Minstrels' Performance

[Jehannum]

Half a dozen candles lit the small cellar room as the patrons of this most uncommon event began to slowly walk in. Some wore masks to hide their identities glancing side to side nervously, while others smiled and warmly greeted old friends. A brawny man bends his knee on a makeshift stage and begins to tune his lute, worn but obviously well taken care of, as his eyes scan his most unusual of audiences.

The door opens, letting the sounds and smells of the Cearian summer night enter the room. A woman wearing a beaten copper owl-faced mask steps into the room. The woman’s mouth and chin are uncovered, and a tight-lipped smirk is on her lips. The mask is beautiful, obviously the work of a masque’ master and surely worth a small fortune. Her eyes scan the assembly as she obviously weighs the dangers present. She wears the lightest of suits of chain mail and a fine blade at her hip. One would only need a moments glance to know this woman was a warrior, and by the gleam in her eyes that she would know how to use that blade if the need arose. Satisfied with the situation, she motions, beckoning her wards to enter.

An aged woman slowly walks in. Her locks are pearly white and she smiles as she enters. The effort of walking shows painfully on her face, yet she bears it with dignity. The woman wears a plain dress of Dasarian blue, though plain and tasteful, it speaks of quality in the tailor-work. Such dresses can only be afforded by the very wealthy or the noble in Cear today.

An equally aged woman enters at her arm, supporting her as she moves to the corner to take her seat. The second woman carries a piece of delicate lace needlework under her arm, along with needle and thread. This woman’s frame is large and she laughs heartily at the jests of the company. The pair of elderly women do not wear masks as many of the people in the room do. Finally coming in with a stumble and a tumble behind the two women is a small boy of ten years. His eyes are bursting with excitement and he can barely contain his glee at experiencing this adventure. He wears a plain black mask that covers his eyes, fine clothes, and a small boy’s dagger at his belt. He takes a sear near the foot of the stage, pulls his knees up to his chest, and rocks anxiously.

The man tuning the lute stands up at last and calls for the candles to be dimmed around the room. He lights a small lantern at the foot of the stage which casts a warm yellow glow upon him. He stands tall on the stage, his frame is that of a warrior and the scars on his arms show that his experiences match his frame. He nods reverently to the elderly women with a smile and begins:

“All are come here tonight so that we may learn and know of the deeds of those who went before us. All of you who come here do so at the peril of your lives. This fact all here know and respect.” A slight movement of the curtain behind him indicates that someone is waiting in the wings. He breathes deeply and continues, “Before Marcus came to Cear with his chains and his dreams of Empire, our fathers and mothers bore great burdens and survived the trials of a great age. I come before you tonight to bring the songs of our own people, not those of Marcus and of Varana, but of The House of Siril and Dasaria. The song I sing tonight was made by a Servant of Ki many years ago. It is said that the one who made this song is among those who carried Nelina into the palace at the time she came to the throne at a tender age. These things may be true, we shall never know perhaps, but the lessons for us are plain. Listen this night!”

He motions behind him and holds out his hand as a lovely woman also dressed in Dasarian blue walks on the stage. She is stunningly beautiful, despite a slashing scar across her cheek. She smiles at the audience as the man picks up his lute and begins to play a sweet melody. The woman inhales deeply and begins to sing. Her voice is high and clear and cuts through the room like a dagger,

“The battle was not over,
But may as well have been.
The Varanites had closed too fast...
He knew they couldn't win.
The arrow shaft within his leg
Had slowed him; made him weak,
And blood from many minor wounds
Ran down his plate in streaks.

What started as routine patrol
Would end in tragedy,
For naught but half his scouts remained,
Their number only three.
Their foes came on in laughter,
The odds were two to one,
Their chances hopeless should they stay...
And hopeless should they run.

The corporal grasped his shortsword hilt
And cried out to his Lord,
His comrades echoed his resolve
And spun to draw their swords.
The name of Marduk soared on high
As steel rasped free of sheath,
They prayed that He looked down upon
The band of them beneath. “

The old woman closed her eyes in the corner of the room and rocked slowly to the tune. She would smile in recognition as the bards worked their magic and nod slowly and solemnly. The audience was rapt in the masterful music and tale. The singer’s voice took on a timber of desperation as she continued:

“The Varanites drew nearer now,
Their laughter growing still.
Their steps grew light and careful at
The soldiers' hardened will.
Three swordsmen took the forefront,
Their blades were black and cold,
Two wizards and a priest stayed back,
Their power yet untold.

