A Bardic Tour

[RollinsCat]

*Playing a selection of his songs for beer money at various locations around Mistone, the Ilsarian singer Andrew Reid has been adding a few politically motivated songs for any of the populace who listen:

Pay the price to enter here
A city once deserving
No more laughter in these streets
The Brooding One we're serving

Sign right here, that's good, that's right
You're safe within our gaze
Watching, always watching you
An ear to every phrase

A law on who to worship
A law on how to speak
A law on how the law will work
A law to keep you weak

Under boot-heel of our lord
Your freedom sold for peace
Choice and action hung to dry
Like slaughtered golden geese

Bow your head at morn and night
Don't ask too many questions
Don't bring your gods both fair and just
Worship at our discretion

A law to keep out magic
A law to tax you dry
A law to strip your defenses
A law to keep you tied

Forgotten, now, who he once was?
General to a Bloodstone
Who tried to take the world by force
And carve his bloody throne?

A leopard doesn't change his spots
Nor dictator to a statesman
Keep this close to mind my friends
What came round can come again...

and


Whisper down the wind
The shining jewel of Dregar
Living as an open scar
But no one says a word

Whisper down the wind
Law at such a handsome price
Ruled by a heart of ice
But no one says a word

Whisper down the wind
Ghosts of living everywhere
Shuffling cross the tidy square
But no one says a word

Whisper down the wind
Another public banishing
Another quiet vanishing
But no one says a word

All the trappings of a life but choice and self-decision
All the peace a man could want so long as you obey
The memory of the disappeared is met with indecision
Don't speak too loud don't draw their eye least you to go away

Whisper down the wind
Obedience and haunting fear
Fate decided for you here
But no one says a word...

*His tour includes drinking establishments and free open-air concerts in Leringard, Port Hempstead, Brenuth (where he attempts a dwarven battle song in its native language as well), and Fort Vehl.  If asked why he's singing about the lord of Prantz, he will only say he's concerned people have forgotten who Rael was and what he's been doing over on Dregar.*

[Spike]

*Where ever Andrew Reid plays and is seen in public, a shadowy figure lurks close behind. His clothing is nondescript, though a large hood covers his face. He seems more interested in the crowds attending Reid's performances than in the man himself however. He quickly scans the various faces, making particular note of their facial expressions, nodding quietly to himself at those who approve of what the bard sings, and those that don't. After appearing satisfied with what he has seen, he unobtrusively disappears into the crowd.*

[The Voice]

A figure hooded and heavily cloaked can be seen standing at the edge of the crowd during the occasional performance.  They speak to no one and leave quietly alone at the end.

[RollinsCat]

*A new song is snuck into the rotation, one that Andrew pulls out a big, new oak guitar to accompany.  Also played are "Three Ladies", "Tempest in a Teacup", "Maids of Night", the first two songs about Lord Rael, and a number of popular tunes.  The tour is extended to visit Mariner's Hold.*

Folks round Rael say crime’s too high
What’s the reason, you ask 'em why
Magic and religion, they reply
And we need a new way of livin’

Got a problem with Tor-an-ites
Got a problem with Xeen-e-ites
Got a problem with Lu-cin-dites
And we want a new way of livin’

So it’s alright, yeah it’s alright
Alright to give up being free
Who needs decisions anyway?
Go on, tell me what to say!
I’ll let that dwarf own me!

But who you going to blame for all those ills?
Them wizards with their magic skills?
The cleric with his prayer of wills?
Do you need a new way of livin’?

Got a problem with speaking out
Don’t know what magic is about
It’s easier, then, to live without
And lay down for this new way of livin’

So it’s alright, yeah it’s alright
Say it’s alright to keep my mouth shut
Who needs choice anyway?
I don’t got time to think today!
I’ll let the dwarf do it for me!

[Kaail]

A short hooded figure watches from nearby

[RollinsCat]

*another new song added to the playlist, sometimes with guitar, sometimes with violin, and sung in with a peppy rolling beat*

Here's a little song about a bard named Willie
Worked round south Dregar, pretending he was me
(I hear he can't sing as well, you know?)
Got a job in town and went to see what he could see
Got stopped by Prantz guards and frisked from head to knee

How secure's a government when little songs get banned there
How safe's a land where a man can't speak his mind
How can you trust bureaucracy that censors every word there
Deciding what to tell you, and when to keep you blind

Well, the guards went through his every tiny little thing
Looking for my name in that brutish waypoint sting
He asked if he could get to his paid bardic fling
And found out that in Prantz a man must register to sing!

How secure's a government when little songs get banned there
How safe's a land where a man can't speak his mind
How can you trust bureaucracy that censors every word there
Deciding what to tell you, and when to keep you blind

That bard performed this story in a bar that we both frequent
I had to laugh, it was the best story I'd ever heard him tell
But thinking bout it later it isn't really funny
They'll arrest you for making music, and stick you in a cell

How secure's a government when little songs get banned there
How safe's a land where a man can't speak his mind
How can you trust bureaucracy that censors every word there
Deciding what to tell you, and when to keep you bliiiiiind...

