Andrew's Songbook

[RollinsCat]

Hullo, hullo sir!

I recently received your invitation for an interview of some sort through the faithful post service here in the area of Haven. To be honest, I'm not really sure why anyone'd be interested in anything an old, tired wind-bag like myself would have to say. However, if you're willing to come here in person, I certainly wouldn't turn away one interested in chatting and reminescing over times past. My family's tabac farm lies on the outskirts of the Haven area, but if you ask folks they should be able to direct you here easilly enough. May your journey, should you choose to come, be a good one!

By Prunilla, your friend,

Lyle Underroot

[RollinsCat]

Sent by bird.


Sir

I have not yet thanked you and I hope to do so in person over a game of bones or cards preferably. After all, my winning streak is one for one so far! What the Stormcallers did off the Sederan shore was nothing short of a miracle; sending those ships swirling down and their Cult load with them turned the tide. If by chance we do not meet again, thank Lady Doom, her Stormcallers and you for that beautiful, beautiful storm.

I have been away at war on Belinara and have not been able to receive mail or news. Having just returned I had quite a lot of catch-up to do and in that I may have missed correspondence regarding my bill. If so I apologize and I await it at your leisure.

Yours in the Muse,


Andrew Reid

[RollinsCat]

Andrew requests materials to write a letter. He will write supervised if required, and submit the letter for vetting before asking Elohanna to send it for him. He tells her he loves her, as he does every day that she visits, before being sent back to his cell.


To: Freldo Jabutica
Wherever the Waves Lick the Shore
Oceans Away
Layonara

Dear Mister Jabutica

Should I drop the dear? Sadly I've never had the opportunity to meet you, so it seems too precious a greeting, but ah well. I will follow protocol.

I have heard of you, sir. Heard of you, met those that enjoyed your company and one who loved you, and had the privilege of standing insides four walls that, forgive my Ilsarian poetic waxing here, felt like the central chamber of your heart. Instruments and a well-cared-for piano sitting mute as the heart no longer beats, yet waiting in dusty reverie for their owner.

She is an amazing woman by the way. I was tempted - but my own human heart belongs to another elven lady, and temptation doesn't have quite the grip on me as it did when I was a younger man. I'm not sure if this saddens me or not.

How I came to hear of you first was through a quickling - the dear woman refused to call herself a brownie. Quite the firebrand, I can't recall her name at the moment but we shared some skull-denting liquor and some battle and she said I reminded her of you, which I take as a compliment. Over the years of singing and storytelling I hear mention of you, sometimes with a sad shake of the head, other times with a nod and wink that the great Freldo is somewhere living out the abnormally long life of we stonebound and taking at last the rest that so few of us live to see. I do not know the truth, but I send this letter in hopes it is the latter.

Why write? The last time I heard your name it was with a wistful sigh from a man, one L. Evert Fethsibarker, who is conducting interviews of those who uphold the bardic arts. He called you one of his Two That Got Away, the other being the Master Prevaricator (or the Great Liar so I've heard him called by those less graciously inclined). As I am currently without very much to do, having turned myself in to the Krandor guard for manslaughter charges. As I sit out my sentence, doing what I can to help with Ilsare's Heartbeat in my ears, I thought to write and see if you would answer. There is no small part of selfishness here - I am bored to tears some days and cannot find my victims from behind bars (whom I had raised that same day having gone almost mad after discovery of what I had done, and so they live although no longer in this town).

And so - here are some questions that I hope you will answer. I will put some of his first, as I recall them from when I interviewed Nus the Bard and Ragrian of Hlint for him:


-Tell us a little about your background, where you’re from.

-What are your styles of bardic expression, and what first experiences opened you up to it?

-Is there a deity that you follow? What events have led you to that god/goddess?

-What song or songs have deep meaning for you? What do you sing to yourself to cheer yourself up?

-Do you have a special performance memory, an event or concert that really stands out in your mind?

-What do you do when you get restless?

-If you could distill what you’ve learned over the years to just one or two things, what would they be?


...pablum, I know. I consented to an interview and kept wishing he'd ask something interesting. So I submit some of my own:


-What is the craziest thing you've ever done while in the throes of love (by whatever definition you care to use)?

-What is your definition of Passion? Of Inspiration?

-What are your favorite stories to recite, and will you share one? I will gladly trade both song and story should you be interested.

-Who was The One? How or when did you know?

-Having done something terrible - the song of sound burst killing a woman and a child inside the long range of my voice - have you ever done anything such that you regret so deeply, or that made you question your gifts?


The last question is Mr. Fethsibarker's but I enjoy it so I ask:


-What’s the weirdest thing you know that you think not a lot of people know?


I would be truly honored if you would consent to respond. Bird messages won't get inside the jail, but you can send any response by bird to Elohanna, Priestess of Aeridin - my lady - or care of Krandor Hospital and they will get to me.

I look forward to hearing from you. Ilsare keep your heart on even keel.

