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121
Rumour Has It / One Fine Afternoon in Port Hempstead, A Man Comes Singing
« on: November 02, 2009, 12:56:07 pm »
*The tall and lean bard returns to the fountain some weeks later, his red velvet coat now slashed and re-stitched and still showing residual stains of deeper red despite clearly having been washed.  He hops up on a stone bench, much in the same place he was when he told his tale of the will-o-wisp, and begins to call to people out doing buisness or enjoying the day.*

Come one, come all - a tale of battle and blood, of foes vanquished, from an eyewitness! Come, come and hear!

*A slightly larger crowd gathers after a short while.  He clears this throat, sings a quick scale.*

I would dedicate this to the fierce spell-slingers and weapon-wielders who took me into battle with them, and let a bard of little power see what bravery really looks like.

*He then sings forth in a deep tenor, his voice echoing across the flagstones and off the walls of the city.*

This day beneath Bear Island hills,
Before my light-seared eyes,
The ground awash in bloody kills -
We march forth to the prize!

*He drops a register for the chorus*

Hold your ground give not an inch
Though lightning tear around thee
Hold your ground, do not flinch
Before us they will flee


Pressing on through fur and claw, *He makes slashing motions*
Bearing wounds aplenty, *He holds his side and sags*
We battle on with firm-set jaw -
Five and ten and twenty!

Hold your ground give not an inch
Though lightning tear around thee
Hold your ground, do not flinch
Before us they will flee


Bugbears fierce with gleaming tooth,
Gather by their altar,
Holding forth our hard-won truth -
Still we do not falter!

Hold your ground give not an inch
Though lightning tear around thee
Hold your ground, do not flinch
Before us they will flee


We drag our dead and battle out, *He bends wearily, arm extended behind*
Victory at hand,
Ahead a shout and falls our scout-
We make our final stand!

Hold your ground give not an inch
Though lightning tear around thee
Hold your ground, do not flinch
Before us they will flee


One last battle by the door,
My companions falling round me,
My clothing soaked in battle gore -
With battle-horn sounding east!

*He raises his voice an octave for the last chorus*

Flee your ground, get out alive
Before they gather more
Flee your ground, get out alive
So we'll live to the shore!


*He bows as the audience applauds, and bows again and once more before stepping down and strolling toward a food vendor, still humming the rousing tune.*
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122
Rumour Has It / After the Storytelling at the Crossroads...
« on: October 30, 2009, 11:27:50 am »
*A man strolls to the fountain on a windy evening in Port Hempstead.  He's tall, well over six feet, slender but not skinny with walnut-dark skin.  His long black hair rustles in the gathering breeze as he hops on a bench facing out toward the massive wooden gates.  His strong tenor carries over the stone-paved square.*

Ladies, Gentlemen, I bid you to sit so that I, Andrew Reid, might bring you a tale, both spoken and sung, from oceans away.  A tale of greed, murder, and comeuppance, but no less horrible for that.  This is the story of a Hi no Tana, what you call a will o' wisp.

*He gestures, and a small group of people gather -- a few shopkeepers and market women, heads cocked in skeptic anticipation; several giggling children; and two finely dressed elven men.*

I share this as I've just earned a prize in a contest *he holds aloft a lantern of a carved pumpkin, the cut-out smile either warm and vaguely frightening depending on the viewer* and I'm feeling rather good about it. So perhaps my simple joy will spread to you.

*He clears his throat softly*. Once, years before even you children of Voltrex *nods to the elves* were laid for the first time into your mother's arms, there was a bog, a little bog, skirting the shores near a port city far, far away.

The legends spoke of a chest fully as long as a man and twice as wide *he gestures a double-wide coffin shape with his hands*, full of stolen diamonds and emeralds, deep in the center of this little bog. A clever raider had supposedly stolen these gems from the dark elves of the Deep and buried them in the bog while under pursuit so he could get them when the commotion died down.

But that unnamed pirate of old never returned for them; at least, he was never seen or heard from again. *He bends a little toward the audience, gesturing as he speaks*

What that pirate didn't know?  That everyone avoided this place.  The bog trembled, shook as a sleeping man does when he's having a nightmare; little tremors, hither and thither *he quivers his hand across the air*.  The ground would feel solid as wood, make a confident tap-tap under one's boots, until it SUDDENLY *he ducks into a crouch* would give way, dousing one into the stinking muck, and sucking at boots, feet and legs as if it didn't want to let go.  And the bog was haunted -- haunted by the spirits of every man, woman, and child that had ever been sucked beneath the slimy surface.

