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Th-th-that's All, Folks
Posted: 28 Aug 2006 03:23 PM |
((I usually don't bother, but I'll do so in this case...
OOC Disclaimer: There are precisely four characters who have knowledge of the details of the beginning of the Midor Play, and they are Karli, Wilem, Terrance The Beholder, and Jessup. Anyone else will have to be told or shown by those individuals. All rights reserved, blah blah.))
It was done. It was delivered. Jessup had his play and maybe he'd put it on and maybe he wouldn't. What was once the promise of a startling career and a sure shot at the fame Karli so desired was now barely anything at all. It was a fantastic play in the vein of all truly great plays - facts had been sacrificed to artistry and truth. If people wanted the real history of things, they could read a book or talk to a loremaster. That's what they were for. Plays were for deeper meanings and metaphors, for story telling and entertainment and revelation. It was rare that the facts of anything revealed more than the basic stupidity of Mankind.
The play was left on a table in Pickston and Jessup's Wild Tours, bound in it's cheap leather binding, written by hand (as was the only existing copy). She left it there, intending on abandoning the thing to its fate the way that desperate mothers left their babies on doorsteps. Things would likely be changed about it, but any changes would be obvious. At least, so Karli thought. There was a secret rhythm and rhyme to the creature. Then again, that probably didn't matter. Production - in this case, Jessup - could get anyone with a sense of rhyme and no sense of artistic ethics to fake it, she guessed.
Oh well. Somehow, the whole fame and fortune thing had lost its appeal. There were more important things and besides. She was already famous. Karli had a new niche, now, and it didn't involve sucking up to psychotic freaks, thank the blessed goddess. So she included a note.
mistr jes up,
tHe plAY is done. enjoY. might not bE actres. might. onestlee do Not caRe.
doN Not bothr looking fr me. i did my part. i werk on my terms now. keep yur goons awa. wont say agin.
To my biggest fan,
Karli Goodfellow.
Short and sweet. Jessup could kiss her finely round, firm arse…. In his dreams.
And so it would begin…
Cast:
Narrator – Fate. A robed, hooded woman familiar to all Players from introductory vision. She holds a book, and seems to read the play from it.
Dana – confused human child of M’Gok, wants to be an orc. Powerful warrior/sorceress. Lover of Marcus
Marcus – handsome ex-paladin of Midoran, one of the original members of the Norvus Aristi.
Vidius Kahn – self-proclaimed Voice of Midoran, Red Bishop of Midor
Lady Fri’el – priestess of Gukathul, remade by the god after her death. Creator of the Righteous Swords
Liche – undead servant of Gukathul.
Juylina – priestess of Naruth
Helkris – goddess of ice and cruelty, eldest of Triplet Sisters
Naruth – goddess of fire and passion, middle of Triplet Sisters, conspirator with Midoran during the Dragon War
Vilyave – goddess of air and creativity, youngest of Triplet Sisters (and by far the kindest and most beautiful)
Gukathul – god of the undead and evil
Gruin – god of beasts and barbarians, patron of M’Gok
Midoran – god of law and order, patron of Midor, once city of Aristi
Sslithsayith - ancient reptilian creatures, perhaps once enslaved Midorian people in ages past.
Various priests and guards – doing priestly things and guardly things.
<Enter Choruser, stage left.>
Gentle hearts, both young and old
With gratitude I welcome thee!
Though often hast this tale been told
Of Midor’s wretched tragedy
Hark now to this adventure bold
And know the traps of vanity.
More arrogant than lust, this vice
Would dictate how the world ought be
As though one person would suffice
To reign the mortal hearts of we
Who wouldst else know our men from mice,
And redefine morality.
(If thou wouldst speak, remember well
To Whisper soft, and never Tell.)
<Exuent Choruser, stage right. Spotlight dims.>
Act One, Scene One: Entrance of the Heroine.
<Enter Narrator, stage right. Spotlight follows.>
Narrator: The tale begins with a failed quest
That soon becomes a lover’s test.
A foul servant of Gukathul
Would not the brave Marcus enthrall
And so, to punish the knight’s insolence
The liche hath ruin’t his countenance!
His home forsook, his faith bereft
His handsomeness all that was left!
So Marcus, stripped of comely face
Hast failed to know love’s offered grace.
Defeated, Dana led her love
Back to the sunlit lands above.
And so now M’Gok’s strangest child
Must guide him though the darkened wild…
<Exuent Narrator. Stage brightens to reveal a deep forest set. Animal and monster noises.>
<Enter Dana, greatsword in hands, rushing forward to fight group of goblins. Fight scene. Marcus limps in, not participating.>
Marcus (sings): What now, that all pride is lost
And I am left to suffer so?
That my weakness would have such cost
I hadn’t e’er forseen…
Dana: <returns to Marcus, victorius, munching on goblin fingers taken as a prize and snack>
Da Marcoos! Comes now, eet ees safe
Da path ees clear and home await.
Marcus <barely hearing>:
Surely, I do not deserve this fate!
For good and true I’ve always been!
Dana: What de Marcoos say?
Marcus: Heed not.
These scars that were my face, they feel
As though they must soon peel
And rot!
Dana: De Marcoos not be sad for longs.
We gets de priestess to fix de wrongs.
<Exuent Dana and Marcus, stage left. Enter liche, watching from stage right.>
Liche: Oh Dark Lord, Master of Death
Hear me, thine abomination!
Evil One, Stealer of Breath
Give word unto thine new creation:
The weak paladin’s vanity
Could be used to somehow serve thee!
<Obligatory evil cackle of triumph. Exit Liche. Stage dark.>
Act One, Scene Two: Introduction of some of the Villians.
<Midor, the Temple of Midoran. Beautiful and white, filled with the radiant choral music of the holy choir. Sunlit, pristine, orderly. Vidius kneels, head ifted, looking toward off stage.>
Vidiu’s’s song. (see addendum notes)
Enter priest, head bowed.
Priest: Holy One.
Vidius: What now, my son?
Priest: A lady comes to see thee, hence.
Her business not bespake to me
Yet, about her, I did sense
A power near as great as thee.
Vidius: A lady or a woman be?
Priest: The first, and one such as ne’er went
Before god. Shall I then present?
Vidius: Yes. Bring her now before us.
That she may know what is righteous
Of the Bright and True Creator
Who may then judge to love or hate her.
Enter Lady Fri’el with priest.
Lady Fri’el: Your Holiness, if so thou art known.
Vidius: Begin our triste with iron words?
Better still would be a gift.
Lady Fri’el: And better more are iron swords.
My Lord did speak within my sleeping
And shewn to me, His servant sworn
From his deep Hell for greater keeping,
A vision.
Vidius: Thus are ambitions born.
But thou admit to me, the White!
