No sir, not a bard

[Ithildur]

Sounds of a lute being strummed can be heard frequently of late in one of the wings of the Lady's College, muffled by the closed door of Arathil's room.

Practiced fingers move up and down the frets of the instrument, though the resulting music is not as polished as the player would wish, not quite on par with that of a skilled and trained bard.

Arathil frowns, stopping to shake loose the sinews and musles of his long fingered hands, and chuckles quietly.

"You were clearly meant to be wrapped around the hilt of a blade, more so than plucking strings!" he muses as he stares at his right hand. "Still... 'An elf must be about more than simply bashing things with a blade or flinging spells'... " He pauses as he glances at his left hand, equally long fingered though hinting at subtle differences.

The elf reflects on the mantra his father had urgently but patiently instilled in him, one of many learned during the time they lived in non elven surrroundings. Yes, there certainly was urgency in the things that were taught, for even Arathil's open minded father dreaded that decades of living in Waterdeep would undully influence the young sun elf.

"Eat the meat, spit out the bones," the elder Eskalas had often repeated. "Learn what is good, from the other races, Arathil, and leave what is not. That was the way of the City of Song, part of the Coronal's dream." He could almost hear the sigh and slight pause, followed by the characteristic snort of his father as he added, "Alas that so many could not do so, letting ancient pride and prejudice ruin so much - and our people, the Ar'Tel'Quessir, the worst offenders among them!"

It seems that my thoughts turn to my family often of late, Arathil mused. I must send word to them soon once again, either via mundane or arcane means, though I would not be surprised if they were gone more often than not, now that I am no longer there. He smiled at the thought that his departure was indeed a good choice, a timely one perhaps, allowing the elder couple to pursue their duties with greater freedom, and allowing him to follow his heart, his vision.

Something within the elf stirred; a thought, no... a feeling? A passing trace of something remembered... or something yet to come perhaps?

His thoughts returned to the present, the vexing lute still in his arms, inviting him to continue. He strummed a chord progression quietly, eyes closed, the muscles in his fingers remembering the shapes, the patterns.

Suddenly it came to him. A few phrases at first, a half formed melody, expanding to something more. His fingers moved, and eyes closed, he began to sing.

An hour so later, he stared at a parchment he had filled with text written in crisp, elegant Espruar, along with musical notation written in shorthand form.

"What have I wrought?" mused the elf with a half amused, yet satisfied snort as he glanced at the page. He began strumming the lute again, singing the simple words with a clear voice. Finishing the performance, he whispered a prayer of thanks and dedication to Corellon, his patron deity, revered by both warriors and artists among the Elves.

"Not bad for a clumsy would-be bard, I think," he mused. "Though it presently lacks a worthy maiden to present it to." he added with a chuckle.

"Enough; time for some swordplay..." His eyes flashed with an eager light as he put the lute away.



If I had a thousand tongues

To sing of the wonders of your eyes

Beauty that I once knew only in songs

Pierces my heart, releasing her unfettered cries



And I fly

Yes I fly

With the wings of the Avariel,

Gliding through blue skies of the soul

Where only you and I know

Deep and sweet wounds that swell

Deeper yet within,

Calling out, reaching,

Someplace beyond, almost seen

Just out of reach, only you know what I mean

Yes I fly


If I had a thousand words to say

To say it each and every way

Beauty inexpressable, yearning to be

Spoken of, spoken for,

Bound by choice, with chains that set free

And my restless heart frets

No more

[Ithildur]

"Fortunate find," Arathil mused with a deeply pleased expression apparent on his face. "What are the odds that I'd end up living in a city where Mintiper Moonsilver's best works are compiled and kept within walking distance from my abode? Surely it's no accident!"

The gold elf eagerly yet soberly scanned the copied words on the parchment before him, letting their poetic meaning and historical significance sink in, as he imagined in his mind the chords, tune, and rhythm that might accompany them.

"Myth Glaurach, the City of Scrolls..." he sighed. "Bits of tales I've heard, but my lore is not quite extensive enough. And my modest skills would not do this ballad justice!"

"I must find a competent bard, one with some sense of history as well as depth of soul... Surely this ballad would strike a chord with the people of the Marches."


Myth Glaurach

No more do lovers pledge their troth,
Or gaze upon the stars.
No more do children sing and dance,
Or dream of lands afar.

(CHORUS)
For all about are bloody bones,
And shattered dreams now lost.
A sea of orcs sought only death,
Myth Glaurach was the cost.

No more do towers soar aloft,
Or cast their shadows deep.
No more are stones made into walls,
To form a sturdy keep.