Yours in the Muse,


Andrew William Reid

[RollinsCat]

On a page is a charcoal drawing of a small gathering of dragon-head flowers.  There is much erasing and re-drawing.  The flowers resemble snapdragons, but more dragon-y, with a petal mane and a long, tongue-like style.  It is dated and a quick note says only "Y'ogoldrania" and "Storold story".  The flower heads have been rubbed gold with something not ink, not pastels - the way the color shimmers, it might be dandelion dust.

In a corner is another drawing of a perfectly proportioned elven lady, hair smudged gold with the same shimmering dust.

[RollinsCat]

*sent to Storold by bird*


Protector

On behalf of a friend and on recommendation of my Minu - Elohanna - I would ask if you could offer your assistance in a matter.

Minu has told us about your work with memory retrieval in the past. Our friend has had some traumatic experiences in his past and when the stress builds up he "forgets" them, with the unfortunate side effect of losing himself as well for unpredictable amounts of time.

He has requested help in facing this problem. I feel I could be of value with song, but I am no expert in mind medicine nor have I any skill in careful drawing out of memories. The one time I have done this by Ilsare's grace I didn't cause any damage, but I'd rather someone be there who has concrete abilities.

Minu advised me to say that we will also be requesting assistance from a mind specialist (perhaps more on the medical side) from Aeridin's church and that we hope to conduct this at the Silver Buckle as our friend seems reasonably at ease here.

Please let us know if you would be able to assist, or if you have a recommendation in the event you cannot.

Yours in the Muse,


Andrew Reid

[RollinsCat]

A letter is sent to Mister Andrew of the Silver Buckle.

Felicitations Mister Andrew!

I can't meet you at the moment since I'm on Mistone, I can however relay what I found out! It seems like the docks are brewing with malcontent! The lower class folks living in the docks have this certain sense of apprehension churning within them. Something's up!

That's all I found out. Hope it helps you and your search!

Signed,
Pimpernell Greentoe
Teller of Tantalizing Tales

[RollinsCat]

Something about Melody inspired him.  The little lady gnome had such an honest, sweet sound on her mahogany guitar.  They played together, unwitting entertainment for Enzo and Tane, he challenging her past her comfort zone and she giving him words just by her presence.

The result wasn't a masterpiece but it would bring smiles and maybe get someone to dance.  Good enough for a song he made up on the spot while playing Bella to Melody's slide guitar technique.  The result started fast and ended slow with a sinuous undertone and overtones of coconuts, warm sun and sandy beaches...he liked it.

Light's sinking
Time for drinking
Singing, dancing, stories too
Dark's dawning
No time for yawning
Get up off your chair and I'll dance with you

Light on your toes now
Everybody flows now
Bodies swaying in the summer heat
Steady as you go now
Don't go too slow now
Keep your body moving to the music's beat

Shimmy shine
Sweat divine
Shaking raise your hands up high
All night dancing
Flirting, romancing
Whirling round under star-specked sky

Late, the sun's not far to come
The dancers swoon
The night's nigh done
Music echoes soft from wall to wall

Two by two they drift away
Sweet dreams and sweeter play
Until final notes sing
Down the empty hall...

But not to fear dear
The band will return to here
Soon as this newborn sun
Lives out it's day

The music only sleeps now
It will return with night's hello
So wake and wait
Don't hesitate
For tonight we play
Tonight we play

[RollinsCat]

Who are you now, do like what you hear
The yearning and musing that drifts to your ear
Wildly pounding the beat of your heart
Searching for passion to fuel your art

Running and running from this thing to that
Making amends at the drop of a hat
The one hand repents and fights to be sane
The other says peace and to thine self remain

Am I lost or confused, what path do I take
There are so many forks in this journey I make
That go with the knives forged of bad memories
And a spoonful of laughter for every face pleased

Who are they then, these facets and visions?
Now dashing, now dancing, now prancing, those vixens!
Each one a turn, each one a decision
A map inked in joy, sadness and pain

They're not a distraction they're part of the play
Every body a note in Her grand cabaret
I am their servant, their jester, their fool
The Muse is conducting and I am Her tool

Circling round to the crux of this eve
How to accept that my heart's on my sleeve
Living my life by the seat of my pants
Devoted to passion and guided by chance

Who am I now, do I like what I hear
And can I listen with nothing to fear
To Her and to I in our shifting duet
How do I embrace both pride and regret

Crowds are ambrosia and I drink their sound in
Stomping on pine with my touch-hungry skin
I hear what I hear and I can't leave things be
Silence is deadly
To me

[RollinsCat]

Peace before peace.  Acceptance - how do you do that?  Even Daniel says stop dwelling on the wrongs.  You're a fine man, he says.  Lucky, even.

How do you exhale a dream?  How do you let go?  

He picks up Bella, who waits as she always does, her soaring voice ready to calm him, elate him, bring him to the brink of joy or tears.  He's already done his prayer ritual to the ancestors, but he doesn't think she hears that.

She might hear this though.