The judge of All Made Just and Right
Thine demon blood and bile of Hell?
Lady Fri’el: Be not a fool, and listen well.
For –I- am power.
And if thou wouldst taste its depths
Then still thine tongue.
The Lord of what is Dead Yet Not
Hadst captured the weak maid I was
From out the torment of my sins
Done for Helkris’s sake. Because
He saw within me on that day
The perfection e’en before thee now!
So fashioned in immortal clay
This body; then His pow’r bestow.
If blind to opportunity
Then be not deaf to our Gods’ will.
Allies, we are meant to be!
If thou wouldst have yet more still:
Let death then be the gift I give!
Vidus: ‘Tis not enough, if thou wouldst live!
For surely, as I gaze upon thee
Such temptations in me rise!
Your golden hair a dragon’s greed!
And jewels sparkle in thine eyes.
Take her! And if re-maid she be,
Then blood will swear her loyalty.
Lady Fri’el is taken away by temple guards. Exit Vidius, following.
Act One, Scene Three: Allies and Alliances.
A divine palace of flame, a carpet of lava and windows curtained with smoke, volcano in the background. Upon a throne of dark gold sits a beautiful woman gazing at herself in a mirror.
Enter Midoran by some magical means.
Midoran: Naruth, wouldst only thyself admire?
Naruth: I knew one day thou wouldst return!
Surely, as hot and passionate my fire
It seems your lusts more hotly burn.
Midoran: I came not here for lover’s ways;
Indulgences don’t satisfy.
At such things, now my priest plays:
With Gukathul’s priestess, he lies.
Naruth: Kahn ne’er was the honest sort.
Is that all thou hast to report?
For truth be told, what interest
Have I in what befalls Midor?
You do always what you think best;
It served me well during the war
But dragon proved, you failed that test.
Our alliance is no more.
Midoran: I see. Then it is just as well
You care not what my priest has heard
From undying lips. They truly tell
Such wondrous tales in whispered word.
A quest, failed. Consequence fell
Upon a paladin, e’re of my herd
One Marcus, now a traitor gone
Into the fold of Aristi’s son.
Naruth: I think that I doth know the name.
A hero beloved in the world.
You say his face hath now been maimed?
Midoran: By magics tossed and dire spells hurled
From the hands of some stale lich.
He travels now, with a strange witch
And seek they now to rectify.
Naruth: And who’d know beauty more than I?
But tell me, oh One True Creator
What benefit this brings to thee?
Midoran: I cannot trust to luck, nor fate,
Or chance. The plague, from memory
It fades, yet there is threat anew.
Such fated opportunity
Cannot be wasted.
Naruth: This is true.
Then go thee hence from out my place!
And I shall see what I can do
To cure this traitor Marcus’s face.
Exuent Midoran. Naruth goes to a tall mirror, one of many in the room. She touches it, and Juylina appears within.
Naruth: Juylina, hear me! Child of Flame
Of passions rent and fury spent.
Beauty is your birthright name
And I have use for thee.
Juylina: Goddess, glory unto thee!
Thy name above thy Sisters sings!
What pleasure that thou comest to me!
What e’er small task dost thee now bring?
Naruth: In Midor dost the Bishop rise
In power, true, though lately else
Between the Lady Fri’el’s thighs
And in this weakness, also tells
Of Marcus, Midor’s son now fled
To those who mourn Aristi’s loss
And would reclaim its glories.
In some failed quest, he paid a cost
For impudence against her god.
And while amusement in stories
Of vain men who bemoan their fate
Is entertainment, his beauty lost
Gives opportunity for us.
Juylina: I know of him, oh Flaming Queen!
He and his love, the orclun girl.
Marcus was handsome, indeed!
I, myself, would ride that steed.
Alas.
I doth presume those looks the price?
Naruth: Thy wisdom doth reflect me well!
Juylina: Reflection on thee is my life!
I shall anon encourage him
Through subtle reputation’s voice
To come to me. My intentions, pure,
Will send him forth to seek his cure.
Naruth: Pray to me, when Marcus comes
And when for fairness thou implore
I shall instead direct thee unfairly!
Through arcane means we will restore
And likely…. Yes! Oh, revelry!
What twisted sport this man will be!
Go, and do what e’er thou must
To gain this ruin’t paladin’s trust.
Juylina bows as Naruth laughs and turns away from the mirror, returning to her throne to preen and revel in her own genius. Fade to black.
Act One, Scene Four: A Final Plot Twist.
Scene change. Spotlight rises on a corner of the stage. Interior of cave. Gathered around a central scrying pool are five Ssisslayith, hissing and staring into the pool.
Shaman: It comes. The time. And we shall tassste
Our sssweet revenge. Look well.
This ssson of ssslaves is now disssgracsssed.
By vanity he is compelled
And now the tiny gods conssspire
To use this for advantage.
Priest: We sssee it all. We sssee it clear.
How sssweet that he will be sssent here!
Shaman: Though our prison isss now locked
This ssson of ssslaves will be our key!
What fools for love these mortals are!
What fools to bow for vanity!
All: Come! Come then, ssslaves once lost!
Come and know your faith’s true cost!
Requisite evil hissing as scene fades to black.
End Act One.
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"I've got a sword and it's a good one, but all the bleedin' thing can do is keep someone alive, listen. A song can keep someone immortal!" - Cohen the Barbarian |
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Re: Th-th-that's All, Folks
Posted: 28 Aug 2006 07:27 PM |
| ((*picks jaw off of the floor*)) |
Purpose in life: finding better ways of allowing players to kill themselves. Repeatedly.
--
"...Cause he mixes it with love
And makes the world taste good."
--
<@James42> Lawful good isn't in your vocabulary, it's on your menu.
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An Unexpected A Chord, Part Eight
Posted: 02 Sep 2006 06:17 PM |
Once upon a time...
Magic, like anything else in life, is something different for everyone. It comes in all forms and contexts, means and reasons.
One of the most common, least known yet most powerful is music.
It was everywhere. It was everything. It was in everything! The dying grass by her nose. The swirling, spinning stars that canopied the city outskirts. The pine trees moaning as they shifted slow in the wind. The distant sound of the waves, lapping against the piers. Boatman hollering, discordant then blending, becoming a single sonorous rhythm. The fire - crackle crackle pop crackle crackle pop - rhythm and rhyme to light the encroaching shadows. The smells of the night had color.
Everything was vibrating in her head. Slowly, even her eyes gave in to the sounds and became another set of ears, watching the world vibrate, vibrate, vibrate. Her friends rustled and hushed, giggled around her as they injected and fell into bliss. Karli hardly knew them any more, they were so beautiful, so strange, so full of tension and shivering.