Time passed, and by and by locals started speaking of a globe of light moving over the marshy ground and hearing a thready voice singing on bleak, dark nights in the haunted bog.  They spoke of a song of treasure untold...

*He begins to sing, his deep tenor restrained to a hoarse whisper.*

"Come see my treasure, come over here...buried 'neath the quaking earth...glimmer, glitter, sparkle, shimmer...free me and it's yours...

Search beneath, down, under...deep they came and deep you plunder...rich beyond your wildest dreams...free me and it's yours..."


Well.  Word of this song got around town, spreading like only a rumor -- or a bad rash -- can.  Most sane folks continued to avoid the area.  Fear of spirits and the evil they can say and do is strong, and for good reason.

But.  There is always a but, isn't there? But, there were two men who were skeptical, desperate, and poor enough to start planning liberation of the captive gems.  They acquired shovels, rope, gaffes, prying bars, staves, planks, and lanterns *motions as if he were packing things*; and one chill winter night, under the black blanket of a new moon, they set off to lay claim to the reputed treasure.

It was not a long trek, but the walk left them numb with cold.  

The battered sand road that ran parallel to the beach seemed normal enough; but as they drew closer to the bog, icy tendrils of wind like cold little breaths came at them, whispering down their cloaks and around their gloves. *He shivers, rubbing his arms.*

After quite a time, lugging all their equipment, they reached the marshy area.  The two men immediately began to lay a path to the center with the planks.  When they reached the center of the bog, and only then, did they hear the singing.

*His voice once again drops, now an eerie whisper that still manages to echo in the square.*

"Seekers, brave, here you are, but only one will leave...riches great but greed is greater, one sets to deceive...who will win the prize, my seekers?  Who will set me free?...And who will bleed in this wet grave, to join the rotting debris?"

*He looks around, pantomiming fear*

Nervous though they were, still the desire for wealth without work won the day.  Giving each other suspicious glances, they set to probing for the chest.  The moment the gaffe dipped into the slime and muck, the song continued, and from behind them there was light...

"Who wishes to see someone dying, who wishes to sees someone dead?  Who has even now, a heavy wood bough, to crack over someone's ripe head?"

The men stopped, turned, and stared at each other.  One had the wooden-handled gaffe; the other held a wooden stave.  Behind them, a circular light about the size of a fist was darting back and forth.  *He reaches behind him, mumbling a spell, and brings his hands around -- there is a clear stone in his hand, surrounded by a nimbus of light.  He holds the stone, weaving it before him as if the light were bobbing about*  

But the men didn't seem to notice.

The men held up their weapons, eyes locked together.  Again the thin, reedy whisper *he swings the light-spelled rock in excited circles and again sings in a ghostly voice*:

"Only one can live, but two want riches...who will strike first?  Whose weapon twitches?"

The man holding the staff swung, but the gaffe hit first - dead center in the other man's chest.  *He falls back, clutching his chest*.  The man with the staff flew back into the mire, sinking ever so slowly as the light flared and throbbed.  *He murmurs some arcane words and the bobbing light bursts into a brief but eye-searing ball of light, streaks of it leaving trails in the eyes of the audience.*

The man with the gaffe turned and sunk deep in the center, sparing not a moment to look at his still-breathing former friend dying by degrees behind him.  His eyes gleamed, and still he did not seem to notice the light.  His gaffe hooked something -- he tugged, eager, leaning forward to hook whatever heavy object he'd found.  *The bard kneels on the bench and makes pulling motions.*

But the object was heavy -- and in his blind desire, he fell into the muck.  Struggling to hold the gaffe and his treasure, kicking and reaching for something solid, his panicked eyes finally alighted on the aura of light --

"Take hold now, grab on, and preserved you'll be -- reach for the light, reach for me..."

He thrust up his hand, but as his fingers touched the nimbus, he screamed, for the light now seemed to suck on his fingertips with a vampiric force. *He moans, holding out the glowing stone up toward the sky with a shaking hand.*  His eyes sunk back, his teeth rattled, and slowly the light shifted color -- the white lifting, dissipating, while a sickly yellow crept in.

And as the white light faded into the coal dark sky, one last song was heard...

"You preserved and I am free and bound no more because of greed...you now guard a treasure clutch of gems and baubles you may not touch..."

And the last sound heard was of soft, mad laughter drifting on the swamp breezes.

The ochre-yellow light remained, frantically dashing about, here, there, stopping to buzz over the dead companion, then returning to the single arm still reaching out of the bog water, fingers reaching skyward in a supplicating plea....

*He dashes the lighted stone around, here, there, as a scared child looking for its mother.*

But the bodies sank, both of them.  And children in the town of my birth know to stay away from that bog...and to keep avarice and greed from their hearts, so not to be seduced by the song of evil.

