At the Fochlucan

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Ithildur
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At the Fochlucan

Post by Ithildur »

Silverymoon is a city well known as a bastion of culture, arts, and learning set in the midst of a harsh and dangerous region. Throughout the Gem of the North, there are many beloved public places that host 'open stage' nights, where those with performance aspirations (regardless of whether they're actually bards or no) as well as the courage and skill to stand up to the scrutiny (and occasionally boos and thrown objects in the case of a few establishments) have the opportunity to display their talents, earn some coin and notoriety, and more. The most notable of these is of course, the Fochlucan, where, in spite of some discontent and murmuring over the still missing shipment of various items, the show continues to go on... and a young half elven minstrel takes the stage during one of these open events.

Dressed in a simple, yet elegant tunic of green, with gold lace stitched into his collar and buttons, the handsome, dark haired fellow takes a seat and tunes his lute, casting a sweeping glance over his audience with his blue eyes. An exaggerated wink yields a small chorus of delighted squeals from a trio of young maidens to his left, and with a small, satisfied nod, his fingers begin plucking out flowing arpeggios over a steady bass line. A moment later, his clear voice launches into a familiar but well loved piece ascribed to the legendary Lonely Harpist, Mintiper Moonsilver.


Along Selûne’s path they did walk,
Leaving no stone unturned.
A battle fought, all but six were lost,
A final triumph earned.

A nether tide swept down the pass,
In search of silver plunder.
Two hundred strong the mists did cloak,
Ready with waiting thunder.

Arching shafts flew aloft in flocks,
And boulders rained down on the field.
The tuskers’ blood ran red and hot,
While nary a blade did they wield.

From yonder bluffs did lightning strike,
Reaving a scarlet furrow.
By Art lived, by reflection lost,
Freestaves laid forever low.

With cries of rage the orcs did charge,
The battle joined at last.
The waves were dashed upon the rocks,
And none did ever pass.

Five score did fall upon each blade,
Ere the nether tide receded.
And of the rocks that stood so firm,
Only bloody sand postceded.

Along Selûne’s path they did walk,
Leaving no stone unturned.
A battle fought, all but six were lost,
A final triumph earned....



The audience's reaction through the performance clearly indicate the success of the night to the bard, who can't help but allow himself a self satisfied smile as the song nears it's conclusion. Unexpectedly however, the smiles among the listeners melt away, replaced by frowns and baffled expressions. The singer himself frowns as well, as he begins to realize the reason why; the words coming out of his mouth are no longer the familiar stanzas, but replaced by a steady, repetitive chant in a language unfamilar to the bard, set to a melody and rhythm both simple yet strangely mesmerizing:


lleisgar vur hysvear
lleisgar vur hysvear
wer korinth tepohaic gethrisja
vur wer jennu cycle shartlegi

lleisgar vur hysvear
lleisgar vur hysvear
wer tairais tepohaic confn
vur wer jennu cycle shartlegi


The song comes to an end, and the bard looks about dazedly, the audience staring with stunned confusion for the most part, and the few learned ones who recognize the speech seem even more confounded. One figure rises quickly from his seat: a tall, middle aged human male with silver streaked hair and a keen gleem in his eyes. With brisk strides he exits the auditorium, vanishing into the night.


**************************************************************************************************


Before the night is over, rumors begin circulating about the strange incident, complete with a loose translation of the mysterious words:


Rise and soar
Rise and soar
The Rage has gone
and the Great Cycle Turns

Rise and soar
Rise and soar
The Time has come
and the Great Cycle Turns




The strange speech, say the rumors, was none other than Draconic.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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orangetree
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Re: At the Fochlucan

Post by orangetree »

An unknown halfling hears of this rumour intrigued, and tries to learn more. She goes to the Fochlucan, and has a look around...