Tears streams form her eyes and Karli was vaguely aware of laughter (or was it crying?) and only when she discerned the vibrations of it in her own throat did Karli know that it was she who was laughing, and adding that sound to the world made it a better place.
They were all watching.
"I love this part," Freckles muttered in a reverent hush. The others nodded, each smiling brightly as Karli fell again and again against the ground, her body arching and humming and gently writhing as she laughed and cried. Whispering, now.
"What's she saying?"
"Dunno, I c'nnae make't oot," Dellah sang, and yes, she sang, her voice a husky, rumbling vibration of sex and sorrow. Karli shuddered as it rippled through her, and Dellah's voice became a part of her mind's understanding of the word. It was all sex and sorrow. The world was Dellah when she spoke. Everything tickled with the vibrations of her speaking and her being.
" 'I can hear the song of the universe," Tessle drawled in a hush as he settled his back against the planks of the wagon stage. "That's what she's saying. Princess is hearin' It."
"On her first time?"
"First time's the best one," he returned. "Virgin blood. You know how it is what that. Magic, you know. Virgins. Something about breaking that innocence that's got the stuff. Besides, Princess has Talent, or else you wouldn't've let her stay on so long. Aint I right?" He grinned his grin, the one that had suckered so many with it's triumph, and Dellah humbled beneath it.
"Aye. Caged bird."
"Now she's free, and look at her. Gods, I can smell her! She's had herself a bliss moment off it!"
"Dunnae we all, noo? Stop yer gawkin' at the lass; she ain' gonna be given nothin' up tae ye, Tessle, mooch as yer eyes go a-beggin' 'round her skirts! Pass over the needle, a'ready!"
There was chatter. It all clicked and clacked and jumbled like riverstones to Karli as the cosmos unfolded. The night sky wasn't black but shades upon shades upon infinities of blue so incredibly blue you couldn't see them anymore, except Karli, only she wasn't hearing them so much as hearing the blueness. The blueness, that was it. There was somethingness to everything, and at all vibrated, humming below the understanding of the human ear. Too fast, too amazingly fast to comprehend, but you could hear the echoes of it. Karli knew it was only the slow echoes she heard but some of it... some of it...
"'Ere is she a'right?!"
"Princess?"
"Karli!"
"Someone grab 'er afore she 'urts 'erse'f!"
"No, no; let her go! Let her go..." Tessle, waving everyone off. Karli sitting bolt upright as though her spine was suddenly a coiled spring. Her eyes dilated to black, black so full you couldn't see the blue anymore and her skin flushed pink. Her ears were bleeding. Small drop fell to her shoulders through the netting of her black tresses.
"But the blood... ohgods...I'm too high f'r this...shouldnae done it, Tess! Shouldnae...shouldnae, ah shite stains, Karli! Karli..."
"Shut it! Listen!"
They all shut it. Karli sat there, weaving slightly as her ears bled and her arms hanged lax against her side, wrists to the cold ground. She was whispering, chittering the rhythms that filled her mind...filled... filtered...
Shhhhh.
Karli's head tipped back in a sudden movement that exposed her long throat to the cold universe as an offering and her mouth opened and her lips parted and her tongue pulled back and she vibrated her box, that special box inside our throats that makes us part of that beautiful Song and she Sang, and Karli Sang. It was beginning, and in the beginning there was light, so let there be light, let there be light, and the whole universe sings with light, and Karli was in the Light and she was the Light and it rang.
The A note, suspended. Suspended, like a bird in flight, or a bubble in the wind. Suspended, like time. It filled, and Karli's throat seemed like it split, and her tongue curled at the back. Two tones in one, now three. An A chord suspended from Karli's throat and everything was light.
Let there be light!
"....sweet gods..."
"Did she do that?"
"Aye. Aye, I think so."
"Yeah, it was her," Tessle drawled, watching Karli as she began to glow, and their small circle behind the make-shift theatre was filled with a soft yellow luminence.
"How did she do that?" Freckles reached her hand forward and shifted her fingers through the glow of Karli's voice, and as the young girl fells back once more to the ground, Freckles only stared in disbelief. "She's still glowing. She aint singing anymore, but she's still glowing."
"Yeah, I seen this before. Nothing quite like this, you know, not... not so much or all beautiful like that, but... yeah. It's magic."
"It's music."
"Yeah. Well, you know. Same thing."
"Sun'll be up soon," Tessle sighed, arching left to peek around the wagon toward the ruins on the hill. The pines were stick silohettes against the first hints of false dawn. Stars were beginning to fade at the eastern horizon. "Take yer turn, then. I think I'm gonna sit this one out. Nothin' I get'll top that." The thief and con and sometimes actor watched over Karli as she whispered and cried and trembled against the grass.
She was beautiful. And she'd never so much as notice him for anything other than a hit from now on. But he'd been her first, the first one to give her this, and for Tessle, that was as much as he knew he'd ever get out of the not-quite-noble girl. He settled his back against the wagon once again and lit his pipe as the rest of the troupe - save for the absent Po-Po - took a turn at the needle and the expansion of their minds. No, nothing he ever got out of the God's Blood would ever top what Karli had just done, bringing the essence of the universe to life just from her voice.
"Nothin' at all." |
"I've got a sword and it's a good one, but all the bleedin' thing can do is keep someone alive, listen. A song can keep someone immortal!" - Cohen the Barbarian |
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Aftermath.
Posted: 06 Sep 2006 08:17 PM |
The trial was over. She hadn't been there for the end, but she'd sat through the beginning.
Dana was dead. Opie wasn’t. That was the way people had wanted it, for the most part. That was the way that was fair. Well, as fair as life could get in circumstances like this, anyway.
Karli had found a good and trustworthy and surprisingly deep friend in Alyssa, the once-Naruthian. She knew the red-haired priestess would be Naruthian again if she could – not for the sake of the doctrine so much as for the comfort of belonging – but she, Alyssa, was strong enough to go on, anyway. Alyssa, too, realized she didn’t need to prove she was better than other people in order to be so. The bard had recently lamented to Alyssa that she, Karli, simply had taken the time to settle in for a true session of worship and praise of the goddess's gifts. It had once been a favorite ritual, performed at least once a month. These days, Karli was so busy trying to stay above the world that she'd forgotten how to allow herself to be in it, and accept the burdens of her beauty and her particular point of view.
Karli had always thought that the best part of being a devotee of Vilyave; Karli never had to prove to anyone she was wonderful and glorious in her own divinity – not even to Vilyave. Often she wondered if that was why she’d never been called to officially be Vilyave’s representative to others. It didn’t matter, she supposed. Karli was just as happy to be unofficial. Everyone with eyes could see that Karli was everything that the goddess could want from an earthly follower: beauty, talent, and a freedom of spirit unfettered by the so-called laws of Men, fallible as they were. Beauty, as an essence of life, was eternal. Truth, as an ideal, transcended Law. Love of all things good was something that simply made sense because all good things would give love in return.