Tucked under chin
Drawing her bow
Fingering, eager for music to flow
Ripples and trickles in Ilsare's heartbeat
For one fleeting moment this man is complete

The rosewood it echoes
Drifting through time
A bridge for connecting her world and mine
But all the king's horses and all of his men
Can't bring her back to hold me again

Where are you now, the hands that once shaped me
The fading red hair, the warm loving face
Where are you now and can you yet save me
Spin me a yarn to weave me in place

Tell me a story
Sing like you did
Help to release this boiling pot's lid
Help tear down fences that divide my mind
Just for a moment I'd like to unwind

Scale tipping madly
Weighted by choices
In one pan a vision, the other holds voices
Echoes of futures that I long to know
Guide me through Bella on where I should go

Where are you now, the voice I still dream of
Clear as a warm summer afternoon sky
Where are you now and do you still listen
To me late at night all alone when I cry

If you can hear me
Show me you're proud
Show me you approve of this life lived aloud
The child in this man still misses your touch
Why does this one ghost matter so much...

[RollinsCat]

His favorite time of the morning; late, the sounds of the tavern rising through the floor to ease him awake.  Minu was up and gone already and he sprawled onto her side of the bed, sucking the cool off the sheets with his skin and inhaling the fragrance she left on her pillow.

So Alazira knew.  Daniel suspected at least after their conversation, but Zira was the only one he had told.  He could trust her, especially with this.  He was giddy and terrified and got a little light-headed every time he thought about it.  He still had a ways to go.

He rolled onto his stomach and stretched, snagging his hand-mirror from the tatami mat floor.  Taking a look he noticed tiny crow's feet spidering from the corners of his eyes, hints of grey shouting from the midnight nest of his hair; how his skin had faded to a lighter mocha color since he'd been inside more.  All very interesting and doubtless something he'd fret over as the years piled up, but not what he was looking for this morning.

Honesty.  Acceptance.  There was so much more to that than a mere decision.  There were women he'd wronged, now that he could admit that, and people who had suffered for his actions.  If he was to accept that he was a man who could not leave alone in the hopes he could bring about some good, then he had to accept that it wasn't always going to work out as he wished.  By the Muse, Freedom had driven that point home.  Even hearing the word in it's normal context caused him to ache.  

There was a long pause while his heart constricted.  He sang to himself while he listened.  The feeling he got was not as raw as before but instead a wound scabbed over with time; still sore, yet not as open to the stinging winds.  He couldn't hide from it and singing to Ilsare's heartbeat could not lift it from him.  He thought of the Sunstriders, and let the emotion ride through him although he didn't dig into it, not right now.

Time passed with no marker in the windowless room.  Thoughts of Freedom and the tears they brought slowed as the stream of memories settled.  He sang again, turning his mind to the future.

The future.  New mysteries, ones he'd long been fearful to explore, and why?  Because maybe there was something better out there and he didn't want to miss his opportunity?  Well, that was over.  If he was to be Her clergy, if he was to grow closer to Her, he was going to do what he should have done ten years ago.  With a quick listen for any waking presence upstairs, he practiced the single sentence he had to say.  Everything else he could wing, but there was one thing that he had to say a particular way and he would make sure he said it without hesitation.  Each time he heard his own voice he recalled that tiny inner glow during their conversation by the upstairs fireplace.  He was going to do this right.  

And later that day, write some letters to some ladies.  He had some explaining to do.

[RollinsCat]

A late evening, working with Melody on songs.  She was delightful.  He'd missed having a partner as Lana was both busy with her life and an ocean away.  A gap was being filled and as they wrote together a lot of laughter was produced, enough that Edward and Heloise kept hanging around to see what was so funny...although, if he were perfectly honest, his special cigars had a little to do with his exceptional mood as well.  But only a little.


There's a hole in the bucket, dear Andrew, dear Andrew, there's a hole in the bucket, dear Andrew, there's a hole.

Then fix it dear Melody, dear Melody, dear Melody, then fix it dear Melody, dear Melody, fix it.

With what should I fix it, dear Andrew, dear Andrew, with what should I fix it, dear Andrew, with what?

With a straw, dear Melody, dear Melody, dear Melody, with a straw, dear Melody, dear Melody, with a straw.

But the straw is too long, dear Andrew, dear Andrew, the straw is too long, dear Andrew, too long.

Then...cut it dear Melody, dear Melody, dear Melody, then cut it dear Melody, dear Melody, cut it!

With what shall I cut it, dear Andrew, dear Andrew, with what shall I cut it, dear Andrew, with what?

With an ax, dear Melody, dear Melody, dear Melody, with an ax, dear Melody, an ax!

But the ax is too dull, dear Andrew, dear Andrew, the ax is too dull, dear Andrew, too dull.

By the Muse...then, sharpen it, dear Melody, dear Melody, dear Melody, then sharpen it dear Melody, dear Melody, sharpen it!

With what should I sharpen it, dear Andrew, dear Andrew, with what should I sharpen, dear Andrew, with what?

With a stone, dear Melody, dear Melody, dear Melody, with a stone, dear Melody, dear Melody, a stone.

But the stone is too dry, dear Andrew, dear Andrew, the stone is too dry, dear Andrew, too dry.