[Chazzler]

*A burly, epitome of a dwarven berserker applauds for Andrew*

"Good goin' lad!"

[RollinsCat]

*points up*

[RollinsCat]

*Finishing up a rousing rendition of "Maids of Night", Andrew Reid pauses, taking a healthy swig of his ale, and sets the bottle down on the floor with a clink.  He straightens back up, letting his fingers idle across the smooth oak grain of his guitar.  The moderately sized but enthusiastic Port Hempstead crowd waits as well, background noise rising in a steady hum as he strokes his instrument.  Not until their attention is poised to leave him completely does he speak.  Raising his voice enough to carry across the mumurings, his mellow tenor moves through the smoky air.*

"Good crowd tonight, good crowd.  Give yourselves a hand!  *waits until the beer-fueled cheering dies down*  Going to take it to the country, now.  A little something I wrote for those folks in parts of the world where they can't go to their favorite bar and see their favorite musician play...*grins and ducks a poorly aimed bottle*  You wound me, sir! -- or you might have, before you had that last drink!  *scattered laughter and jeers*  Anyway, for the folks in Southern Dregar, stuck with the Sulterio-loving dwarf...maybe a few of you *nods to a group of sailors blowing off steam before their ship sets sail*  might sing this next Dregar bar you set foot in, and maybe the folks there will eventually hear."

*His hand slides down the grain to the strings and he starts up a warm folksie tune, matching it with folksie styled vocals*

How long has it been since the city fell quiet?
How long has it been since you had a voice?
How long has it been that your fears walked beside you,
Whispering you have no choice?

Far too long
That's a fact
Far too long to be cowed
Far too long now you've waited and wondered
Your hopes and dreams wrecked and plundered
But we have not forgotten you

Outside your walls his influence stains,
But you have the power to keep it contained,
There are people around you who want to break free now,
There are people whose hope has remained

Take a look
A look around
You're still in charge
It's a simple matter of per-spec-tive
You have the power of coll-ec-tive
And we have not forgotten you

*the guitar sings here for a bit, a complex melody played with simpler picking underneath*

Planning and passion are heading to you,
But you have keep up your end too!
Don't give up, don't break inside, don't lose your pride
Together we'll see this through

So bide your time
Take a breath
And know this is true...
We have not forgotten you
We have -not- forgotten you...

[RollinsCat]

*Andrew, playing to a rowdy crowd in a Leringard dock pub, takes another long pull from his ale and places Alexander back into the violin's case.  He pulls out his guitar, stumbling a little as he moves back to the chair, and crosses his legs before placing the guitar in a comfortable position and picking at it.*

"ALLLLLRIGHT!!  You ready for a little bit of wicked, then?  *the crowed shouts, hoots and hollers*  Here's a little ditty I wrote about some very special women...yell if you know a few...!"

*He starts up a bawdy beat with hard strumming*

Oh, give me please an honest tease,
A wanton maid of pleasure!
Highborn ladies simp and fawn,
But their love's bought with treasure!

Give me dancers, gypsies, maids of night who don't need True to love them!
I'll not be swayed by moneyed ways and cold hearts born to condemn!

Give me swaying hips and lush red lips and eyes that sparkle knowing,
At midnights bliss it's not a goodbye kiss that I want them to be...*a big grin, and he blows a kiss* ...throwing...!

A choice between a maiden green,
Or a woman full and busty?
No choice at all, I'll take my call,
From those whose eyes are lusty!

Give meeeeee...dancers, gypsies, maids of night whose bodies are their own,
A dowry chest and wedding nest leaves me no room to roam!

Whatever sot said a lady's not if she enjoys freely sharing,
Has put a hex on the fairer sex who is EVERY BIT as daring!

Virgin maids for marrying,
Want feathered beds of roses,
But a dancing girl can get her fill,
On grassy knolls of posies!

OOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHH.....*he holds this note, the crowd chiming in, and the resultant cacophony of drunken, untrained voices driving the pub's dog into the kitchen and under a table*

Give me dancers, gypsies, maids of night, at love they're simply better!
On nature's bed we'll play at wed with no rings to form a fetter!

Ladies fair can take their share of those who wish a wedding,
But I'll keep time with ladies fine who prefer pas-sion-ate bed-ding!

*finishes with a flourish, taking another pull on the ale, and letting the cheers and noise die down a little*

"Okay, ladies...err, lady..." *nods to the one lone woman in the audience, who stands and screams "WHO YOU CALLIN' A LADY, MUSIC-MAN?" and flings a bottle at his head.  Andrew laughs, drains his ale, and runs his fingers up and down the guitar's neck.*

"Got a little tune here, for the folks in Lor..." *He starts picking, this tune bouncy and reminiscent of children's songs*

A fox came to Lor one day, looking for a job there,
He went straight to the chicken pen and handed them his card,
"I'm strong and quick and have big teeth, the better to defend you!"
And the chickens, they were lazy, and they made him their guard.

Sixteen chickens in the coup, my friend
Sixteen chickens in the coup
They took him at his word and made him constable of the herd
Sixteen chickens in the coup

A bullfrog hopped by and saw the situation,
He looked at the chickens and said "Are you guys nuts?"
"Foxes eat chickens, in case you have forgotten",
But the chickens didn't want to care and sat upon their butts.