What good was having fans if they didn’t love you? Karli had fans. All of her friends – they were her fans. She, in turn, was theirs because they had the clarity of mind to see a good thing when they saw it – namely, Karli – and the courage to accept her offerings of beauty, truth and love. These things, she was for them. She was beautiful because her fans needed her to be. She told the truth because her fans deserved nothing less. She loved them, because she had the strength to do so. These things, they were good, and so Karli was good. She didn’t need anyone of mortal authority to tell her she was by toeing some invisible line or subjecting herself to some spiritual leash. Good people didn’t need laws. Evil people need laws. Laws were made because of them, and everyone suffered from the burden of those laws because there were people who just couldn’t get over themselves and their stupid, petty hate or their stupid petty selfishness or their stupid petty vanity in order to see the truth: that the world would be better off without them.
Karli settled to her knees before the full-length mirror. Candles illuminated her nudity in a glistening, inconstant yellow, her skin still dewy moist from the hot bath. As Karli stared at her reflection, she looked past the flesh in the mirror’s image before her and into the truth beyond. She was leaving the last remnants of maidenhood behind. At twenty, Karli was now truly a grown woman, and the signs of the fullness were in every curve and line of her body. There was still softness to her body, but it was tempered by an edged quality brought on by the increase in exercise of her day to day routine. The pampered curves of her youth had melted, revealing lean muscle. She didn’t have Alyssa’s full, voluptuous figure, but instead had become a lean, lithe creature of grace.
Who am I? The questioned echoed as a mantra as, filling her tightly cupped hand with a light nut oil, Karli traced the contours of her body. Each stroke of her fingertips was applied in a ritualistic slowness, as though painting her flesh anew. Where her fingers passed, her bronzed skin glistened. Touching each inch of herself, getting to know the new woman she was becoming, saying goodbye to the memories of the girl without mourning of the loss, for this new Karli was also worthy of worship and adoring. Love yourself, and be made real.
Who am I? Her oiled palm slipped up the side of her long neck toward her earlobe. Each ear was pierced twice to allow for rings or studs of precious metals and gems. Her fingers bore the pale bands where rings decorated nearly every finger and her thumbs. She attended her nails before letting her body find peace and rebirth in the hot bath, and now each one was filed to a uniform roundness, short but not terribly so. She’s forgone painting them. Painted her nails had become a habit intended to mask the wear and ruin that her archery and her guitar and her neglect had done to them. Let every detail be made perfect, and let it shine unto the world as a light of glory. Toenails, too. Let each line proclaim the touch of the divine Sister. Let each mote of mortal flaw be cherished, because flaws left room for self-improvement. Strive always for self-improvement, and let Vilyave be glorified by that pursuit, and so delight in the flaws and eccentricities as they proclaim Her grace.
Who am I? Her reflection slowly revealed the answer. It was the same for Karli as it was for all.
I am who I permit myself to be. For the elect few, that meant near perfect, as Karli saw in herself. She saw that perfection because she knew it to be there. She had the courage and the humility to recognize her own greatness and embrace it. Most people couldn’t do that, she knew. Most people could accept that they were the more than the product of what life made them, and were instead, the product of how they chose to accept their life. As Karli settled back, stretching out her legs to make them glossy and slick with oil, each pass of her hands across her flesh mourned that loss to the world. It was always a loss when someone chose to do something evil, something hurtful or truly selfish. Indulgences were one thing, but true selfishness was something unforgivable. A truly selfish act can’t be taken back. A truly selfish act demeans the world by forcing it to submit to your own perspective. Bubble baths, overly expensive shoes and gold leaf hair pins didn’t qualify.
But what Dana did to the elves did. Karli wondered how many sad successions of what if’s had to exist in a long line of cause and effect before people simply gave up and blamed the whole world for a single act. At the trial, Ulalume had murmured how sad it was, and Karli agreed. The paladin hadn’t dismissed Dana’s actions as being anything but Dana’s fault and Dana’s choice, but there had been the what if’s. What if Dana’s family hadn’t gone out that day to be ambushed by the orcs? What if the chief hadn’t decided to make a cruel mockery of the Midorans by taking one of their daughters to turn into a primitive, graceless brute? What if Dana had been shown earlier the benefits of an enlightened philosophy? What if… what if… what if.
I am who I permit myself to be. I am beloved, because I have the courage to love others. I am beautiful, because I know beauty.
Karli wiped her hands upon a piece of the silk Allan had given her before reaching up and letting loose her curled, damp hair. It tumbled in ring and loops of ebon wildness to her shoulder, the curled, trimmed tips brushing feather light strokes against her skin. Karli had debated cutting her hair for a good hour, testing the looks in front of another mirror before deciding on a length she felt would be flattering. Her high, full cheek bones and the squareness of her jaw were accented gloriously by the new length, complimented by a slightly new angle of her eyebrows that she’d carefully plucked to form a gracefully arching line over her eyes.
Good people didn’t need laws. Laws didn’t protect the innocent and it didn’t define them, either. Innocence was something each person kept to themselves, made for themselves, or ruined by themselves. Something written down on a piece of paper and mandated by self-representative aristocrats didn’t stop bad things from happening. The best that could be said of laws was that fear of reprisals often kept curious or absently naughty people from doing something unnecessary. Without fear, laws wouldn’t be worth a dang, and fear was the domain of tyrants. So while laws didn’t always make for a tyranny, it was the same principle applied to varying degrees; a play could be tragic without being a tragedy, but there would still be crying eyes in the audience.
So Dana had committed a murder. It wasn’t that she’d killed, it was who she’d killed. Killing elves was Against The Law in Ferein, where she’d done the deed. Killing an orc wouldn’t have been. Of course, you *could* kill an elf in Ferein under certain circumstances, say, as in reprisal for a crime that elf had committed. Somehow, in the primordial mind of all intelligent creatures, the whole business of taking another being’s life was made into a matter of politics and, in turn, equated with the nebulous ideal of Justice. Killing a person who, by right of Law, hadn’t deserved it was murder. Killing a person who did deserve it wasn’t murder, it was Law Enforcement. The Law made it all right. The Law made killing good, because when it was done lawfully, killing was understood not to be done by any one person, but instead by the consensus of the entire society. When you could spread the blame for any one murder thin enough, it just didn’t count anymore.
So how many what if’s would have made Dana innocent of murder? How far back through the string of her choices and the line of coincidences and life’s upsets would a person need to go in order to say it wasn’t her fault, really, it was just how things had turned out? How much time, and how great an expanse of mortal buggery and foolishness and idiocy and selfishness would a person have to consider before they came to the simple, logical conclusion that there was no real crime… just life being its usual shitty, unfair self?