*He bows to scattered applause, more from the children than the adults, and juggles the glowing stone (badly) for the little knot of eager young faces. He then drops the stone into the hand of a girl no more than eight years old and closes her fingers over it.*  The light will fade in a few hours, lovely litte one, but until then...*She squeals her delight and the children run off after making sure he had no more glowing rocks, playing with the light-spelled stone and pretending to be wisps in the evening dusk.*

123
Development Journals and Discussion / Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« on: October 27, 2009, 12:45:26 pm »
To:
Karinna Oshaka
Wetwood Lane
Oba District
Huangjin
Tilmar

Dearest Karinna;

I could not let another day pass without writing.  All these long weeks I've missed you, your smile, your wit, your beauty - yet, despondant though I am, I have found so much in my new home that I fear I won't be coming back soon.

Angel of the Ancestors, don't wait for me.  A woman like you should have someone to adore her and I fear I will be a long time returning to the silken softness of your arms and the stardust sparkling of your eyes.  Remember me with fondness, as even across the oceans I remain your humble admirer.

Andrew



To:
Rheashi of House Kagorn
18 Mido District
Huangjin
Corsain

Beloved.  I can hardly write this, it breaks me so.  I ache for you, for your feather touch and languid grace.  But, despite the wishes of your family, I cannot marry yet.  The world is too large, my star, and Lady Muse won't let me rest until I've seen all of it.  I have come across oceans to find a place where my song can begin anew, but not without a neverending regret for what could have been.  Remember me with fondness, but don't wait for me.  A lady of your eclipsing beauty should be at the center of someone's heart, and try as I did, you know - you told me so - that my Heartsong will always be first.

I wish you as much joy as you can bear, Bellissimo.

Love,

Andrew



To:
Marian DePaine
Last House on Stevedore Alley
Mariner's Hold
Alindor

My sweet, I write to tell you with deepest regrets that I cannot return to you. I have discovered a new song in my travels, one I must follow - my Lady calls me stronger than ever, and as much as I can hardly tear my eyes from your hair of liquid gold, your dulcimer laugh, your sugar kisses, I must listen to my Heartsong.  Please don't wait for me, for I truly believe a woman with your mind and gifts must be appreciated, and I can no longer be the man to do that.

Remember this, though.  I will never forget our week, my ray of sunshine.  This I swear to you: I will never forget.

Your humble admirer,

Andrew


To:
Margaret Reid
Potter's Lane
Obo District
Huangjin
Tilmar

Greetings and song, Mother.  I've arrived on Misone, safe but worse for my travels.  Apparently the ship I booked passage on was not only a cargo vessel but also a cache of small-time pirates.  I was to have been robbed, killed, and dumped overboard but I was able to convince them to let me play each night, and worked in the galley to remain useful during the day.  This saved my skin, and thank our Lady they didn't search me too closely so the coin you gave me remained untouched (if somewhat unsanitary as well).  

They took my Bella, though.  It has been a long time since I've cried, but that night after I swam the distance to shore (they threw me overboard anyway, since they had to make a rather swift about-face from the Hempstead docks), I sat on the rocks of the beach and sobbed.  I miss my Bella.  I find myself even now, weeks later, trying to play her, my arms moving over a ghost violin.  I am heartbroken.  And it will be a while before I can afford a replacement.  They took my rapier as well, and my journal, and, well, everything, even the spare clothing I had packed.

I still have my velvet jacket, at least.  I was able to earn some coin with the help of some wonderful people, and have bought a new rapier, although it's only a copper one.  However I've become determined to learn to use it.  I know I've only dabbled before, and I apologize (AGAIN) for wasting Mr. Very-Expensive-Sword-Tutor-Matthews' time.  I will repay you for that someday.  But I digress.  I've found a small school that will take the little I can currently offer, and I've been practicing.  I think Father would be proud, at least a little.

I've found a new song here and I've been working on my voice, since my Bella is gone, sundered and sullied by the grubby hands of a third-rate fiddler pirate with delusions of talent.  My heart's song is growing and I know our Lady is guiding me.  But oh, the loss of my violin, Mother.  It hurts.

Oh, a request, if I may, dearest Giver of Life - I would appreciate it if you did not reveal my whereabouts to Sire Tarak Kagorn.  Or Rheashi.  Or Karinna, or Megan, or Damia.  I'm starting anew, and while I love them all, I think it would be best if they did not find me.

Especially Sire Tarak, if that's alright with you.

Give my love to Father, Opal, Gramma, Aunt Holly, and my brother.


Your loving son,

Andrew
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