(CHORUS)

No more do fields turn gold with grain,
Or wells yield water blue.
No more do tomes hold cherished lore,
Or teach old thoughts anew.

(CHORUS)

ballad entitled "The Horde’s Wake"
attributed to Mintiper Moonsilver, the legendary Lonely Harpist
Year of the Arch (1353 DR)

[Ithildur]

"Balance, balance, balance...!" whispered the elf as he shifted the weight from his leading foot to his left and slid into a defensive position. At the same time, the long fingers of his right hand deftly loosened their grip for a fraction of a second, thumb and forefinger working on the hilt of a long, straight edged blade as the blade shifted into a reverse grip, his right forearm subtling moving, guiding.

The blade flashed twice, three times, each time at a different angle to the outside, tapping, deflecting away would-be attacks from a visualized foe with minimal exertion, defensive parries relying on quickness, rhythm and anticipation rather than meeting force with strength.

The blade seemed to hum, to sing, for a brief instant.

Immediately Arathil shifted his weight once more, his back foot sliding to his left, the longsword rising quickly; then a flick of a slender but strong wrist the blade glided to slash in the same direction, somehow the grip reversed once again quickly enough to be unnoticed by untrained eyes.

It was a feint, meant to mislead and provide an opening.

His torso twisted in midstroke, wrist and forearm snapping, uncoiling like a cobra with multiple strikes. The blade hummed louder, as it cut across and struck twice in rapid succession, the first strike barely visible in it's speed and meant only to clear the path of the enemie's defense for the second strike, the one that would find its mark.

Swoosh-katang! Then a split second of silence.

"Breathe,"

Arathil shifted back into a defensive position, reversing the grip once more and restarting the pattern.

"Two hundred," he counted to himself, pausing only for the briefest of a second before preparing to begin once more. This time, however, his breath was more measured, the intake of air deliberate, filling his relaxed lungs with power, his brows furrowed in concentration. His left hand, thus far held out in relaxed but readied position to the side, began to rise slowly and move in a pattern, a simple enough one to those familiar with the Art.

"Tripudio Lux Lucis, Unas Amplus!"

The arcane words came from his mouth, half command, half song, and much to Arathil's satisfaction, fully effective, as a faintly glowing, vaguely humanoid shape appeared and took shape before him. A simple spell indeed, Dancing Lights invoked into a single form, but quite useful at times for different purposes.

"It will give me something a bit more concrete, but still subtle and vague enough to test my senses," Arathil thought. "For a little while at least - enough time for me to ... try it..."

The elf felt a bit foolish for a moment, thinking about what he was about to attempt. He had no reason to expect that he would succeed; he had neither the training nor practical experience, other than seeing a most memorable demonstration by a pair of advanced Bladesingers at a martial exhibition during Cinnaelos'Cor, the Day of Corellon's Peace, during his days on Evermeet. He had watched and heard an incredible fluid combination, nay a blur, of sound, movement of both blade and elf, song and spellcasting, that took his breath away - a musical, beautiful, yet potentially deadly blend that within seconds wrapped the bladesingers in various protective magics even as the two blades thrust and parried their high speed dance like a pair of Quicklings (so fast that often he thought he was watching four blades rather than two in action-he could certainly see why they did not use, nor need, shields), the haunting and wordless singing of the two warriors mixing with the humming and clattering blades almost in harmony - all of this tripled, quadrupled, quintupled in effect by the mirroring images that surrounded both Bladesingers.

The young Arathil had been just as impressed by demeanor of the two elves as the display of skill and magic. They carried themselves with grace and poise, intelligence obvious in their eyes, but also with an air of true nobility about them, a calm but strong resolve in their eyes that recalled to Arathil's mind that these were warriors who were willing to lay down their lives for the sake of The People and their cause at any given moment.

"Who knows, perhaps it's not entirely necessary that one must learn from a mentor. Many of the ancient ways of The People have changed over the centuries... High Magic, for example. Why, some even say that nowadays even half elven might become Bladesingers..." Arathil mused out loud, though unconvinced. Still, who knew indeed? What if?

"Balance..." whispered the elf as he began, shifting his weight, longsword flashing out before him. The grip shifted, the blade whirling, moving quickly to parry imagined strikes.

His torso twisted once again following the feint, but this time... he began to recall to mind the incantations for another spell, the syllables more complex, but the execution more direct, not even requiring intricate movement of hand or body. His mouth began to form the words, and at the same time, the blade began it's cross cut, the familiar rhythm of the rapid two strike combination already beginning without conscious thought.