The corporal grasped a silver horn
Which hung down from his right,
And raised the thing up to his lips
And blew with all his might.
The note rang out with clarity,
And strengthened their resolve,
And then they launched into the fray,
To see what would evolve.

The dance of blades was furious,
Steel and iron clashed,
Neither side would give an inch,
But neither could it last.
The corporal's blade was light and true,
It kept his foe at bay,
His two comrades fought hard as well,
And neither side held sway.

The wizards and the armored priest
Looked on with keen delight,
For Daris was outnumbered here,
These men would fall this night.
They rolled their sleeves to free their hands
And raised them without haste.
To end the torture early
Would have been an awful waste.

The corporal faltered in his step,
His guard swung open wide.
His black-mailed foe stepped in and launched
A strong thrust at his side.
The Daris scout regained his step,
His feint was a success,
His weapon batted down the thrust
And found the blackened breast.

He wrenched his sword free, then he turned
And drew back with a yell,
He let his blade fly forward
Even as his victim fell.
The strike was meant to claim the life
Of yet another foe
But whether it was good enough
We may not ever know.

For as the blade flashed through the air
Toward the target's back
A magic missile darted in
And halted the attack.
The corporal's sword was shattered
In a blinding flash of light
Hot metal shards ripped through his plate
And magic lit the night.

Another bolt streaked forward then
He watched it strike his friend,
And as the soldier groaned and reeled,
He knew they'd reached their end.
The Varanite stepped forward then
And raised his weapon high,
His eyes were red and fiery
As he grinned and let it fly.

The corporal turned his head away
Not wishing for to see,
But what he heard was not quite what
He'd thought that it would be.
The sword hissed down as it was swung
The soldier's fate to seal,
But the sound that reached the corporal's ears
Was that of steel on steel.

The corporal snapped his gaze back then,
And opened wide his eyes,
The deadly sword had been turned back
By a blade of massive size.
The wielder of the greatsword stepped
Before the wounded man,
And recognition dawned on him
As her assault began.

The woman moved with catlike grace,
Her swordstrokes sang with might,
Her very being shined from her
With brilliant holy light.
The Varanite was overmatched
His eyes were wide with fear,
His heart sank as he realized
Holly Fortinbras was here.

The audience gave a murmer of excitement, as the people were immersed in song and nervousness. At this line the old woman’s closed eyes brimmed with tears, but she smiled nonetheless. Her companion smiled knowingly as her needlework continued without cease. The young boy was entranced by the minstrels song and he gripped his knees in anxious nervousness.

“His eyes were not the only ones
To recognize the lass,
A startled mage began his chant
To call a deadly blast
His hand raised toward the holy knight,
And as his voice was raised,
The very sky went night to day
As other magics blazed.

Before the evil wizard had
A chance to throw his flame,
His words were changed within his throat
To garbled screams of pain.
A massive hand closed round his chest
And lifted him on high
He twisted round to see his foe
And looked it in the eye.

The elemental gazed at him,
And then it seemed to smirk,
As the rocky hand shot down again
To finish off its work.
The fragile mage stood little chance
Against the rocky beast,
And pain was all he knew from then
Until his breath had ceased.

The earthen monster shifted form
Took on an elven grace,
The slitted helmet serving to
Obscure the smirking face.
Salia stepped forward then to
Choose her next attack,
Not noticing the other mage
Who rose up at her back.

The black robed mage had cast a spell,
His staff shone bright with flame
He sought to kill this newest threat
And end this deadly game.
He stepped to her and raised his arm
To issue the command,
And screamed instead as a slender blade
Descended on his hand.

The lady elf dived swift away,
The staff swung far too high,
The wizard snarled and turned to see
The attacker at his side.
Another elf stood proud and tall,
His mail a sparkling gold,
His gaze was judgment in itself,
Inspiring to behold.