Imagine no societies. Imagine no religion. Imagine no borders. Imagine no crime. Imagine the understanding that all people were responsible not only for themselves, but for the actions and thoughts and feelings of everyone they touched. Imagine everyone praising and glorifying one another. Imagine all the people, living for today…
But that was no way to run a civilization, because out there, there were evil people, mucking it up for everyone. People who didn’t realize that every time they took it upon themselves to force their hate, their stupidity, their single-minded will or their anger on others, that it made the whole world worse. And it happened every day, countless times in countless ways. There was no end to it. Laws kept the cogs turning and the machine of society rolling, and maybe that wasn’t the divine way of being good, but it was the mortal way of being good. Obedience. Acceptance. Submission to common will. Dana hadn’t done that, and so her actions were a crime. She’d committed murder, the fourth worst crime a person could commit (in Karli’s mind, the worst was child abuse, the second worst was rape, and the third worst was torture) and so she, too must die.
In the logic of the Law, the death of the murderer was as close to a balance against the death of an innocent as could be had. Karli wasn’t sure how killing Dana at all measured up to the death’s of six elves who, by their own choice of occupation, faced death every day… but there you were. It wouldn’t bring the dead back to life, but maybe killing Dana would somehow, in some way, allow the world to be a better place because she wouldn’t be in it to do that sort of thing again. Maybe. It wasn’t justice.
Her execution served precisely two things, neither of which was Justice. Killing Dana would serve as an example to anyone else who might get it into their heads to do something similar. It was a warning. It was food for the fear that made good people bow and bare their necks and evil people laugh and bare their teeth. Secondly, killing Dana would serve hope. Hope that, somehow, because she would be dead that the world would no longer have to suffer her arrogance and her hate, her bigotry and her bloodlust. Fear and hope; that was Law.
Karli found it all confusing and stupid. The whole business was just sad, any way you sliced it. And because she had the courage to love and to try to make the world a better place by being a better person, Karli let this time of worship before the mirror be a time of pain as well. She mourned the loss of a woman who had defied the world and been herself, even though doing so was hurtful and insulting to everyone else. There was something respectable in that, even if Dana had, personally, been disgusting, offensive and vile. Karli mourned the loss of the elven rangers, who had died not because they’d been protecting their homes, but because hate had taken hold of Dana’s mind and twisted her perspective, coloring the world in tones of Us and Them. She mourned for Lucious, who had done the right thing and was paying the price for it. Karli mourned the state of the world, which the Laws never fixed but could always be counted on as an excuse to make things a little worse. Karli mourned for Rosen, who had revealed the depths of her own hate and bloodlust, a mirror reflection of Dana’s own. She mourned for Ophelia, who would live the rest of her days wondering what if… what if… what if…
It was a time of worship, this ritual of indulgence. The bath. The oils. The gently smoking incense. The candles surrounding her like stars in the romance of the room. The silks and the brushes. The jewelry and the bright colors of her robe. Vilyave be praised for Karli knew herself and loved herself, and that was enough to start. If all you touch and all you see is all your life, then all of your life is a mirror for yourself, as you are a mirror for those you allow into your life. You will be known by those with whom you associate. You will become those things you do. The love you give will be the love you receive. Be beautiful, and others will see the beauty in themselves. Let the truth be on your every word, and no one will be able to lie to you.
Karli knelt before the mirror, illuminated by candles, and reflected. |
"I've got a sword and it's a good one, but all the bleedin' thing can do is keep someone alive, listen. A song can keep someone immortal!" - Cohen the Barbarian |
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The Job in Midor: Part 2
Posted: 10 Sep 2006 02:45 PM |
The idea was your basic Switch Bait, but with, like, a hundred times the danger involved. How could I say no? The gnome told me he had the connections, and he certainly had the motivation – having a seven foot freaky old orcish crime-boss with two kama’s at your ears will motivate anyone to acts of genius. So Brodie filled me in on the details while we went over to Aramani’s to situate this totally fabulous dress, and seriously, if I had known that going into scams was this fun and this fashionable, I’d have started years ago.
Duping rubes into watching a good show while Tessle worked the crowd pockets so totally doesn’t count. I mean, that’s like… I mean, I didn’t even get involved! All I did was draw the crowds. It’s not like I did anything illegal, so this whole Midor job was totally freaking me out, you know? But in a good way. Anyway, yeah, I needed a dress, and it had to be a nice one. And apparently, the groups of stashed noble maidens of Midor – all those Dia Monte daughters and their ilk, in other words – were wearing corsets for formal engagements.
Now, I know this probably doesn’t mean much to any of you, or the significance of it, but trust me: you can known almost all you need to know about a person by the clothes they wear. I mean, okay, like, I hang out with lots of paladins, you know, and wow do they just go /off/ about how totally shallow it is to worry about clothes and, you know, what we wear isn’t important, blah blah, But! But you will never, ever see any of them bear more flesh to the world than is necessary to breathe, speak, and occasionally smile at someone. You know, because I think they have a rule or something that there’s this quota for one smile a week. All I’m saying is, like, if clothes are so unimportant, why so much fuss about making sure you’re wearing lots of it, right? OhmyGAWD, I saw Rose’s ankle! Bleeding demons, Ricky might maybe have possibly flashed a bit of chest hair!
Gasp! Shock!
Puh-lease! Clothes are /totally/ vital, okay, or else we’d all walk around naked. Except maybe when it gets cold.
So when I say the Daddy Doesn’t Know I Kiss Boys set is now wearing corset for one another, I’m saying that there’s a problem with the upper crust. Corsets are for flaunting. Corsets are for molding the plain and the inbred into young, available girls of extremely marital age. I’ve worn them lots of times, so I know what I’m talking about. Corsets are also painful if worn correctly, ‘cause you are not breathing normally. Most people don’t even notice the way their stomachs move in and out when they breathe, but ask any professional singer – when you have to breathe /just/ from your lungs, things like dancing and lively conversation are totally out of the question. The girls stay quiet, still, and smile in small, coy ways as they attempt to look comfortable while their ribs are being squeezed into their kidneys.
In other words, the aristocratic fashion wheel has turned, and it’s totally screaming out, “Come marry our daughters! Breed! We need numbers for the upper class!”
Numbers. Politics. Family ties between the noble families! It’s a power consolidation. It’s all there in embroidered lace and bruised ribs.
Don’t believe me? What, haven’t you even been paying the tiniest bit of attention? Fine. Just listen, and you’ll get it. And if you don’t well, just shut up and listen anyway, and get me a refill while you’re at it, Gigglepants.
