At the Fochlucan
Posted: Tue Oct 22, 2013 4:35 am
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.
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.