Wren the Patrolman (a Laddy play)

[Ladellon]

*Regor walks to the front of the crowd at the Daggerford Inn*

This is a tale of one Martin Wren, a minstrel of no small talent, from the sprawling streets of Waterdeep. Oh, he was quite a flambouyant performer, arraying himself in the most garish of costumes both on and off the stage. In fact, Martin became known about the city as somewhat of a dandy and fop as he performed at the Shining Siren, the Blushing Mermaid and other such high-brow establishments.

Like many skilled craftsmen, though, Martin found that his profits were greatly affected by uncontrollable and ever-changing variables – the weather, the level of taxation, the number of citizens left lifeless and copperless by endless waves of rat infestations.

It was during one of these professional slumps that Martin grew rather disheartened at his continued prospects in the entertainment industry. After some careful deliberation, he decided to renounce the City of Splendors and seek his fortunes southward.

Well, it wasn’t long before Martin realized that a simple change of venue was no solution to his woes. He would be no better off in Selgaunt or Amn as he had been in Waterdeep. It was just outside the gates of these very walls where Martin finally concluded that his life as an entertainer was over. He was done. Since he would face no other prospect of employment he began to envision a strategy for his own demise.

Shall I plunge myself into the icy and turbulent depths of the Delimbyr?

Shall I cast myself under the wheels of a Circle of Axes caravan?

As he considered his options right here in the Daggerford Inn, he overheard two mud-caked and unpleasantly odorous soldiers grieving over their ales.

“Yup, we lost another one today,” one sniffed. “Poor fellow wasn’t with us a tenday before the wolves devoured him on a patrol to Cromm’s.”

“I know what you mean,” grumbled the other. “It’s getting harder and harder to draw new recruits these days. I hear they may even resort to taking in water bearers and bards.”

“I’d even take them,” said the first. “Anything to stop those orcs and harpies killing our comrades.”

Harps? Did he hear correctly? Well, that was enough for Martin. He would join this desperate organization. Better to be slain by a harp than slowly driven financially and morally bankrupt by his own lute.

Well, it didn’t take him long to find the nearest recruitment officer *points across the room to the lieutenant* Even less time before he found himself in uniform and deeply entrenched in the militia’s daily routine of, well, training . . .

*singing*

A new recruit, all weary from maneuvering in vain,
I asked a nearby corporal as we rested in the rain,
What can I do so that I may improve my meager skills?
Something that’s exhilarating, something that has thrills.

He looked at me drearily
And this is what he said . . .

March! ‘round our city’s border.
March! It sounded like an order.
March! Let me hear those boots tramp on that earthen road.
March! Do I have a choice then?
March! Don’t you hear my voice, Wren?
Get those feet a movin’ toad!
March! March! March!

I approached the sergeant after drilling in the square
As I drew near he turned around and fixed me with a glare.
I asked naively, “Now that the day’s marching is all done
Where can a patrolman go and find himself some fun?”

He gave a twisted smile
And this is what he said . . .

March! ‘round our city’s border.
March! It sounded like an order.
March! Let me hear those boots tramp on that earthen road.
March! Do I have a choice then?
March! Don’t you hear my voice, Wren?
Get those feet a movin’ toad!

A tenday gone we had a monstrous battle near Cromm’s Hold
We slew a hundred orcs - at least that’s how the story’s told.
Triumphantly, we turned and sought the captain’s wise advice
To celebrate this victory, tell us what will suffice?

He leaped upon a log
And this is what he said . . .

March! ‘round our city’s border.
March! It sounded like an order.
March! Let me hear those boots tramp on those earthen roads.
March! Do we have a choice then?
March! Don’t you hear my voice, men?
Get those feet a movin’ toads!
March! March! March!
Oh, get those feet a movin’ toads!
March, March, March!

Oh, sure, Wren skimmed over the fine print a bit too quickly when he enlisted. There were the standard questions such as: Do you like to travel? Do you like to meet people?

Little did he know that the travel would be to the same places . . . over and over and over and over again . . . and the people he would meet would mainly be Mr. Hurry Up and Mr. Wait.

It could have been the stability. It could have been the discipline. Something caused a tiny spark to ignite within Martin’s breast. He was alive again – alive and thriving on the rigorous monotony of military exercise. But the beginning of the end of his militia career was at hand. He was singing again.

*singing*

I once spent days reposing
And languidly composing
Verses that, in tenor, were sung gaily.
In truth my recollection
Is I simply lacked direction -
Some routine that might benefit me daily

While Faerun I was wandering
Folks told me I was squandering
My talents . . . bah, I took a different view.
Though on stage I’d died several times
While crooning tunes and rhyming rhymes
I still sought that elusive, kind review.