Ten chickens in the coup, my friend
Ten chickens in the coup
Where did the others go – do we really want to know?
Ten chickens in the coup

The fox he was efficient and serious at his work,
And the chickens were quite safe in their cozy little coup,
But the coup kept getting bigger and the chickens started counting,
And realized that they were down to just a couple few...

*he stills the strings, grinning at the audience and leaning in with a low voice across the sudden silence*

So, what do -you- think happened?

No more chickens in the coup, my friend!
No more chickens in the coup!
It's no great mystery, they forgot their history -
No more chickens in the coup!

The message here is a simple one and easy to divine,
Don't let foxes guard your hens unless you want them to dine!
You're better off fully in charge of all your kith and kine,
And keep your city true to your own unique design!

*Finishes, gets another ale, and heads back to the stage to start up "Three Ladies".*

[RollinsCat]

*in various bars and taverns around Mistone, the following flyers are posted*

Mirthful Muse Productions Presents:

AUDITIONS for an upcoming play!

Have you what it takes?  Is this your moment of fame?  Come find out!

Auditions to be held Threas, Novlar 19, 1459 for a place in the upcoming play:

"The Tale of Lord Pale, or It's Hard to Be Evil; A Comedy of Tragic Proportions"

Please be prompt.

Audition For A Play

//updated date due to holidays

[RollinsCat]

*the tour fires up again, Andrew and his big oak guitar playing pubs around Mistone, Alindor, and Tilmar.*

Hello, Port Hempstead!  City is looking good, people!  Lot of hard work, lot of hard, hard work...

Let's start this out slow - a story I picked up in my travels.  Did you know that in the Deep, Lord Rael has used people to power seeds of light for his crops?  I'm not lying!  Heard it from a reliable source.  Slap a death sentence on some offender, and instead of a quick whack they get to sit in a cocoon and have the life sucked out of them so food can grow.  Can you even imagine, lying there waiting to die, getting weaker and weaker...I don't know about you, but that gives me the willies.  And sn't that like...cannibalism?  I mean...*shivers*.  Anyway, here's a little tune about it.

*Bella is strummed slow, the melody simple and direct*

What is the price of light
What can society bear
Where is the line drawn
In civilized sand...

What if I told you
The food that you’re eating now
Came from the light
Of a condemned dying man?

What if I told you
The Lord of King Weyland’s lands
Uses Prantz criminals
To light his Deep lands?

Would you be horrified?
Would you turn face aside?
Would you find joy in the ironic twist?

What about the disappeared
Voices that we’ll never hear
Silent bloody echoes from those who resist?

*the guitar picks up here, the melody faster*

Evil wears benevolence
A glittering disguise
His mask cloaks the violence
The desperate moments of defense
Souls of people iron tense
With unspoken goodbyes

The Law cannot protect you there
They may judge you good and fair
But in the end its Rael’s lair
And his whim is what’s right

What is the price of light
Life used to power it
What is the price of light
Heartbeat and breath transmit
What is the price of light
Ignorance a permit
To harvest a life...

*the guitar trails off, he takes a swig of grape juice, and starts into "Fox in the Henhouse".  He plays long into the night, Three Ladies and Maids of Night and Heaven's Primero coming as easy as Whisper Down the Wind and the rest of his political repertoire.  When the crowd thins and only the hardest drinkers are left, he pauses.*

Okay, going to play one for the men here.  This one's for each and every one of you who woke up with a pounding head and twist in your gut, knowing that man, you just shouldn't have done that.  We all know that feeling, yeah?  *blurry responses, mostly affirmative, a few deeply heartfelt*

Okay, this one's for you - and for her, wherever she is *he raises his grape juice, sets the glass down, and then starts to play - slow and reflective*

Bad judgment from a bottle and I’m alone again
Laughter raining from the stars above
The world don’t have enough regret to heal the trust that I upset
Sorry can’t build a road back to the house of love

We all know what sorry’s worth
We all know what it can’t do
We all know it’s never enough
But it’s all we ever have for you

A lesson learned about who owns me wasn’t worth the losing
But I’ll keep the queen of hearts in my hand
Put the queen of cups back on the shelf and maybe I’ll forgive myself
Or at least get my head clear to understand

We all know what sorry’s worth
We all know what it can’t do
We all know it’s never enough
But it’s all we ever have for you

Pages inked of things we wished we had and hadn’t done
Art shaped from the clay of morning after
Courage from a glassy kiss becomes all the moments that exist
With no thought to any more hereafters

I know what sorry’s really worth
I know what it won’t do
I know that it is not enough
But it’s all I have for you
It's all I have for you...

*he plays until the last customer leaves, he and Belle making up songs together.  Before he leaves each pub or venue, he puts up another flyer:


Mirthful Muse Productions Presents:

AUDITIONS for an upcoming play!

Have you what it takes?  Is this your moment of fame?  Come find out!