Aramani was in his back office when Brodi introduced himself to the shop girl and demanded to see the reknowned tailor. They had an appointment – a very important one! – and time was of the essence. The shop keep girl failed to be impressed, and looked at the harried gnome and the under dressed actress with her onion-sniffing sneer.
“An appointment? I’ll just go and inquire with Mr. Aramani,” she sighed. “Please don’t touch anything.”
“Of course, of course,” Brodie returned absently, turning toward Karli as he rocked back onto his heels and favoring her with a wide grin of reassurance. His long, curled mustache seem to twitch, and his fingers fidgeted nervously, as though wishing by some genetic memory to be fiddling with something. Karli only turned toward the various modeled garb and admired the displays until she heard the shop girl returned. She was followed by a call from the back room.
“Send them in.”
Brodi gave a small hop of relief and jittery nerves as he turned toward the back room, gesturing for Karli to follow. With the vaguely fascinated expression of the amusedly bored on her face and the slow grace of a housecat in her hips, Karli drifted in on Brodie’s wake to find him engaged in hurried conversation with the master tailor.
“So this is she!” Aramani cooed, reaching out to take Karli’s hand in a warm gesture of welcome, his eyes flashing the signs of recognition while his smile betrayed his formally polite confusion. Karli smiles and dipped at the knees a little, a genteel courtesy accompanied by a slight lowering of her eyes. Respect but not submissive. She was, after all…
“…the Lady Reginia Castlon-Bentley, daughter of Reginald and Elenor Castlon-Bentley.” Brodi announced her with just the right inflection of impatience, pride and patronization to be the retainer he was pretending to be. He tugged briefly at the cuffs of his jacket sleeves before continuing. “I’m sure you know why we’re here, then.”
“Yes, of course! Delighted to meet you in person, Lady Castlon-Bentley,” Aramani assured her, staring at Karli with too many lingering moments of interest. The man was single at middle-age, and even Karli knew what that meant. That she was worthy of his attention was beyond flattering. She rewarded the man with a brighter, more genuine smile that shimmered as stars in her eyes. The master tailor gulped softly before, with some reluctance, releasing Karli’s hand to return to his desk. “The gown can be finished in two weeks, if you need.”
“Two weeks! Two weeks; the ball is merely days away! The Lady Castlon-Bentley is to be presented and we’ve yet the final arrangements with the potential groom’s family! By tomorrow!”
Aramani nearly swallowed his tongue as he glared disbelief at the gnome below. “Tomorrow?! That’s impossible!”
“It’s absolutely necessary!”
Karli listened to the two argue for another thirty seconds before stepping forward, sweeping her presence between them. Her attention focusing on the master tailor, Karli lifted her eyes from the floor to ensnare his gaze. When the soft swallow of dryness signaled as a flash of his throat, Karli smiled in disarming, sensually nubile helplessness.
“Please, Master Aramani,” she began, her voice as smooth as fresh cream. “Surely, you can understand how important this is for the city. For my family.” The heart’s beat of pause. “For me.”
“I- I… well, yes, I suppose,” the good Master Aramani stammered, and his lips twitched into an automatic smile, prompted by Karli’s own.
“And my father understands what an incredibly arrogant inconvenience this is on our part, to take such liberties with such a Master craftsman.” Karli’s tongue spread the butter of her words, and her feet swept her another few inches closer to the unwitting tailor. Her hands clasped gently behind her back, her posture poised within her sleeveless vest in distracting ways, the young bardess begged tha tailor for his indulgences, even as she spoke her flattering apologies. “He’s promised the best compensation he can manage on such a rushed occasion.”
“Er, yes! Yes, in fact I’ve been authorized to pay you an additional five thousand for your troubles,” Brodie chimed in, taking his queue and adding to Karli’s demure insinuations his own professional smile. A velvet purse was soon produced, and it clanked and jingled as required as it was tossed on the tailor’s desk. Aramani’s eyes moved from Karli to the gold, and sighed.
“I … I shall do my best.”
“I never had any doubts!” Brodie proclaimed. Aramani took up his measuring tape, and Karli stepped forward. Within a few minutes, the business was concluded and the gnome and the human girl left Aramani, casually triumphant.
Brodie was into Jessup for something. A favor, I think, or money or both. Probably both. I’d missed most of the conversation between the two of them, to be honest, though now I wish I’d eavesdropped a bit more intently, you know? Still, I was in it for the job itself more than to help a gnome I didn’t really know and who was probably lying to me.
I’ve got this issue, right? I hate nobles. I mean, okay, some of them are all right, but for the most part they’re all jerks. Serious jerks. Like, somehow, having money and political power and authority through the laws your ancestors made makes you a better person? Give me a break. Most of them are so ugly and inbred that the only way they can even get some kind of attention is to buy it. How’s that for pathetic? So when Brodie filled me in on the details, I was more than happy to help out.
A little history, I guess. The Castlon-Bentley’s are one of the cornerstone families of Port Royal. They have been for centuries, and are as integral to the court as the Queen herself. Well, okay, maybe not that integral, but the Castlon’s and the Bentley’s are founders, you know? In amidst the twisting and winding knot-work that is the baronetage of Port Royal, the families merged, but to be honest, by that time, everyone was already everyone else’s cousin anyway, so it’s all probably just a matter of paperwork stuffed away in some assayer’s desk, you know? It’s all, like, just about property and estate inheritance and merchant kinds of stuff and taxes. I mean, there was no way I would ever be part of that fartwind institutionalized prostitution, you know? Still, that’s how it’s done and marriages between families equates to political mergers and promises and money exchanging, and all of that equates to power.
Reginia Castlon-Bentley was going to Midor to meet her intended husband, a priest of the Midoran church. They weren’t officially engaged yet, so this whole business with the ball and the trip to Midor was a meet-and-greet so that Reginia could look at her future and get an early start on a drinking problem. No, not really. She’d likely meet him, keep quiet, accept her fate as a good girl of a noble family doing her part, maybe get some information to bring back to daddy for him to use for some purpose of his own. Then a few months later everything would be arranged by the parents regardless of whether or not Reginia actually liked her betrothed, and seriously, being a priest of Midoran? What are the odds of that, right?
I would be Reginia. The real Reginia would be on a ship to somewhere, and by the time she got back, the whole mess would be over. Brodie’s expectations were simple: play the crowd at the party, get the boys to fawn and drool over me, and by the end of the party I’d have enough gifts to sell off for a tidy profit that Brodie could use to pay Jessup back. Could I play the part of a noble daughter who was being pawned off to some stranger in an attempt to secure a social alliance between two politically disparate parties? Yeah. I’ve got a little practice with that. This job was going to be totally the easiest acting job of my career! Get money out of ignorant rich men with balls bigger than their brains? No problem; Brodie would have his cash and I’d get a cut. The part about ruining the marriage between Reginia and this priest was my idea.