Then WET IT, dear Melody, dear Melody, dear Melody, then wet it for the love of all thing holy dear Melody, dear Melody, WET IT.

Um...with what should I wet it, dear Andrew, dear Andrew, with what should I wet it, dear Andrew, with what?

With water, dear Melody, dear Melody, dear Melody, with water, dear Melody, dear Melody, with water.

But how shall I get it?, dear Andrew, dear Andrew, but how shall I get it?, dear Andrew, with what?

...in a bucket, dear Melody, dear Melody, dear Melody, in a bucket, dear Melody, dear Melody, in a bucket.

But...there's a HOLE in the bucket, dear Andrew, dear Andrew, there's a HOLE IN THE BUCKET, dear Andrew, a hole.


LADY:

From these gently lofting heights / Lit by stars, draped by night / Wither little people go / Sorry past the lantern's glow

The lighting's softer radiance / Wasted on mousy countenance / Drab as stock and not as live / How do so many of them thrive?

No gold to wear nor jewel's gleam / To raise a one in my esteem / Such a pitiful existence / How I must shine inside their glance!

Blessed am I by riches plenty; / Child of duke, wife of marquis; / Who are you the wretched poor / Who begs for alms outside my door?

What judgment from on high falls / On those that huddle near my halls / Unkempt, unwashed and shivering / Wrapped in rags held up by string

Begone! You ruffians, you filth / Coveting my very wealth / You'll have naught from these shelves / The Gods help those who help themselves

Yet I wonder ere I stand / What in all the Gods have planned / For them I spare not one pity / But what the future holds for me...?


DEATH

Fair Lady, throw those costly robes aside / No longer may you glory in your pride / Take leave of all your carnal vain delight / I've come to summon you away this night.

LADY

What bold attempt is this? / Pray let me know from whence you come, and whither I must go / Shall I, who am a lady, stoop or bow / To such a pale-faced visage? Who art thou?

D.

Do you not know me? / I will tell you then: I am he that conquers all the sons of men / No pitch of honor from my dart is free / My name is Death! Have you not heard of me?

L.

Yes; I have heard of thee, time after time / But, being in the glory of my prime / I did not think you would have come so soon / Why must my morning sun go down at noon?'

D.

Talk not of noon! You may as well be mute / There is no time at all for vain dispute! / Your riches, gold, and garments, jewels bright / Your house, and land, must on new owners light.

L.

My heart is cold; it trembles at such news! / Here's bags of gold, if you will me excuse / And seize on those; and finish thou their strife / Who wretched are, and weary of their life.

Are there not many bound in prison strong / In bitter grief and souls that languish long / Who could but find the grave a place of rest / From all their grief, from which they rest?

Besides there's many with an aging head / And palsied joints from whom joy is fled / Release thou them whose sorrows are so great / And spare my life until a later date!

D.

Though thy vain heart to riches is inclined / Yet thou must die and leave them all behind / I come to none before their warrant's sealed / And, when it is, they must submit, and yield.

Though some by age be full of grief and pain / Till their appointed time they must remain / I take no bribe, believe me this is true / Prepare yourself to go; I'm come for you.

L.

But if, oh! if you could for me obtain / A freedom, and a longer life to reign / Joyous would I stay, if thou my life wouldst spare / I have a daughter, beautiful and fair / I wish to see her wed, whom I adore / Grant me but this, and I will ask no more?'

D.

This is a slender frivolous excuse! / I have you fast! I will not let loose! / Leave her to Providence, for you must go / Along with me, whether you will or no!

If Death commands the King to leave his crown / He at my feet must lay his sceptre down / Then, if to Kings I do not favour give / But cut them off, can you expect to live / Beyond the limits of your time and space? / No! I must send you to another place.

L.

Ye learned doctors, now exert your skill! / And let not Death on me obtain his will! / Prepare your cordials, let me comfort find / My gold shall fly like chaff before the grind!

D.

Forbear to call! That skill will never do / They are but mortals here as well as you / I give the fatal wound, my dart is sure / And far beyond the doctors' skill to cure /

Flow freely you can let your riches fly / To purchase life, rather than yield and die! / But, while you flourished here with all your store / You would not give one penny to the poor.

Though in the Gods' names they plea to you did make / You would not spare one penny for their sake / The Gods beheld wherein you did amiss / And call you hence, to give account of this!

L.

Oh! heavy news! May I no longer stay? / How shall I stand at the great Judgment Day? / Now from my eyes crystal tears do flow / None knows now what I must undergo!

Upon my bed of sorrow here I lie! / My selfish life makes me afraid to die! / My sins are great, and manifold, and foul / May the Gods have mercy upon my soul!

Alas! I do deserve a righteous frown! / Yet pardon, my Lords, and pour a blessing down...

Death

Thus with a dying sigh her heart did break / And did the pleasures of this world forsake.

Thus may we see the mighty rise and fall / For I, Death, show no respect at all / To those of either high or low degree / The great submit to Death as well as we.