"Veneficus offendo vacuu..."

He froze.

Both blade arm and the words in his mouth abruptly came to a halt awkwardly, for a brief moment his muscles seeming to not want to respond to his commands! He had felt the beginnings of magical energy forming, gathering, but just as quickly, it had dissipated. He lowered his right arm to his side and tested it, apparently fully functional and unharmed. Was it simply that his mind could not attempt such a feat, or was there some limits imposed on physical movement by the laws of the Weave at such moments?

"Boiling blood and swinging swords..." he cursed quietly more out of puzzlement than anger, followed quickly by a shrug.

Five more similar failed attempts later the elf gave up for the day, his eyes reflecting both wonder and defeat, along with renewed respect for the elves who could pull off such feats.

[Ithildur]

Arathil makes his way to the desk in his room (much of the furniture has been rearranged to make just enough room in one side of the dorm space for sparring practice) and sits, taking out quill and ink to begin jotting his thoughts into a journal.


Breath.

I breathe my breath and take in the air of Abeir Toril once again, deeply, like one that has been recently rescued from drowning. It is an act that many, if not most, that dwell upon the surface and sky of this world take for granted. I cannot imagine how the Quessir that live in the sea and others of the depths might experience such a thing, but it is most certainly an irony, that the most fundamental and vital of activities that we take part in, is so seldom given a second thought.

It is, perhaps, somewhat different for my kin, the elves. We are closer to the ways of nature than say, humans or dwarves, though there are variances enough to make it a foolish claim that all of our kin are thus, especially among the Ar'Tel'Quessir, or even the Teu'Tel'Quessir. I wonder if the Avariel, with their closeness to the sky, the wind, the currents of the air above, view breathing differently?

Certainly at times we remember the importance of breath, those of us skilled in the many paths where breathing properly is essential.

Certainly the minstrels, the bards, the singers of songs and reciters of verse and tale, the orators, learn the importance and power of disciplined breathing.

So too, do those trained properly in the use of the arcane, as the casting of spells without special training is nearly always reliant on utterance of mystical syllables; without skilled breathing techniques, a spell is much more easily disrupted when the caster is injured or distracted.

Even with swordplay and other martial skills, those who have been taught properly, those who have received training from the truly skilled, know the vital place of breathing, of timing their movements and attacks with the intake and expelling of breath. Is it not said by some that monks and others derive a large part of their mystical abilities from forces controlled, tapped into, by proper breathing techniques?

I am by no means much learned in the subject yet, but I have been told that the bladesinger too, relies on breath as much as all of these others. The weaving of swordplay, the lithe and graceful movements involved in the various parries and thrusts, the unique ability to call upon the powers of the arcane whilest not breaking the stride of attack and defense, are tied directly to the timing of the blade's song as it moves, synchronized with the breath of the blade's wielder in perfect rhythm, at times with even the audible humming and singing of the bladesinger.

Some say synchronized to the rhythm of the weave, some to the very rhythm of Toril itself.

Regardless, I breathe once again, by the will and grace of Corellon Larethian, Creator and Protector of the Elves of all worlds. For reasons not entirely clear to me presently, he has willed that I return to this mortal realm, and delayed my journey to Arvandor.

Why?

Not that I am not glad of the breath I breathe, or the light of the sun by day, the stars and moon by night, the frgrance of the gardens of Silverymoon, and most of all... the song of the minstrels of this fair city... But, my mind wonders, why? Half out of curiosity, and half, regret perhaps? To come close to seeing the wonders of Arvandor, and to turn away...

As I turn over the question in my mind, I recall the first vision: a brilliant, unearthly longsword flashing over an unseen bridge spanning a river in a great city, with the words "A light shine here, kindled by a spark from the dream of the Coronal, surrounded by frost and by foes..." echoing through my mind as I awoke from reverie. It led me, ultimately, to journey to the Gem of the North, to Silverymoon.

I recall the more recent visions, of battle between elven warrior and orcish foe, gradually shifting to a titanic struggle between elf and... something darker than orc. I can almost taste the fear, the dread looming on the edge of my consciousness, threatening to swallow my being. But the warrior in the dream battles on. Can it be?

I had heretofore assumed the elven warrior was Corellon himself, battling Grummsh... and perhaps it is, initally. But now I wonder...

The words of the Celestial messenger echo in my mind - silent words, heard by none other than myself, but clear as a tolling bell in my thoughts. Words that spoke of duty, destiny.

What is it that you have sent me back to this plane to do, o First of the Seldarine? What is it that I must face?