Everything would have gone off really fine if Brodie had actually been telling me the truth.
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"I've got a sword and it's a good one, but all the bleedin' thing can do is keep someone alive, listen. A song can keep someone immortal!" - Cohen the Barbarian |
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Reflection: A woman, a goddess.
Posted: 05 Oct 2006 04:41 PM |
Sidetrack.
The worship of any of the three Sisters is the worship of femininity. The Goddess figure begun in the Mother, Elbereth, was refined in the Triplets, separated into its composite parts and pit against one another in that eternal struggle of the inner female.
Naruth – passion, hot and scorching and enticing; fire that draws men like moths to a candle, delighting and hypnotizing and burning their wills to ash; after all, no one dealing with a Naruthian could say they didn’t know what they were getting into. Didn’t they feel the heat? Didn’t their eyes grow dry and tearful with the brightness? Didn’t their blood boil in their veins and didn’t they recognize the moment that desire overwhelmed their judgment? Of course they did. Lust could bring a kingdom to ruin. Fire turns useless lumps of ore into bright blades that can fell dragons. That it burns the woman too is hardly any reason to forgo the glories of that bright, undeniable power. The fire that burned was the strength that soothed. The flames that scarred the heart was a balm that kindled renewal. A firebird burned in glory, then rose once more from its own ashes.
Halriss – calculation, merciless and inescapable. A woman’s ire was an avalanche of cold logic, impenetrable against emotional entreaty or pleas for mercy. Forgiveness was an invitation to pain. Compassion perpetuated the cycle of vulnerability. A woman set on a task held in the ice-grip of her mind is unstoppable. Men often complain of women being unreasonable or stubborn, mindless of the context of reality. The reality, however, is that a glacier cares not for the context of the geography. The glacier is the only reality that matters. It simple moves forward, unstoppable and unchanging, its predetermined course careless of whatever fool might be in its way. A single mistaken word, look or gesture received by a woman set in the cold of her own heart’s winter would become an avalanche of accusations and consequences. But in the stillness of the calm and the flawless, soundless pause of a woman in charge of her own destiny is power and beauty that could bring a man to weeping. A woman who knows, with clear, cool clarity what it is that she wants and who it is that she loves is an amazing creature.
Vilyave – capricious and creative; elusive and strange. She is the soft kiss that touches the cheek of the weeping child. She is the wisp of a silken veil hiding the secret smile of a dancer. The wind can be caught and used, for a time, but it always escapes in the end and no one claim to own it. The sparkle in a woman’s eyes as she spies some amusement and the laughter that follows can steal a man’s breath away. A woman’s mind is never in one place for very long, though it may be in many places at once. Everything is more than it seems, to a woman. Say, “You look nice, today,” to a woman and, depending on her mood, she might hear “I think you are beautiful!” or she might hear, “You look like a lump of dog turd most of the time; this is a nice change.” Vilyave is a songbird hidden in the trees, invisible but undeniable. The unpredictability and the mystery is alluring, and a challenge to any man who might consider himself a worthy hunter or sailor. You may woo a woman of such beauty and grace and you may bed her, but she is free and you will never cage nor tame her. She is beyond your grasp; felt but never touched.
Karli left Wilem's bedroom in the wee hours, darkness and dew still settled on Brandibuck, invigorating and silent. Her body still trembled inside from the pleasure she'd found beneath him, her mind flushed of worry and doubt. Guilt had long vanished. Allan wasn't a part of this. If the knight priest of the Aristi chose, for the sake of his virtue, to deny himself the wonders Karli had to offer, that was his choice and Karli respected that. Wil was forbidden from certain places she held sacred and reserved for her future husband, but everything else had been explored and exploited. Karli denied herself that last unveiling knowledge of womanhood for Allan's sake, and as far as she was concerned, that was price enough. There was no sense in forgoing the glories of being female and beautiful and vital just because her fiancee thought the only thing that ought to involve a tongue was singing hymns and prayer.
Allan was perfect. Karli was perfect. Therefor, it made sense that, together, they would be perfect. It continued to weigh on the bard's mind, then, that somehow things were less than perfect. They were every classic duo in a single, beautiful yin-yang of frustration. The knight and the bard. The paladin and the thief. The princess and her champion. The damsel and the hero. The priest and the seductress.
It was romantic! It was the essence of every epic fairy-tale that had ever been written! Their quests of valor together were always a success. There was no foe they faced together that they didn't vanquish. The world, when Allan and Karli marched forth upon it, fell before them as the glory of their perfect compliments flanked every hurdle and every difficulty!
Except the ones they made for themselves. Karli wanted a lover. Allan wanted a wife. Despite Alyssa's admonitions that marriage would change Allan's attitudes about sex, Karli had her doubts. After all, what difference does a ceremony make? How would a public announcement of mutual entanglement of their lives bring Allan to any awareness of Karli's existance as a flesh and blood woman with NEEDS, oh goddess the NEEDS! Sometimes Karli thought she might go insane, especially when Wil was off somewhere with his blonde, strange vampire hunter.
The wedding wasn't coming soon enough, but now, with her plans in motion? Karli wondered if things weren't going to have to be postponed. She was going to be very busy. They both were. Allan was, after all, avowed and sworn to the Aristi in more than just a political allegience. Whenever Karli saw him in his meditations, chanted prayers on his lips as he turned himself inward, seeking that enlightenment of the Self Divine Karli knew that she was very, very far from his thoughts. She wasn't Allan's first and truest love though, likewise, neither was he Karli's. She loved her freedom. He loved his piety. Marriage couldn't mix oil and water.
Karli gently roused Kusin, gave him a bright smile and an apology and payed him twice over for his troubles. Arriving on the coast, the boat was moored for the remainder of the dark hours, but Karli didn't mind. She had a lot to think about.
The gentle hush and ebb of the breakwaters along the coast of Ladriel lulled her into calm as she settled onto one of the stool at the fire. Port Royal would be a dangerous place for her from now on, but that was her destination anyway. Worst of all, she would have to face it alone. Allan wouldn't be able to help her with this. Without her shield and sword, without her knight in shining armor, would she be able to overcome her demons?
((Edit note: spelling corrections, a few additions to reflections on the goddesses.)) |
"I've got a sword and it's a good one, but all the bleedin' thing can do is keep someone alive, listen. A song can keep someone immortal!" - Cohen the Barbarian |
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An Unexpected A Chord, Part Nine
Posted: 23 Oct 2006 04:46 PM |
So, it was eight months later...