The grave's the market place where all must meet / Both rich and poor, small and great / If life were merchandise, that gold could buy / The rich would live -- only the poor would die.

[RollinsCat]

He returned to their third-floor tower room in the late afternoon.  Minu was gone with a note letting him know she'd be back before supper.  He wiped Bella's rosewood veneer clean, checked her strings, and thought.

He'd entertained for hours, meeting people, gathering up small crowds here and there, taking special time to play for the children.  It was a breath of fresh air after weeks of sitting at a desk fretting over paperwork and political intrigue.  He felt charged and calm at the same time.  Sated, but not overly full; he'd done a few duets here and there, but mindful of Illia's words backed off to make sure the other musicians weren't overshadowed.  Much the way he'd been with Melody, letting the lady learn by doing with him instead of watching him.  And learning a few things from her as well.  Observing how she affected people and how her emotions radiated from her, warming the space around her.  She made him happy.

But what did that mean?  To "make" someone anything?  His response to Melody was a lifting of his spirits and he felt it from scalp to toe to heart.  He felt the force of her personality in a way that affected his mood.  Similar Minu; he felt safe with her in a way he hadn't with any other woman, she was his hearth, his home.  It was tangible even as it was in his heart, those emotions, and he wanted to infuse his performances with those feelings as effortlessly as he felt them.  Did that mean feeling more?  So he could project more?  Joy came easily to him.  What was he missing?

He'd explored his grief at the children he would never now have, let it rampage and burn itself out, as miserable an experience as it was.  His brutal honesty with both himself and Ilsare - oh, he'd spoke to Her through those savage tears, and not kindly - had finally allowed him to see what he had in Minu and take that first step.  What other emotions did he need to give voice to, what fears...

Ah, therein lie the rub.  An emotional closet full of rattling bones, yes indeed.  He could rise above it for a time, either by modulating himself in song or by smoking himself silly, but in either case it didn't fix the problem.  And he wasn't sure he knew what the problem really was, except that he had very little to complain about and did so with depressing frequency.

Bella was clean, tuned, shining.  His fingertips drifted lightly over the wood.   She always felt warm to him and he wondered why.  Again down the neck, over the body, the swoops and whorls, the tight grain.  Warm.  He settled comfortably on the feather mattress, closed his eyes, and let his fingers talk.

Fingertips on the scroll.  The curl's varnish felt worn where Grandmother Rose had held it so many times.  It was a habit she'd never broken herself of but she'd made sure the way he carried Bella didn't compound the problem.  The smoothness giving way to that spot of raw wood brought back her voice - "Now, Tashe, hold it here, near the body, don't hold it there - I know I do it, but don't you."  He felt a pang directly in his heart, then another.

Slide down the rosewood to the tuning pegs, silver, making the neck a little heavy but doing wonderful things to the sound.   He remembered finding Bella in the bottom of that crate on the Jakzonvilet.  He remembered all the emotions and dreams of that trip, culminating in what could be called a happy ending for anyone who wasn't a member of the ship's crew.  But most of all he remembered touching the instrument and the fierce, immediate feeling of re-connection.  Finding something lost, and not just his violin, but feelings of his childhood.  Things shoved aside or buried in a child's stunned sadness.

Why did they have to die?  Why did she have to die?  Such a stupid death, fever, if that is what it was.  He had never been fully convinced, but his parents had no reason to lie, did they?

Did they?

A knuckle brushed the f-hole with a soft resonant thump.  There was the barest shiver in the instrument.

Resonance.  Emotions.  His grandmother, dead.  He wanted to reach for one of those carefully segregated, potent cigars, with the halfling weed only sold privately to known customers...he wanted to drink.  He always wanted to drink.  It was all about not being in that moment, when it was about pain.  Joy he could handle, laughter, frustration, anger even, but pain?  Regret?  He'd only scratched the surface with letting go of the woman he hadn't met who not be bearing children she didn't know about.  He always found a way to run and even modulating his own emotions had become just another way.  

His hands ran over the curves of the upper, middle, and lower bouts.  Highs and lows.  Except he never really let himself get low.  He always found a way to get high, whatever it took.  Even as a child, even on that day his father and mother had gathered the family together and told them that Grandfather and Grandmother were gone, already cremated, and how the fever had struck so fast there was nothing anyone could do.  He'd run away to a private spot then and forced the pain away.  Big boys don't cry.  Thinking back on his reaction unearthed aching denial and the pressure of forty years of unshed tears.

Thoughts were piling up yet he felt close to something.  Illia had asked him if he knew who he was and he had said he didn't.  He hadn't lied.  But he knew this: he was a performer.  He performed.  Not enough anymore, never enough, as he kept his emotions in check and played a bourgeoisie of Mariner's Hold, and in that he'd slipped without knowing from what.  He enjoyed performing.  He bought that inn so he could have a stage that he barely let himself use.  He wanted to stand in front of an audience with a hot tingle of performance jitters, he wanted to feel the heat of their eyes and the tug of their ears, eager to hear entertainment that moved them out of their lives for just a little while.  He wanted to be their drug.  To do that, he had to live what he felt.  Really live it.  He needed to make himself feel, and he knew what needed feeling first, as Bella's tail piece lay under one palm and her fingerboard wrapped snug in the other.