Auditions to be held Threas, Novlar 19, 1459 for a place in the upcoming play:

"The Tale of Lord Pale, or It's Hard to Be Evil; A Comedy of Tragic Proportions"

Race and gender not a consideration for parts.

Audition For A Play

[RollinsCat]

*added to the playlist*

It's high past time
For some stories to be told

It's high past time
For the silence to grow old

For those who died, and those who will, and those who sit and wait
It's high past time
That the truth unfold

Do we have the guts to stand and admit something's wrong
Peace is bought on the backs of those who can never hear this song
Evil is as evil does and it does what it wants to do
And it's high past time
We do something too

It's a hard, hard lie
Pretending to be kind

It's hard, hard lie
That justice wasn't blind

For the son and daughter of a King murdered by Rael's hand
It's a hard, hard lie
From a cold, cold mind

For slaves just wanting to be free from hunger's knife
For people who want to speak the truth about their life
For the ones who died to fuel the light down in the Deeps below
It's high past time
It's high past time
It's high past time
For the world to know

[RollinsCat]

*Andrew does a brief series of nights in taverns across the kingdom of Brelin, playing some old tunes and his Rael repertoire as well.  He adds a new song to the list, played on either his mahogany guitar or an old oak violin.*

Once upon a time ago there was a cozy little village
Nestled tight by woods well hidden from life's pillage
And in that town of families lived a young lady and a lad
Who mixed like oil and water and drove each other mad
Mad
They drove each other mad

Johnny was a steadfast boy who farmed his father's land
Becky was a milkmaid and a real firebrand
They fought whenever they crossed paths and swore they'd never love
Swore on their graves and families and to the gods above
Above
Swore to the gods above

Well, Johnny came to want a wife and asked the village sage
What he had to do to find his true love to engage
The sage was in a trickster mood and a lover of a stunt
And so he told young Johnny to go set at trap to hunt, to hunt-
Go set a trap to hunt

Johnny pondered this advice and then he said "Why not?"
It can't do any worse than the luck I already got!
He went down to the river with wire, rope and knife
And set a lasso under leaves to catch himself a wife
Wife
To catch himself a wife

Becky came for water on that sunny summer day
Wandering to the river and daydreaming all the way
She paid scant attention to where she dainty step
And she walked straight into his trap
Trap
She walked into his trap

Johnny came a-running when he heard commotion there
A screaming and cursing loud enough to curdle summer air
It was not the wife he thought he sought who sat upon the grass
But Becky with a bucket and she was one angry lass
Lass
She was one angry lass

With a blush he pulled from her leg the clever wire noose
And was promptly rewarded with a foot to his caboose
He stumbled fast away, bottom bruised and face aghast
And she howled at him YOU ROTTEN BAST-oh, I cant say it!
She yelled a whole bunch!

Angry and embarassed he sought to make amends to the maid
And tried to explain his mission and the trap that he had laid
To his surprise she turned and stared, her invective sudden stopped
She giggled, then again, then laughed until she dropped
Dropped
She laughed until she dropped

His face went hot then looked did he and saw with open eyes
What he'd tried to do that day and then to his surprise
He started chuckling too as the daytime fade away
And they sat together laughing in the evening's coming shade
Shade
They laughed under the shade

The two who never could be nice were suddenly set to talking
And back to town they went with both together walking
The townsfolk were agog at the sight of them at peace
But the sage, he smiled and spoke to himself "The wonders never cease
Cease
The wonders never cease"

Now love's a many-splendored thing as history provides
Not a full year later Johnny took Becky as his bride
It seems you should be careful about swearing to the gods
For the gods are always listening and they control the odds
Odds
They always have the odds!

[RollinsCat]

*In taverns around Mistone and Alindor, a suddenly traveling Andrew Reid plays old songs and new, his playlist stacked with covers as well as some of his own work. Mid-show, he plays a new tune.*


"Here's a new one, catchy - I heard this on Belinara from someone claiming to be "the" Willie the Bard.  Wasn't him, I can tell you that - way too bald.  But it does sound like Willie's work and so I share it with you, good folk -"

(he sings, using his guitar as accompaniment)

Necessity, necessity -- it's simple necessity
The watch in black that stood up during war
Necessity, necessity, protection as necessity
But what do we now need this black watch for?

(switches to a low key chanting with heavy guitar strokes)

Absolute power corrupts
Absolute power corrupts
Absolute power corrupts ...true

(sung)

Efficiency, efficiency -- it's just savage efficiency
They keep the peace with the backs of their hands
Efficiency, efficiency, that's what it's called -- efficiency!
As measured by their club-backed commands

(chanted)

They protect and they serve
They protect and they serve
They protect and they serve...who?

(sung)

Brutality, brutality -- it's become brutality
The common man can't speak his mind from fear
Brutality, brutality, arm-twisting brutality
It gets a little worse evvv-er-y year

(chanted)

A thug in a uniform is still a thug and he don't care a whit about yours
With no one to answer to, no to stop him he'll soon be kicking in doors

When folks disappear the black watch don't care and the gone are quickly forgotten
They cover the rears of their unsavory peers and it's clear that something is rotten

(sung)

Accountability, accountability, we need accountability
To keep their power in check day to day
Accountability, accountability, is there any accountability?
Who watches the watchmen anyway?