You can probably guess how it went the next morning when I finally came around. It was closer to afternoon, but when feel like your body is sunken into the earth by a foot or two it doesn't matter much what the sun is doing. Po-Po had been the only one awake, so he took me home through the back way. It didn’t matter coming in the dock side of the manor or not. Dad had been in the lobby, furiously pacing between the couches. Lord So-and-So was gone, he’d said, ostensibly to prepare lodgings but we both knew what it really meant, didn’t we? We had a fight that sent Nanny into tears, running for the nursery. I’d have made a Naruthian proud. So whether he kicked me out of the house or I left, I was just as gone. Karlina Genevra Askwith disappeared. Karli Goodfellow was part of a small troupe that left Port for the wide-world later that week. We would follow the path blazed by Wilom Wilde on his tour through Vives. We’d play the crowds the day before, and catch all the shows. I was free.
We’d close every show with a group sing and a bow, then when the stage was packed back up on the wagon we’d go out into the trees a bit and Fix. It got to be a ritual. Everyone but Po-Po was part of our sky-high, spun-free religion. The music and the laughs were evergreen.
Two months back, we’d gone as far as Gladden and I met up with Jorg “Bloody Thumbs” Gridlow. Being around him was like sitting at the foot of one of those old, gnarled oak trees you come across in the forests that seemed in its quiet way of just standing there to tell you that it wasn’t very impressed you’d finally arrived. His shoulders were so hunched his ribs had probably fused together years ago. His hands didn’t remember what it was like not to hold a guitar. If you’d seen the place, he’d lived there. If you ever felt something, he’d written a song about it. He had Talent, and had cost Della two coin on a lost bet when I’d managed to not get in Bloody Thumbs’ cabin door, but got him to agree to a few lessons. The first thing I learned was that to play an instrument the way it was supposed to be played, you made it a part of you. It started with the hands, with blood and blister-water and tender flesh. The old man’s body had grown around his instrument over the years, and he looked vulnerable and wrong when he’d set it down.
“So, it’s kind of like Sorcery?”
A stubbled face of thick wrinkles scowled. “No. It aint “kind of like” nothin’. Sorcery is just natural magic, born into people ‘cause even Elbereth aint above workin’ tricks in Her routine. But ya gotta have the Talent, of course, if yer gonna be a real bard.”
The hands were fluid over the strings and throat of the old guitar, like brook water over stones. The music they made seemed disembodied, somehow, from the actual movements of the hands. The things Bloody Thumbs did with his body were incidental, nothing more than a mask for the Music.
I was entranced and he was a small god and I guess I pleased him, somehow, because he talked to me just fine and we, that is me and friends, stuck around Gladden for a couple of months, sometimes wandering as far as the outskirts of Midor but always coming back to the farms. It was everything Port wasn’t, and that was fine by me.
“But you gotta study, too, because Talent isn’t enough. Not when you got to make people hear it and understand. You can’t speak without a voice. You can’t be a bard unless you know the language, y’unnerstand? Don’t matter what you play, though. Don’t matter if you sing. Don’t matter if you acting or tellin’ tales that need tellin’, because its all the Magic, y’unnderstand that?”
“There’s lots of wizards that’d totally disagree with you on that, Mister Gridlow.”
The music paused for a moment and Bloody Thumbs gave Karli a withered, salty glare. “Yeah, an’ when do wizards know everything? There’s magic in all forms and ways ‘cause there’s magic in lots of different things, right? It’s got its reasons, same as everything else.” He went back to playing, showing me the progression of chords once more as I clumsily tried to ape his performance.
“Sorcerers are born to make magic the way gnomes are born to build things. And it comes out the same way, too: big and flashy and full of fire but it don’t help for nothin’ with the tax man.
“Wizards read their books and learn how to see things differently. All details and ‘what ifs’ and mysterious inner bullshit.
“Priests say it all belongs to the gods, ‘cause they made everything and what’s the difference if magic comes from some mysterious force that don’t got a name or it does got a name?
“Druids, well, I aint ever rightly understood them. Seems to me Nature takes care of Herself pretty well, but I guess She don’t agree ‘cause I seen them do some scary things. You ever been in a hurricane? You ever stood in the path of a plague of locusts? You ever been in the desert when the dust storm came, looking like a tidal wave of blackness and fire coming to swallow the world? Nothing a wizard can do is more powerful than that, so why not call it magic?
“You can get gadgets and rings and all manner o’ things that’ll make yer stronger. Faster. Toss off somethin’ glowey and hurtful. You can put magic in a box and, know the right words or buttons to push and you can borrow yourself enough power to fake it.”
Thumbs stopped playing and his whole body seemed to pause in the silence, as though his heart couldn’t beat unless there was music. I looked into his eyes, and Someplace Else stared back.
“Ours is somethin’ a little different. See, a bard aint a bard unless there’s someone to hear you, y’unnerstand what I’m sayin’, girl? Aint no good to be creative and poetic and romantic an’ all that pretty ribbons and glitter bullshit when there aint no one around. That’s the time you aint anythin’. When you’re alone and it’s only silence in the world, you don’t exist. Musics gotta have an audience. We play the magic between people, y’unnderstand? Somethin’s always gotta hear you, but if it’s just you, then there aint no point.
“You practice that guitar, little girl. You let her cut you and break you and cost you. And every song, every poem, every play and every dance will be something only of you and your Talent will shout out loud for the world to hear.”
I had to leave, eventually because the troupe was moving on. It wasn’t good in the south, anymore. Something in the air was different, and after the day we all spent as purple badgers, we all figured maybe north was a better way to go, though not any further than the desert. I didn’t want to go. There was magic in that cabin and it felt old and good and safe. But we were broke.
Mister Gridlow let me buy the dusty practice guitar, though. It wasn’t a great one, and it’s wood needed repair and oil to bring it back to life, but it was solid enough. He didn’t ask for much, but Thumbs wasn’t the sort of man to give a gift, and it felt better making an honest trade than leaving with some debt between us. He’s dead now, so he did the right thing by making the guitar mine. Five months later, I woke up one dewy morning, nestled in the tree-line surrounding the lake in Ladriel to see my friends in a circle around the sacred fire, the holy instruments of our worship scattered on the blankets, and my guitar made a sacrifice unto the god of The Fix.
I got on the boat heading to Port with the money I took from their pockets while they slept. A couple days later I was coming up the stairs from the washroom in the basement of the Four Winds when I met a funny, socially-constipated wizard named Lucious Edmonds.
The beginning. |
"I've got a sword and it's a good one, but all the bleedin' thing can do is keep someone alive, listen. A song can keep someone immortal!" - Cohen the Barbarian |
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Re: An Unexpected A Chord, Part Nine
Posted: 16 Jul 2013 04:22 AM |
| You bards were always the best writers. Marlena was no exception. I it was her that also kicked off the whole Black Hand/Stagecrafters story that of course dragged Willom Wilde into it. |
ONWARD AND UPWARD! |
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