In the Scamp's Mug, in Port Hempstead, a hush falls over the crowd as a cloaked and hooded figure, clad all in a deep navy blue, steps, limping, up onto the smallish stage. After quietly begging the temporary use of one of the regular performers' lute, the man speaks in a dark, melodic voice.
"Sirs and madames, and all assembled... This is the tale of a man stranded on Belinara, dropped by magic in the Splintered Mountains with little but a sword, a book, and a quill. He chronicled his struggles, and I... I am here to tell the tale."
With this, the figure's gloved fingers begin to pluck at the strings of the lute, the melody as dark as the shadows under the man's hood, in a low, minor key.
"From jagged peaks the wand'rer came
Through lands that fire giants claim.
He crept around, but still was found,
By brutes with more of bile than brain.
An injured leg, it weighed like wood
But he still fled as best he could.
His woodland skill kept him from ill
But those who followed were as good.
They kept him hounded, tiring not
Upon his heels, the giants hot.
As autumn waned, the giants gained
Counting the days 'till he was caught
Then winter 'pon a storm was borne
The wand'rer climbed a broken horn
Its jagged side helped him to hide
From those who chased, by light of Orn.
But trapped was he by coming cold
His aching bones, they felt so old
The caves he found, were safe and sound
As all of Belinara holds.
The age-long winter in that place
Etched lines upon the wand'rer's face.
But deeper still, seclusion drilled;
His sanity was near erased.
The wand'rer's fire inside his caves
Brought hunting giants, and yeti knaves
But yet their prey, in ambush lay,
And roasted all on wooden staves.
He missed e'er more, his hick'ry lute,
When fever his bright voice made mute.
From giant's bone, with jagged stone,
He chipped the Pipes, a grisly flute.
When winter, at last, sought its rest
The wand'rer set out once more West
He did not know, how far he'd go
To end his ever-homebound quest."
Here, the man pauses in the song, fingers still rolling across the neck and the strings of the lute... Yet after a few short moments, when the crowd begins to murmur, a flurry of notes falls from the lute, and the verses resume.
"With spring the wand'rer gladly found
His fever gone, although no sound
Would ring out strong, after so long
Of cold confinement under ground.
At first, he noticed not, the sky
Until a calling crow flew by
The sun shone clear, after many a year
And soared the wand'rer's spirits high.
The Pipes, they sang to all he passed,
In shadow; there and gone as fast.
His stiffened limb, encumbered him
But he could travel, at long last.
He traveled west, through spring so short
His aim, the apt-named Last Hope's fort
Though many weeks of climbing peaks
Were 'tween him and his lone resort.
The summer quickly killed the spring
And back his voice the warmth did bring
This boon, his song, turned curse 'fore long,
As red-skinned giants heard him sing.
The wand'rer learned his folly soon,
And hid well under two new moons
The giants wraths took other paths
Charging headlong, like buffoons.
Silent, now, with songs in mind,
He left the Splintered Peaks behind,
The Mountains Grand, the wand'rer planned
To scale before the fall's decline.
However, this was not the case
The wand'rer lost a losing race
The autumn failed as he slowly scaled
Another mountain's looming face.
Winter saw him struggling through
The passes, which were slim and few
And yet he blazed a trail, unphased
By weather other men might rue.
The wand'rer westward ever roamed,
Not stopping in his search for home
As winter thawed, he looked out awed
From 'top the highest mountain's dome."
The audience, rapt through the tale, remains silent through another pause in the dark man's song.
"Spring and summer, marked by writing
In a tome, by conch-shell's lighting
The wand'rer stirrs the heart with words
Each tale concluding with good tiding.
This story also ends with fair
News, although we're not yet there
That fall's report at Last Hope's fort
Tells of a wand'rer in their care.
In warmer months, his path sloped down
The sunset he, before him found
His steps felt blessed, as he forged west
Each day he covered healthy ground.
As mountain slopes with hills did blend
The promised fall a chill did send
A whiff of smoke brought with it hope
That all his hardships neared an end.
He came at last to Last Hope's wall
But to the ground the man did fall
His travel here, had cost him dear
Though hope sustained him, through it all.
The wand'rer woke to hearty smells
The food, it drew him, like a spell
The healers asked, as he broke fast
How was it, here, he came to dwell.
The wand'rer told them all his story,
Flecked with bits of drawn-out glory
But one exlaimed, when told his name,
"Your friends were nearly dead with worry!"
He asked the cleric what he meant;
The healer told of letters sent
Of questions hurled, around the world
All begging news of where he went.
But winter'd closed its icy grip
And so delayed the wand'rer's trip
For noone roamed the roads alone
But he was anxious to take ship.
When spring and summer once more came
The wand'rer joined a merchant's train
The road was long, but yet his song
Kept spirits up with each refrain.
He came at last to Arnax's gate
His homesickness would soon abate
On autumn's wind, he felt an end
To his lonely, wand'ring fate."
As the musician finishes the tale, the audience remains quiet; even the most inebriated of the sailors present stay hushed... Until the first of a light smattering of applause begins to ring out. It does not last long, for the man limps off of the stage, returning the lute somewhat hesitantly to its rightful owner. For a few moments, the more sober-minded of those gathered speculate that the man performing had been the very man in the song, but such talk quickly dies down.
In all of the larger cities of southern Mistone, this scene is repeated... The tale, in various forms, drifts about from ear to ear, and yet, by some twist of fate, never had there been one who recognized the musician at his performances.
And all the while, messenger hawks ride the skies.
[SIZE=10]//Feel free to post reactions from hearing the grapevine, or even copycats telling the tale. Just posting it to my CDT seemed a bit greedy, with noone able to respond in any way there.[/SIZE]