(chanted)

Who watches the watchmen...
Who watches the watchmen...
Who watches the watchmen...you?

*moves from this into his new interpretation of The Farmer's Daughter and the rest of his set*

[RollinsCat]

*in Port Hempstead, playing the Scamp's Mug*

Here's a little something picked up recently, maybe some of you sailors might sing it in Lor when you dock there.  Catchy tune, ready?  *picks up his mahogany guitar, plucking the strings, his head tipping side to side in time to the bouncy tune*

It's election time in Lor
The hopefuls line the floor
Flints and Jaks and Orebashers
It's election time in Lor

Lor the free, Lor the proud,
The glorious city Lor!

It's election time in Lor
What will you vote for?
Independence, or do you want
Rael inside your door

Lor the free, Lor the proud,
The glorious city Lor!

Even before the days of Raklin
We've been standing strong
From Galerights to Svendowskis
It's to Lor that we belong!

Lor the free, Lor the proud,
The glorious city Lor!

So vote most carefully
Listen closely to each plea
Don't let footstomping decide for you
Your vote will keep you free!

[RollinsCat]

*A few days after the last bard left Fort Llast, a man hobbles in, his left leg a peg below the knee and his left thigh oddly misshapen.  The man might have been tall in his younger years but now stoops with poor living and age.  His dark hair is streaked with gray and rather a lot of dust, while his shabby brown overcoat is poorly fit to his thin frame and also coated in a layer of road dirt.  He also seems to have a skin condition and keeps patting the dusty, pale face under his hood between the songs he belts out on his battered oak guitar.  For all his run-down presentation, his voice is a decent falsetto.  He plays to anyone who will listen, a grimy felt hat on the ground in front of him.

He sings a number of well-known bar songs, some sea shanties, and a few political songs he heard from some other bard (some of whom had been sung, but better, by the bard just preceeding him in town).  He adds in a few new ones.*

Here's one I wrote, done spent some time in Ler-rin-guard, they oughta call that place Ler-rin-watch.  Cause they're always watchin' for a way to take your money! *wheezy laugh, clears his throat, and strums into the song*

Heard a little story of a seaman bit ago
Sailing to the docks of Leringard
He washed ashore and promptly jumped right back into the drink
With a tale of fire-eyed monsters falling hard

(We've seen odder things, yah?)
(Oh yeah -- his name was Francis)

Francis spread his tale of woe to any open ears
Hoping someone else had seen the beasts
Ended up in the Leaky Keg to sleep off two week's drunk
Before his liver landed him with the priests

(Poor fella was beside himself)
(Prolly didn't smell too good by now, either)

It was to this inn my informants made their way
To see Francis regarding his ordeal
But poor Francis wasn't there to speak and they found instead
A businessman who offered them a meal

(Guy Poul -- ever heard of him?)
(Me neither)

Our friends became suspicious the longer dinner ran
Spoke their need to talk to Francis soon
Guy offered to guide them to the man who they still sought
Through twisting alleys by the light of moon

(The back alleys of Leringard?)
(Can you see where this is going?)

Francis gone the group were beset by Dracha Garra
Battling long into the misty night
Those dragon-stealing cultists took their best shot at our heroes
Until one upped and scampered from the fight

(Dracha Garra -- I get shivers just saying that name.)
(Fiery-eyed monsters -- draaaaaagons, maybe?)

Our friends searched the high and low looking for the cultist
But he'd found a darn good place to hide
So they went on to the Blackwatch to ask for their assistance
And found themselves being taken for a ride

(Them Blackwatch don't do nothing but for themselves, ya know)
(Buncha thugs iffn you ask me)

The Blackwatch didn't care about cultists in the city
But they sure did care about that Guy Poul
Our heroes were "encouraged" to forget what they had seen there
And left without a word by the watch that makes the calls

(Wonder who they're protecting, hmm?)

An' that's the story or my name ain't Willie the Bard!

*he packs up shortly after this and hobbles out of town.  His unique tracks, the footprint of the pegged leg much deeper than the other, continue on the road toward Hlint until somewhere near the bandit camp, where they detour toward the camp - and end.



//any gms want any rolls on any of this, happy to do it, let me know

[RollinsCat]

*Willie the Bard hobbles off the boat onto the Leringard docks, watching with rheumy eyes as the remaining weapon merchants pack up their swords and axes.  The city is in a bustle with a small throng of folks trying for last-minute deals and food vendors slashing prices to sell off perishables before they travel to the next faire.

His battered oak guitar is slung on his side as he limps toward the buildings, noting as he goes the increased Blackwatch presence.  There was a spot last week, right by the old Mist house, where someone had set up shade for viewers until that blasted and double-blasted arena tournament.  The old man makes his way there, finding not to his surprise that the awnings and carpets are now gone.

He sits though, and strums, quietly humming to himself and listening with interest as the world that is Leringard ignores him with forceful purpose.  Women walk past averting their eyes; men lift thier heads and stride as if they have somewhere Very Important To Be even though moments ago they were lounging along, gawking at the flurry of carts and boxes.

