlandish getups were standard fare in Rockindale. Strummer sported a shock of purple hair that covered most of his eyes and hung in a loose pony tail down his back, but he wore a grizzled beard that betrayed him as a man in his forties. He had also worn a long cloak or cape of tattered black cloth, but this he had removed and slung across the chair next him. Around his neck he wore a gold talisman which caught the firelight now and then, and had attracted the attention of a thief at the bar. This man secretly watched Strummer, waiting for the large quantity of Dragon Juice he had ingested to take effect.

But Strummer seemed to grow not more groggy, but more alert, his eyes darting occasionally to the door, as if expecting someone. The small pile of gold coins on his table invited the prompt service of an attractive barmaid, who was quick to replace an empty cup whenever he had finished.

"You're not from Rockindale, are you?" she said, smiling and swaying slightly.
"No," he said, "from the East, near the Treble Cliffs."
"What's your name?" she asked, and he said "Belen. But most call me Strummer."
"That yours?" she asked, pointing to a battered guitar case on the oaken floor. To his nod, she asked "Can I see?" He smiled, and brought the case up to the table top. Unsnapping the lid, she gasped to see what lay within. The wood of the guitar's body was blood red, lustrous, inlaid with an ebony band around the sound hole and ebony rays of light that seemed to emit from this circle. The fretboard was inlaid with mother of pearl that shown like rainbows in water.

A sudden burst of laughter and whistle from the Bangers drew Strummer's eyes, and the poor girl on stage was singing with quivering voice

Oh my Love is like the red, red rose
His lips as soft as petals feel
the cold rain fallen on his clothes
as diamonds do my eyes reveal

The barmaid was stunned to see Strummer snatch the guitar from its case, and leap up on to the stage next to the girl. He began to play a series of arpeggios that gave strength and beauty to the song. At the last storke of his hand across the strings, he sprung suddenly onto the table, planted the sole of his boot in the forehead of the largest Banger, and pushed him over backward in his chair, standing on his chest as he lay prostrate. "I'm afraid you'll have to leave," he said. He stepped off as the Banger rose and clambered out the door. "The rest of you may stay," he said, "if you promise to give the lady your respectful attention." They were silent as he stepped back onto the stage. He played the intro to a 12 bar shuffle then ,and she followed with a surprisingly soulful rendition of FiddleEarth Blues. As she finished, he kissed her hand, left the stage and went back to his chair.

The barmaid was soon by his side, saying "you play like a Deltan." He smiled and said "that's because my Granddaddy was one. But my Mom was raised a Stomper. And my Dad..." he drank deep of his Dragon Juice and continued "..my Dad I never met. But some say he was a Folkie from UrthShu." She looked at his eyes now, to see if he had the jaded world-weary look of the Folkies, but with the strange light their eyes never lost. "But your a Rogger now," she stated. Again he smiled, snapping the guitar into its case. "Always have been. But the songs of my family, of those that came before? Those are my songs too. It's just that, unlike my Folkie ancestors, I lack DrumFear."

A voice cried out "Hooskee for me, and mead for my l'il buddies! And howsa bout some honkey-tonk! That'd liven up this museum!" Strummer observed a Stomper accompanied by what appeared to be goateed children. Acuff Merlie lifted the Traddits one by one to sit on the bar, and they were happily guzzling mead as Strummer approached and said "are you those sent by Zimmerdalf?"

The fellowship was silent momentarily, until Strummer raised his flagon and intoned "to the return of the string!" At which point the four Traddits grinned, and Acuff Merlie jumped into the air, clicked his heels together, spat on his palm, extended it and said "put her thar pard!"