Until one day while singing
I heard, in the woods, ringing
Steel upon steel – a battle raged severe.
Triumphant warriors soon appeared
covered in gore - the people cheered.
T’was then I knew I’d sought the wrong career . . .

Oh, I want to be a patrolman
In the Daggerford militia . . . what do you say?
If anyone can play the role, I can
I’ll be quite astounding in my spring green array

Oh, I want to be a patrolman
With other strapping lads – it’s a dream job come true.
Our spears we’ll be thrusting
In battle - so we’re lusting -
Seeking that elusive, appreciative review.

Now I spend days traversing
And earnestly rehearsing
My latest role - a duty-bound fighter.
In truth I relish orders
To secure the county’s borders
And the pay . . . well it beats a playwriter.

No longer am I rootless.
My life’s no longer fruitless.
My talents . . . I’m developing anew.
The stage remains for later years
For now I’m guarding wild frontiers
Consider this my coming out debut.

Oh, I want to be a patrolman
In the Daggerford militia . . . what do you say?
If anyone can play the role, I can
I’ll be quite astounding in my spring green array

Oh, I want to be a patrolman
With other strapping lads – it’s a dream job come true.
Our spears we’ll be thrusting
In battle - so we’re lusting -
Seeking that elusive, appreciative review.

After putting in his stint of duty, Martin was rejuvenated and was again ready to hit the performance road and gather a troupe for touring. Before he left, however, he created a little tune to help all the new recruits as they adjust to military life and unsolicited advice from all sides (hey, you’re in the militia, did you actually think you’d be allowed to think?)

*singing*

You’ll hear them at enlistment when
You’re facing Silverblade.
Or when by Griffon skills are weighed
Out on the promenade.

If Seargant Major Daxtrom’s in
He’ll surely give you heaps.
I’ve even heard that Spearslayer
Supplies them while she sleeps.

I’m referring to orders!
Wherever you turn you’ll get orders!

Stand down your arms. Relax. At ease.
Now charge ahead full speed!
Mind not that they might contradict,
They’re orders yes indeed!

Soon out you go, north, south or west
Each gate is well equipped.
So inconsistent are their words,
You’d think they lost their script.

Rogan and Steel and Corporal Shane,
Kross, Barnes and Murphy, too,
Will offer what they deem advice –
They just can’t help but spew . . .

They spew out orders!
Whenever they speak you’ll get orders!

Stand down your arms. Relax. At ease.
Now charge ahead full speed!
Mind not that they might contradict,
They’re orders yes indeed!

When looking for off duty tasks
To earn some extra gold
Patrolman Turner may hire you
To kill rats in his hold.

But even he, a low recruit,
Not knowing other modes
Will lean upon an oaken cask
And pile up several loads . . .

That’s right, several loads of orders!
Even a guy like him can give orders!

Stand down your arms. Relax. At ease.
Now charge ahead full speed!
Mind not that they might contradict,
They’re orders yes indeed!

Out on patrol you’ll cross the bridge
That spans the Delimbyur
Where Senden, Brallas, and Scurson
Will greet you, that’s for sure.

They never leave, they never rest,
With verve they stand their post.
I doubt if there’s three more obsessed
In all of the Sword Coast.

Obsessed about orders!
You couldn’t move them if you tried!

Stand down your arms. Relax. At ease.
Now charge ahead full speed!
Mind not that they might contradict,
They’re orders yes indeed!

Even when in the places where
Commands you’d think are rare
There’s likely to be someone who
Is issuing them there.

The sewers are a place where you
Might try to disappear
But Razor, Barb and Muddentold
Are there and so you’ll hear . . .

You’ll hear more orders!
They’re dirty but they’re still orders!

Stand down your arms. Relax. At ease.
Now charge ahead full speed!
Mind not that they might contradict,
They’re orders yes indeed!

So my advice to you, recruits,
Is ripen senses keen.
Be e’er alert – its something that
You must make quite routine.

In the militia you may not
Get ten full nights of sleep
But I can guarantee that you’ll
Get orders ‘til you weep.

And just remember,
Patrolmen don’t cry about nothin’

Stand down your arms. Relax. At ease.
Now charge ahead full speed!
Mind not that they might contradict,
They’re orders yes indeed!

Good luck to the militia in the upcoming days. We all pray for your success.

*bows to the crowd*



Laddy

(great crowd the other night on DF for this - thanks to all for humoring a poor, wayfaring minstrel)