I don't even have a hat out, the old man thinks.

The only ones that notice him are the children, hands grasped firmly by mothers and fathers and nannies, their wide eyes taking him in with curiosity untainted by experience.  He treasures this as he plays, often tailoring the guitar's notes to what he hears in the children that watch him - thier smiles go through his heart as pure song.  He reaches to his neck often for that which is not there, touching the bare weathered skin before dropping his hand back to the guitar.

By and by a young halfling man stops to listen.  The halfling watches Willie with more than polite indulgence and the aging bard responds, playing a song or two for the lad - Leonti, he introduces himself as - and they chat about nothing in particular while they wait for more of an audience.  Willie ends up telling a story about that upstart bard Andy, barely able to contain his grins as he does.

That's going in the show.  By the Muse, yes.

"Is there anything I can do to help you?" Leonti's voice breaks the bard's thoughts, young but confident and Willie likes that.  His own rusty voice seems ancient to his ears.

"Well, there's folks what might not like what I'm gonna sing tonight.  If ya could keep a clear line tween me and tha docks, say, that's be preciated."

"I'll do my best, sir."


There seems to be a number of people headed into the city proper while around him the bard sees only dockworkers and Leonti.  So he slings his instrument to his back and struggles, as he always does, to get onto two feet when one of them is made of wood.  His misshapen thigh above the peg bulges and he grunts hard as he wobbles to a standing position.

"Should check that stage area, I'm thinkin'."  

Leonti nods and they walk off, the bard making notes on what alleys are blocked and which remain open for escape.  Not that he's given a lot of thought to his escape.  Or, well, any.  

Muse, if they can see thorugh invisibility my goose is cooked.  Must thank Keppli and Gypsy Belle for the tips on moving quietly...

The stage area where Marcus the Bard has been performing all week has a little crowd and the bard's heart lifts, his fingers stroking the guitar's wood and flaking off another bit of varnish.  Marcus is gone, off to greener pastures, and this group is his - all his.  He climbs the few steps up, avoiding a small but stubborn bloodstain around a spider crack that is a reminder of someone he now considers a friend.  Or an ally.  Whatever.

The crowd turns, and he sees faces that are familiar - and not.  Through Willie's eyes, some look younger, some older, and their reactions to him change how he hears them as well.  The elven lady in the front whose slender fingers command magic learned over centuries gives him an encouraging look and claps with excitement.  He grins depsite himself.  She really has got a thing for bards, doesn't she, and his smile widens.  A black-haired dwarf stands waving a bottle of...something, and smelling like the underside of a digestively challenged ogre - well, some things don't change much -and his fingers find the strings.  A slender half-elf lady with short hair stands near an older human man, she selling from a crate and he clearly here to enjoy himself, and the bard smiles at them too.  And the quiet man in forest greens and browns whose eyes drift along the guards with watchful stillness.  And the muscled, dreadlocked man whose remaining eye glitters in a way that the bard is no longer fully comfortable with...

He starts to work the crowd, opening with a rollicking sailor song.  Given the late hour the streets are blissfully free of children and he gives the crowd a bawdy show, playing with abandon and relished every clap and holler.  The dapper elf whose voice still echoes in the bard's other mind ("jump and SPIN - no, push off with the left leg, lead with the right. Again...") stands sipping wine and swaying with the music.  A quiet dwarf stands back from the crowd, and the one time Willie's eyes meet his there is only a hint of a nod.  The bard smiles and keeps singing.

The opener gets them in a rolling good mood and he chances that joyful capital with his next tune, after a careful look around.

"Heard some local news, an' a I wrote a song bout it.  Goes a little like this."  His rusty baritone is still fresh and the song elicits what he anticipated, uncomfortable silence and furtive glances at the hard-faced watchmen.

I hear the Blackwatch saved orphans from harm
Bout time you all had a moment of pride
It's a start, it's a start -- one you can build off of
And it's getting' on time to decide

One right don't fix a thousand wrongs
But one step can lead to the next
I'll break the silence -- they're thugs, yours or not
And you can start writin' the rest

The good news I'm singin' is this ain't Prantz, not yet
You can still speak your mind -- mostly
But folks do disappear when they talk inconvenient truth
And that ain't no accident if you think closely

Who runs this town? Who is the Law?
Who stands behind the curtain of secrets and bribes?
It's your right to know
It's your town, it's your show
Those kids are one payment on far too many broken lives

The watch's there to keep order but whose order they keeping
They ain't taking orders from the mayor or Queen
Ask who they're helpin' and ask who they're not
And that's a good place to begin

One right don't fix a thousand wrongs
But one step can lead to the next
I'll say it out loud -- they're thugs, yours or not
And you can start writin' the rest

So think what's I'm sayin' and think round the box
And talk to each other fore the secrets turn to lies
A town guard should be something you can depend on
And not an object of fear or surprise

His eyes meet the quiet woodsman's, and there is a moment of understanding.  The woodsman moves off to position himself behind the stage, walking in the loose gait of one who is two cups past his bucket but the bard is not fooled.  Toward the end of this song a lovely blonde elven woman, bow within a split-second's reach of her pale hands, joins the crowd.