...but not now.  Falling to pieces at the Harvest Ball...and there it was again, a reason to not do what needed doing.  

So close...

[RollinsCat]

The words were in a rhythm he wasn't as familiar writing, but he'd enjoyed writing all the same.  Lana, Melody and now Kira?  His cup runneth over...

I did a stint in Hlint for some Dwarf Lieutenant, I sent him the ears of some gobs I'm skinnin'
Saving some steers for some farmer out on Alindor, I sent pigeons and packages and bought soldiers armor
I've been across Mistone, from Vehl to Lyn, and if you cross words with me, you know I'll win
I sling songs and arrows, worship wings and sparrows, and if you cross words with me you'll end in a barrow, but I'm not a violent girl, just a little bit wild, so sit back, relax, and enjoy my style.

The people are all in the fields,
While the Lords lose touch with what's real.
Their words are backed by their True,
But what good does it do? Their True's not the Truth.

Rael's off his rails, Rofie's thrown in jails, cuts off dragons' tails, smiles at their wails
The Cult's smelling stale, Deilar's got no sales, Dwarves got no ale, Corath isn't pale, Ca'Duz isn't male
Murders down in Vehl, the killer's out on bail, City's bound to fail, but the Runner's got a trail
Laws are lookin' frail, Wind's got no gale, try to no avail, but the Runner's got a trail--a tale to be told, the path unfolds to another forked road
that leads to a field,

And the
People are all in the fields,
While the Lords lose touch with what's real.
Their words are backed by their True,
But what good does it do? Their True's not the Truth.

My clothes aren't pretty, I'm not the best dressed,
So if you won't listen to me, hey Andy Reid, come on, tell 'em the rest!

I sing to pay the rent, from ballad to lament, wrote songs for every event I been to witness
Tip to tip each continent to spread the words that my heart meant and all the things I hear that need address
Rael plays benevolent while dragons claw at battlements and hunger causing discontent it’s a mess
To those that lord and those that hoard I strike my chord because you know my pen’s mightier than their sword, but I’m not a violent man, just a little scarred, so relax and have a listen to the sparrow and the bard

The people are losing their fields
Burned and withered and peeled
Need for this war to be healed
Hungry wings in the night, that’s the truth

I might be pretty but that doesn’t make me wrong
So if you won’t take me seriously then listen to the Sparrow’s song

[RollinsCat]

I was born of Huangjin stock, a handsome native son
That's how the Tilmar language became my native tongue
That I was a pretty baby my mother she would vow
The girls all ran to kiss me, well I wish they'd do it now

Oh, I wish they'd do it now, oh, I wish they'd do it now
I've got itches in me britches and I wish they'd do it now

When I was only six months old the girls would handle me
Clutch me to their bosom and bounce me on their knee
They would rock me in the cradle and if I made a row
They'd tickle me, they'd cuddle me, I wish they'd do it now

Oh, I wish they'd do it now, oh, I wish they'd do it now
I've got itches in me britches and I wish they'd do it now

At twenty months as fine a boy as ever had been seen
The girls all liked to follow me from house to village green
They'd make a chain of buttercups and drop it on my brow
Then they'd roll me in the clover, well I wish they'd do it now!

Oh, I wish they'd do it now, oh, I wish they'd do it now
I've got itches in me britches and I wish they'd do it now

Those island girls would swim with me when the air was mild
Down to the river we would strip and splash about a while
They'd throw the water over me, dunk me like a cow
Then they'd rub me nice all over, oh, I wish they'd do it now

Oh, I wish they'd do it now, oh, I wish they'd do it now
I've got itches in me britches and I wish they'd do it now

Well its awful lonely for a man to live a single life
I think I'll go down to the dance tonight and find meself a wife
Oh I have got six brindled pigs, likewise one fat sow
There'll be plenty love and bacon for the girl who'll love me now!

Oh, I wish they'd do it now, oh, I wish they'd do it now
Lots of love and bacon for the one who'll do it now!

[RollinsCat]

To: Edgar Whinessy
c/o The Resonance of Being
Port Hempstead Municipal District
Port Hemstead
Kingdom of Brelin
Mistone

Greetings Conductor, from lovely and festive Fort of Kings!

I regret I have little time to expound on what I've learned since you guided me to the Sunstriders, but I do have a request for you to forward if you would and with that I will promise a more thorough letter or more preferably a visit as soon as this delightful harvest ball I am attending has run it's course.

I have recently met a lady, Liselle, who queried me on all manner of sound questions; what changes tones, what variables affect the sounds instruments make, and more. I was able to wend my way to the heart of the matter and she is asking two specific questions I cannot answer, as I am not traveling the path of Transcending Life.

I would be most appreciative if you could name for me those among this sect that might speak to the lady about their work and perhaps provide her with the answers I cannot. She wishes to know about sound waves that can affect incorporeal undead, and possibly shift them into this world, if even for a moment.