The elf raised up his longsword blade
And leveled it at him,
And then dropped into battle stance
And came on, looking grim.
The wizard stood and raised his staff,
Releasing angry flame,
The paladin raised up his shield
And shouted Girru's name.

The magic fire hit the shield,
Which seemed to drink it in
The symbol on the surface glowed,
The elf began to grin.
The holy knight spoke but a word
And lashed out with his blade,
The fire exited the sword,
Back toward where it was made.

Kisanth Felmoon gave his thanks
The mage gave forth a cry,
He crashed down writhing in the fire,
And in the fire he died.
Elsewhere on the battlefield
Holly's battle raged,
Until her flashing blade bit through
The final foe's ribcage.

The lady knight had vanquished both
Remaining black-clad beasts,
And the friends, united,
Looked about them for the priest.
Standing high upon the air
The cleric laughed aloud,
Malicious power filled the air
As he looked down toward the ground.

A foul wind blew as this dark priest
Chanted his first spell,
The elven paladin froze solid,
Magically held.
The cleric chanted once again,
Seeking to request
The power from his vile Lord
To see to Kisanth's death.

The cleric stopped and in his hand
Appeared a glowing light
He drew back and he threw it down
Toward the helpless knight.
The orb raced toward the paladin,
Who still stood frozen there,
When a screeching falcon darted through
And snatched it from the air.

A lonely form strode from the wood,
A glowing staff in hand,
The falcon circled round him once
And finally dove to land.
The bird came down upon his arm,
And looking rather bored,
The falcon hopped up to his shoulder
And offered up the orb.

Cirran Silverwind looked on,
Then subtly moved his wrist,
And took the orb upon his palm,
Then slowly closed his fist.
When he opened it again,
The magic was not there,
But in its place a roar tore forth
And fire lit the air.

The flames of Ki rained down with wrath
The priest could not ignore
His armor burned and charred his flesh,
His skin broke out in sores.
His spell of flight failed now at this,
And slowly he sank down,
An arrow and two blades had struck
Before he hit the ground.

The group saw to the wounded men
And gathered up their dead,
And then the corporal walked to them
And gratefully he said,
"You heard the horn. It saved our lives.
We never could have won.
None of us could ever say
Enough for what you've done."

"Then just say less," Salia countered.
Cirran almost smirked.
"Go on home now," Holly said.
"Your day is done at work."
And with that statement they all set out
Back to Daris town,
Thankful mostly for the fact
That most were safe and sound.

The sound of the lute faded slowly in the hall and the absence of the woman’s voice left the hall seeming empty as the patrons snapped back to the present from the tale of yore. The people looked around in amazement, and then quietly clapped in appreciation. The old woman joined in the applause and her face spoke of appreciation and thanks.

After a few moments of short, but courteous farewells, the patrons moved quietly and nervously out into the street. The woman in the owl-mask turned to speak to the elderly woman. She spoke with the accent of Rian, “My Lady, I think it is best if we go now. It will not do for you to be seen here, and the hour is getting late” The woman looked up at her companion, “Yes, Ki’a you are right, let us go.” The old woman turned to her companion and spoke, “My dear Trens, are you done with your needlework?” The woman smiled at the other and she nodded. The noblewoman called to the boy, “Grandson, come here.” She took the small lace bag that the woman had been finishing with her skilled needle and placed it in the boy’s hand. “It is our custom to give minstrels a few coins to show our appreciation. Go now and place it in the lutist’s plate on the stage. Go on now boy.” The boy spoke “Yes, Grandmother.” The old woman smiled as her grandson placed the bag on the plate. The owl-faced woman, both elders, and the small boy moved from the room and out into the street, disappearing as did the others into the night.

The lutist talked quietly to his companion after the performance. They were well pleased with the night and deemed it a great success. The lutist bent down and took the small lace bag and opened it. His jaw dropped as he and his singer stared at a hundred rubies within the bag. He pulled a small ribbon from the bag and embroidered upon it were the words, “For the Cause---M.B.” The two companions smiled knowing to each other as the light of hope filled their eyes.



*song written by Dasaria I player Cirran Silverwind