"Political songs." Her flat, derisive snort is clearly heard.  The bard grins and gives her a delighted look, heckle or no.  They are nervous, the crowd is, shifting from foot to foot, eyeing the Blackwatch.  He takes a breath and ignores the watch for now, rolling into another of Marcus's trove of really naughty songs, and the crowd's tension eases.

Back and forth the old man sings, lifting the mood then dousing it with a tune that brings every cold watchman's eye to the stage, listening to the Heartsong as he does.  The mood is oil on water and he plays to this on the final Blackwatch song.  

"Yer lookin' round, I'm hearin' I shouldn't be singin' this.  From Ellis, no less - she couldn't have been this cautious when we were fighting demons?  An' I got ta say, no one should feel that way bout their guard.  Course, if they're here ta protect, they're not gonna beat up an old man fer singin' are they?  Course not."

He launches into Who Watches the Watchmen, and the audience, some of them, start to nod.  A few jaws firm.  His eyes are bright with the music, the moment, the reactions, and a lot of the drunken dwarf's whiskey as he plays.

The song done, he tells the story and sings the song of Willie the Bard with barely contained glee.  He sings two more of the other bard's songs, but by now his baritone is showing wear and he has to stop to cough often.  A halfling with a violin steps up and takes over the crowd while the old bard rests.  

Willie shuffles off the podium, his coat clanking with tips, booze and other trinkets listeners have offered up.  The lovely blonde elf whispers to him as he stands tapping out percussion on his guitar and enjoying the other bard's song.  "You should get out of here and on a boat.  They're watching you."  A look at the crowd and the quiet dwarf meets his eyes, confirming the warning.  The old man looks and sees...more Blackwatch.  Many more than before.  The little wad of gum arabic tucked in his pocket seems very near and yet miles away.

His eyes aren't focusing right, and he silently curses the whiskey.  A barn is close and seems clear of watchmen so he meanders that way, staggering a bit on his peg leg.  He is fumbling for that bit of gum when the dreadlocked man strolls casually in.  For one heartbeat he's not sure who to fear more - the watch or the one-eyed man.  Until a Blackwatch does arrive, leaning with a glow of arrogance on the side of the barn.  

"Going somewhere?"  

The old bard lets the gum nugget go, trying to think, his thoughts rolling together like a pile of puppies.  The big man steps forward and Willie shuffles behind him.  The Blackwatch speaks to the dreadlocked man, cold, measured, and anticipatory.

"You with him?"

"Yeah.  I'm with him."

"How about we take a little walk, then?"

Willie looks back at the audience, still there, some wandering closer to see what his sudden loud coughing fit was about, and a gleam of an idea burns through the alcohol.  He turns to one-eye and the guard.

"Why don't you go with the man, sonny - I'm gonna find me a nice bed." He backpetals from dreadlocks and limps back to the crowd as fast as he can, ignoring the bruises on his knee and the numb ache in his folded calf muscles.  The short-haired half-elf's ox gives some shelter from one Watching eye, and the people mingling around the open crate form a human blind.  He ducks down and fingers the arabic again.  He's still drunk, but panic has lifted the hazy veil, leaving his mind clear but detached, as if he were watching himself.  Shifting, he whispers for them to surround him near the chest, and with a prayer in his head, he sings his song of illusion and vanishes.

Slowly he stands, unfolding past the old man's slouch to his full height.  His back clenches but there isn't time to stretch.  He moves toward the docks with calculated steps, pulling off the wooden leg as soon as he finds an unwatched nook, and starts hunting for a place to hide.  Blackwatch are everywhere, some coming from the city, some moving to, and a ship is leaving dock with a number of merchants and their crates and wagons and other nice hiding places aboard.  His spell won't last forever, and there is nothing, no place...

His eyes fall on a little boat with a partial cover.  Very few people use that boat.  Everyone knows where it goes, and to whom it is dedicated.  But he's been in that boat, his Lady and that Lady being friends, and he's been to that temple.  It feels right and he doesn't have the luxury of reflection so he strides toward it and snugs under the canopy.  The boat rocks, near enough to a docked vessel to be seen, but there are little waves today...maybe it will look like weather...he sings a bit of Tempest in a Teacup to appease the boat's Owner while he changes.  Willie's clothes are stuffed under a seat to be reclaimed later.

Willie does not return to the audience, nor is he seen in Leringard in the weeks following.  In the Twin Dragons later that night Andrew Reid wakes from a long nap (which to the observant eye might resemble having slept off a few too many) to find, much to his dismay, that he's missed the whole thing.

[RollinsCat]

*Willie the Bard pops up quietly some months later in Lor, daring a show near the marketplace.  He sits without a hat out and plays for free.  He sings a number of tunes, most borrowed from other bards and none controversial - just entertaining the folks.  At the end of his show he starts a hot little mambo number on his old guitar, grinning from under the hood he won't remove.*

"Here now, this'll get ya dancin'.  Wrote this off a song I heard afore so it's not all mine but it'll move yer feet."