If you would see whom among us might be willing to find an ear interested in the nuances of their work?

Thank you,

Yours in our Muse,


Andrew Reid

[RollinsCat]

He awoke to the muted gonging of a hall clock.  Minu sleeping on the right side of the bed, too tired for revery; in her post-illness habit she sometimes seemed human to him but for her otherworldly luminescence.  Of course, that could be Aeridin's touch on her, or his own eyes through Ilsarian goggles.  There were hints of festivities even now drifting from below, the crier's call from far away of " three o'clock and all's well".  Only in this dark would his ears pick up such a distant nuance.

All's well.  Is it?  Bella lay on the table nearby, waiting, resting.  Something nibbled at him.

Fort of Kings.  He'd only been here once before.  Once, when he and Minu were new to each other.  That was the beginning of her nightmare he recalled; the reason she was in danger just walking around the city.  He'd come to think of it as just that, the place where Minu should not be.  But it was more...it was the capital city of the kingdom of his grandmother's birth.  Bella's rosewood shone in moonlight diffusing through the curtains.

In the stillness she was less a violin and seemed shaped almost as a key.  Someone in this city might know who made her, and to whom she was sold.  Or perhaps the woman who played her before she ended up in Huangjin in love with Liang Reid.  The thought made him nervous, but his gut seemed settled on the matter.  Just a few more days and he'd do a little asking around.  Just a few more days...

[RollinsCat]

Placeholder should the Harvest Ball be continued.

[RollinsCat]

Stolen.  Stolen!

How would he have felt?  He remembered the first violin he'd completed, hickory, very simple.  He'd only played it to check the tuning.  He was pretty sure it was still sitting in a chest at the inn.  It was no masterpiece but it was his first - how would he have felt, had someone made off with it?  And how, then, to lose something as precious and perfect as Bella, something that you'd given up everything to create?  So driven that you lose your family, your sanity, your life?

She still felt warm in his hands, this instrument that meant so much to him.  Could he restore a reputation, even in death?  Would it mean - losing her?  His connection to...

...to...

"Andrew, I know you know better than that.  Detache means each note is equal; you're adding pressure on the down-stroke, sweetheart.

"Spiccato is slow, like this...the bow bounces, like you after a plate of cookies.  Now watch...off the string...

"Don't pull it too far...not too far...then SNAP!  I knew you'd like that!  That's called snap pizzicato.  Try it again - SNAP!

"Oh, my life started here with your grandfather.  Ilsare brought us together and I've never looked back.  Let's get some lunch and then your mother has chores for you...remember our agreement."

To whom?  Grandmother Rose, or...red-headed Mary?

So much he didn't know.  So much he had to know now, especially now.  A woman and a luthier and a stolen violin, some ninety years ago...he was guessing at that.  He was - Muse, fifty something.  He'd stopped celebrating birthdays.  Grandmother was...well, he was eleven when she'd died, mother was about seventy now, so...grandmother would have been around fifty when she passed...his age.

He didn't know how old she'd been.  He didn't know how old his mother was.  He wasn't entirely sure how old he was.  What year was he born again?

A head shake, some breathing, singing ripples into Her heartbeat, not to lift his spirits but to bring him to the here and now.  He had a violin that was one of two possessions he cherished, his link to his past, and now he had an inkling of what that past had cost someone.  He could leave.  He could leave Fort of Kings now, no one would know, nothing would be lost, and the past would stay there, his own memories included.

And nothing would be gained, either.  If Mitchell Forcier had made this violin his should be known for it.  If his grandmother had stolen it...his heart turned inside out.  He was not Daniel - he would not have turned her in, even if she was still alive.  If something could be done for the man's family though -

He was getting frantic.  Not enough information.  Not enough to determine any facts, only wild guesses to feed his fears.  He would have to find out as much of the truth as he could.  And according to Sal, that meant a visit to the castle.

So be it.  Bella snugged into her case and buried in his pack, he set his feet for Erilyn's royal home.

[RollinsCat]

Green leaves edged in fire
Oak stands between summer and fall
Undecided...

[RollinsCat]

The bard sits by a white-paned window with the sash pushed all the way up.  A rest on his journey home, in this small and immaculate room that smells of cinnamon and the red pepper scattered around the baseboards to keep ants out.  The bed and breakfast's proprietess, a middle-aged, well rounded widower who turned coy at his flirtations, directed him down the hall with a swat on the behind for his cheek.  He knows she enjoyed their banter and smiles.
 
It is a dark night.  Orn plays hide and seek with a storm arriving fashionably late.  He watches the clouds, arms folded and resting on the sill, content to remember and to marvel at what peace can mean.  His thoughts still flip as pages in a windstorm, yet the roiling isn't as distressing now.  It isn't that he's any calmer.  It's only that...as he told her...he's okay with feeling this way.  
 