After some time, she grows.. concerned. She books a room at the Solar's inn, while looking around the Fochlucan too.
Last edited by orangetree on Sat Mar 22, 2014 12:25 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Ithildur
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Re: At the Fochlucan

Post by Ithildur »

Notices written in elegant script go up in various parts of the Gem:

Wanted: the services of intrepid adventurers who will brave the wilderness and dangers in search of fame and fortune.

Seek me at the Fochlucan

Lu'cette of Argillia, formerly of Waterdeep
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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kiyoti
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Re: At the Fochlucan

Post by kiyoti »

As Boz makes his way through the market he spies one of the posters. After reading it he pulls it down with a grin.

"Fame and fortune eh? Sounds like a job for...THE KNIGHTS DRACONIS!"

With a sly smile he rolls up the flier and heads back to Bright Blades, eager to show his fellow Knights what he has found.
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Bozwell "The Dragonheart" of Clan Blackstone, Explorer, Scholar, Knight Draconis

Gamespy: BigDaddyBones
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Ithildur
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Re: At the Fochlucan

Post by Ithildur »

A smiling figure eyes the posted signs for some time.

"Aye, I'll need to go tell the others about dis..." they were heard muttering before fading into the hustle and bustle of Silverymoon's marketplace.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Ithildur
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Re: At the Fochlucan

Post by Ithildur »

The scene was an impromptu session featuring a handful of the Fochlucan's most confident minstrels... one that lasted hours upon hours into the wee hours of the morning. Amidst the displays of skill and wit it was even suggested, half in jest, that the legendary Mintiper Moonsilver would have been hard pressed to top the songs, verses, recitations, and improvised instrumental performances that came forth on the whims of the various bards.

It was not until the very end when yawns were creeping forth from even the most youthful and exuberant of the performers, and things seemed about to come to conclusion, that some of the more awake ones noted the unfamiliar figure seated at the edge of the stage. He or she wore a blue cloak that covered most of their form, and a wide brimmed green hat hid the face in shadow, but for the bare, un-bearded chin. With none in the mood for asking questions, the figure strummed a few languid chords in the Aeolian mode on a small lute and began to hum; the voice was a rich, dark pleasant contralto, so dense that many wondered if the singer was indeed a woman. The melody and strumming were skilled and pleasant enough, nearly so that several heads began to nod; perhaps there was a touch of the arcane in the music, nothing too unusual.

It was the verse however, that quickly caught the attention of the listeners; those who listened found themselves quickly jarred from their drowsy state, and those that understood the speech wondered even more greatly. One elderly bard however, whose lore and travels were known to surpass that of all the rest, listened with grim countenance and keen light in his grey eyes.

persvek wer eorikc di wer shochraos kepeski
iski vur shochraos wielga de shafaer yoweth
wer ocuirari tepohada ocuirtor, wer relgr bihainwor forth
ekess dryic astahi svaklar astahii ornla wharac

ini katimai di ro wioti
dryica persvek irthos, naktada persvek houpeir
creol ihk weal, shar creol ihk woe
ihk asta tairais naktada patiently biding

saurivic re nif jaka shafaer wer brink
waphir laraeki persvek confnir arytei
wielg persvek goawy wer missing ganim
wer tairais geou confn ekess lleisgar vur hysvear


There was a breathless moment as the song ended, and all seemed paralyzed almost as if held by a spell. The elderly bard blinked and rose to his feet after a while, calling for the stranger to be detained.

The chair however was empty, with no trace of the performer.



******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************


When asked a short while later, the elderly bard gave a quick, loose translation, then departed the Fochlucan without further word.


In the Year of the Lightning Storms
Stars and lightning fell from on high
The Seers had seen, the call went forth
To gather them where they would lie

By servants of eternal foes
Gathered in secret, kept in hiding
Some for weal, but some for woe
For their time kept patiently biding

Eyes are open now on the brink
Living weapons in coming wars
Fall in place the missing link
The time will come to rise and soar



Word about the incident begins to trickle to various establishments around the Gem, with various badly mangled versions of the translation along with much speculation accompanying the talk.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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