*he starts in with his usual rusty baritone*

A bard went back to Prantz you see
Because he missed the scenery
The joyful crowds and the charming songs
But wait a minute...something's wrong...

Hey hey no, no one but Sul-ter-i-oooh
Hey hey no, bow to Sul-ter-i-ooh
Go go go if you don't love Lord Rael
All you troublemakers with your music and your noises-

Hey hey no, don't want no deities
Hey hey no, just ho-mo-geneity

No, no...just Sul-ter-iiii-ooh, ohh!
Try a mushroom sandwich with a side of shut your mouth-a

Live in awe, you better never break the law,
Take some advice my friend
Learn how to bend
If-a you're a square peg
They're gonna pound you in

Hey hey no! It's Sul-ter-i-ooh!
Hey hey no! It's Sul-ter-i-ooh!
Go go joe, better learn to bow,
Or it's hello to the jail and then we'll never see you -

When you don't go, Sul-ter-i-oooh
Shake-a in your boots cause you're gonna feed the roots

Where you been, stop singin' or he'll do you in,
You better listen to your mama
Boy she's tried to warn ya
Kid you good-lookin'
But you don't know what's really cookin' when you

Say no no, no to Sul-ter-ii-ooh
Say no no, no to Sul-ter-ii-ooh
Ho ho ho, it's gonna hurt you know
You better off-a elsewhere if you wanna bait that bear
When you're insulting, Sul-ter-iii-oooh, ohh!
Yeah!

*he hobbles off after this, watching for trouble, vanishing into the shady alleys of the city*


Disclaimers:

1) If any gms want rolls on this happy to.

2) With apologies to Bob Merrill and Rosemary Clooney, Mambo Italiano is public domain.  If you want the tune, best version ever: YouTube - Mambo Italiano

[RollinsCat]

*Red Coat strolls into the old dockside tavern, running a finger lightly along the crack in the wall that leads to the bar.  He takes some time to examine the selection while ignoring the tremor in his hands - ...it's not that bad, I'm not that deep in.  I can have just one.  His hands shake again, need clenching his gut, but it only makes him angry as words and promises from a past remission crowd his head.  He orders a grape juice to spite himself.

The grape juice does nothing to still his shake.  He surveys the patrons to avoid looking at the dusty bottles on the shelf above the back counter.  The light crowd is a mix of dockworkers, bums who've managed to get their beer money begging, and better quality bums who managed their drinking cash in petty theft or information wrangling.  

Good.  Just who I need tonight.

There is another musician in the room, one he knows.  The other man, short in stature and long in his cups, staggers to the raised platform possessively when he sees Red Coat's bloody crimson velvet standing out among the drab linsey-woolsey and rough onesburg.  Red Coat smiles inwardly but merely nods, taking a sip of the soured juice and leaning against the long bar counter.

The other man starts into a rendition of Shames' Shame but his voice is off and the crowd indulges in their second favorite tavern game, Pelt the Bard.  Red Coat smiles again and waits until the diminutive singer has had enough of soggy food and empty bottles at his head and sulks back to his gin.  Silver Buckle - what do they put in that stuff?  Every bard I know loves it, including myself.

He waits further, finishing his drink, and the crowd quiets down.  A few recognize him and nod or jerk their head to the stage.  A few line up empty bottles with merry grins, themselves waiting.  He sets his bottle on the counter only to have the woman on his left snatch it for her ammunition.  He gives her a courting smile before taking out his big mahogany guitar and with three long strides, the platform.

He sings for a few hours; it's only past midnight when he dodges his last bottle and ends on his newest song, Bring on the Beer.  To the sodden crowd it's a hit and the barkeep gives him a smile.  He hops off the makeshift stage and to the counter, slinging Belle onto his back.  He didn't shake, not while playing.  He never does; the music fills that void, stills the need, brings quiet to the justifications in his head.  But now it's time and he slips True to the barkeep.  

"Drinks all around".  He doesn't shout it out; more effective to let word travel.  The barflys give him grins and tap their bottles to the one now pressed into his hand, and he taps back and takes a long pull.  The alcohol bite never gets old, always gives him a sensual shiver.  Muse, forgive me.  Again.

He spins the stool so his back is to the counter, watching the door and the crowd with lazy eyes.  He sees the other musician leaving, stumbling still and with a sour twist on his pouchy lips, and makes a quiet note of it before turning to his right.

"So what's new around Vehl, my petite blossom?"  The woman who snagged his grape juice bottle flashes a gap-toothed grin and launches into a long recounting of her sister's current infidelity.  Ten minutes later he tries to steer the conversation to his intended subject, finally diverting her from speculating on the endowments and bedroom skills of her brother-in-law and toward news of the Rofireinite temple.

"I heard something from a biddy near the docks last night, something about some attempt in the Rofirinite temple?  What did she say, someone got hurt?..."  He looks side to side along the bar, taking a deep drink of the bitter stout and debating buying another while he listens.  At the promise of hush-hush tidbits a few others turn.  Red Coat leans back and immerses himself in the gossip, sifting the verbal wheat from the chaff, making notes on anything that sounds promising...

//Information gathering for Tyra.