Who am I now, do I like what I hear
And can I listen with nothing to fear
To Her and to I in our shifting duet
How do I embrace both pride and regret
 
It could be Rose's song.  He will never know for certain if her name is Rosemary, although he believes it is.  He'll never know if his grandfather held her secrets; he wants to believe that the man did and loved her anyway, forgiving her as she must have forgiven herself.  She could not have known what her wild flight with stolen violin in hand would cause.  One arm only loosely under his conscious control reaches for Bella, for he must know she's there.  The wood is warm.  It always is.
 
Rosemary, Rosemary, red-haired Mary, Rose.  Daughter of Jack Murphy.  Born to little or no money and a harsh father honed to a dangerous edge by the world's darkness.  How did you learn to play in the dark, my grandmother?  Who taught you?  Was that the only joy you knew until the evening you sat in your tiny cottage in Huangjin, playing the song that would not leave your soul, and heard a knock on your door?  
 
And you, Mitchell?  What drove you to create this rosewood beauty, a violin that can stand beside some of the finest ever made and feel at home?  A lifetime of mediocrity avenged and then lost to one desperate act.  But you'd lost everything that mattered well before then.  A cautionary tale indeed, and one the bard decides will remain even as he aches to give Bella's maker his due.  Edward Forcier and his family do not want the attention and he will honor their wishes.  Bella has sung for them, and they matter the most.  They know.  It is enough.

Bella's in his hands now and she feels good.  Illia is right.  Rose had her reasons and to him she is still Grandmother Rose, taller than the sky, red hair sneaking from braids to form the fiery orange halo that he saw looking up at her as a child.  Perhaps her pedestal isn't so shiny.  And perhaps, had she been what he assumed she was, he would not know his connection to music, to the Heartsong, to Ilsare; he would be a potter, discontent and never knowing why; or some small-time crook, or a back alley drunk, hat out for change and singing for his next draught of poison.

Well, he's almost been the last already.  Still -- the way he could never get anything over on grandmother as he did others.  The connection they shared, how she understood him when his father and brother did not.  Without her...without the theft of the violin...it still hurts to accept it, but he does not block the pain.  There is no black and there is no white, and there is no reason not to feel his own confusion.  He doesn't need to understand so much.  He just needs to express it.

Bella cradles his chin, a wooden palm giving him comfort.  Bow touches strings and the first song released is one he wrote for Rose not very long ago.  He sings the words again, even as new ones wait to be born from his voice.

If you can hear me
Show me you're proud
Show me you approve of this life lived aloud
The child in this man still misses your touch
Why does this one ghost matter so much...

Running and dodging
All highs and no lows
No place but up for me to go
Inside her story I hit brick headfirst
What if our places had been reversed?

 If it were I
Could I make that choice
Could I tear free and trust only my voice
Breaking assumptions that are keeping me stuck
No questions, no answers, just instinct and luck

Maybe I have
As I sail my fears
A ship built of notes on a river of tears
The dam's good and broken, the music is out
Crumbling bricks of repression and doubt

Who am I now, this fanciful man-child
Locking my pain and tossing the key
The key never left and now the door's open
For once, for the first time, I can hear all of me

Bella sings joyful, reunited with her maker through his heart, or so it feels.  He remembers shy ripples in the Heartsong as he played for the Forcier family.  Remembers the angry, sad man peeking from behind curtains; Edward, him, at that moment it didn't matter.  They both had emotions they did not want to acknowledge.  He feels for the man that grew up under the shadow of one judged mad.  That moment of clarity carries through the music and it gives him hope for the family and for himself.

Rose's song winds down.  He hears himself clearly in the Heartsong, more clearly than ever before.  Ilsare feels so very close.  She has led him here even as before She let him wander until he figured out he needed to come home.  Loving him enough to let him go, knowing he loves Her enough to always return for Her to guide.  Each step along his journey only reinforces what he already feels, Amaria's lesson now expanded on by his own; there is power here.  Emotions are the core of a being.  He will be careful.  He will cause no harm.

The next song, the lullaby, he is already playing.  He is a little discomforted by what he learned at the Sunstriders, and by his promise to help if he can, but he does not tamp his discomfort.  He lets it change the music.  He listens.  

Illia has taught him more than he expected; he can see now why the Conductor sent him to the Alindor woods.  Yet it's more than merely teacher and student.  He has something to give, possibly.  He pushes the discomfort into the fore, playing it loud.  His arms and fingers tell him what his mind tries to hide.  He does not want to make things worse.  He is afraid.  If he approaches Raina about her parents, she may become angry.  If he fails, Illia and Kaldar will be hurt.  They would not dismiss his friendship, but it would be a spectre over them all.  He does not want to fail.

Again he is not calmed, but instead at peace.  He feels how he feels.  The fear isn't so big when exposed.  Ilsare will guide him, and if he can help, he will.

Fort Homestead's lights have gone out by the time he stops playing.  He has to rise early.  Bella is put into her velvet lined case and the crisp white sheets covering the single bed look inviting.  Laying down, he hums Ilia's lullaby, making up words, until sleep overcomes him.

Sandman, sandman, visit me
In this dark I hardly see
And wish for dreams to set me free
Sandman...sandman...visit...me...