The Song of Swans

[Rumple C]

Artwork by Helix Fate

[Heero]

Good grief. I forsee a stabbing in your future.

[Rumple C]

The Storm before the Calm.

It was a full house. Not the kind he might try to shake out his sleeve in smoky back-room talis games he occasionally frequented. But the kind that packed out the Nightsong and tippled on overpriced wines and ales. The kind that was rumoured to have a number of overly wealthed nobles and ambitious merchants with noble pretensions, looking to patronise the next great performer. It was a great night, and it was going to be his night.

He fussed in front of the mirror, painting his face. A cake of powdered white-stone that was applied damp, and hardened into in a brittle white mask. He kept his face neutral beneath the white-stone as it set. A smile at an inappropriate moment would be very unfortunate. All around him people hurried to and fro, hurriedly dressing or undressing. Truly there was little concern for exposed flesh when the curtains between performers. At least here.

A blackened cover-eyes was next, which he painted on with a small inky sponge. His blank mask was slowly turning into something darker, more shadowy and sinister. He studied it. It was not his face, and yet with it on, he felt a different person. A harlequin. The Harlequin. A legendary hero of mythical proportions who feared naught, who spat in the face of death, and laughed at kings and fools alike. He carefully blinked, and dusted a little powder from his collar.

“Curtains up in two minutes! Jacques, are you ready?”

He lifted a hand and nodded, without speaking. He noticed a little smear of rusty brown under his fingernails. He kept the frown from cracking his mask.

He had paid his dues, and done what needed to be done. This would be his greatest role. One that would leave his name on the lips and in the minds of all here, now was his finest hour.

Finally, his time had come.

[Rumple C]

Good grief. I forsee a stabbing in your future.

I suspect this is inevitable. I accept your stabbing with grace. In the meantime, the show must go on!

[Witchdoctor]

Good grief. I forsee a stabbing in your future.

ROFLMAO

[Rumple C]

Upstaged up on stage.

The Harlequins play was an old one in the classical sense, and well loved by the landed gentry for that very reason. Noble conservative wankery and all that. And here he was in the middle of it. He glided and pranced across the stage taking careful note of his feet placement. Because any moment now... yes! The tap on his shoulder.

The Harlequin turned to face his nemesis, the Marquis of Fimlan. The evil warlord, and dragon rider. How had he found him, in his magical castle? There was only one thing to be done now! The Harlequin danced back and drew his mighty and magical sword “Lamner”, and raised it high in terrible salute. The Marquis replied in kind, and they leapt and jumped and tumbled and fought around the cramped and oddly curtained parapet. Ah, he was struck! He rolled backwards, and came up holding his side, Lamner slipping from his hands with a wooden clatter.

The Marquis did not change expression upon his stony face, but advanced, his terrible weapon poised to strike and finish the Harlequin, who even now was reaching into his magical hat...

“JACQUES PAPILIO, YOU’RE UNDER ARREST!” came a shout from amidst the peasants below the parapet. The Marquis paused and looked sideways, even as the Harlequin stabbed him mightily, though the Marquis seemed not to notice but instead hissed.

“Jacques, what’s going on?”. Jacques turned to look sideways at the watch making their way down the aisles. Well. Damnit.

He stood, bowed once to the gasping audience, and ran sideways off the stage.

[Rumple C]

Not his best performance.

“So what am I being charged with exactly?” asked Jacques.

The guard snorted, ”I’m not telling you that, or you’d be busy fantasizing an alibi right now” explained the guard with a bored expression.

“I’d be doing no such thing!” grumbled Jacques, who wished the guard would have told him, so he could have fantasized an alibi. Though he was fairly sure he did know. Most likely it had to do with the unfortunate and accidental death of the previous Harlequin actor. Accidental in that only his legs were meant to be broken, and unfortunate that apparently the overzealous leg breakers (and neck stabbers), had fingered him for arranging it.

Classical theater in Waterdeep had a long history steeped in tradition, and climbing the ranks based upon bribery and occasional discrete violence. Indeed, an oft used saying “Break a leg” referred more to actual leg breaking than good wishes. Jacques had thought himself rather clever when he adopted another common saying into one theater relevant “You can’t put on the Oubliette(a traditional monologue based play), without breaking some legs”. He really wasn't seeing what the problem was here. He had simply followed a proud tradition of violence based achievement. He had been the understudy on the Harlequin for two years now, and had well deserved the role.

He sighed, the brightened.

This was probably all just a mistake. There must be at least a handful of Jacques Papilio in the city. No doubt he would be able to explain this away as a simple misunderstanding. Then they would all have a good laugh about it, and everyone could pile back to the theater. They’d probably buy him a drink as well. Maybe even offer up their sisters for the night. Things were looking up.

“Jacques Papilio, advance!” came the call. He made his way forward, his brightly coloured stage costume drawing a few looks from assembled lawmen and ne’er do well’rs. He walked forward and stood before the judge, who seemed in a foul mood. Great. He stood straight and proud. As the Harlequin would. He tensed his thighs to stop his knees shaking, and clenched his buttocks.

“Jacques Papilio, you stand accused of organised murder, unlawful carcass disposal, littering, and resisting arrest. How plead you?”

The courtroom hushed.

“Not guilty, sirrah”.

The judge openly scoffed, but Jacques continued. “Man, your awful keen on these wrongs, but I suggest that the rights of my life more than outweigh those, i’m just a hardworking and honest actor. As for the murder, well... he killed himself. Jumped off a building, which explains the broken legs, then stabbed himself in the neck when he realised that he was still alive. I thought I was doing the city a favour when I arranged for some fine men to give him a proper burial at sea as he always wished. I cannot be held accountable for their laziness, if they tossed him into the harbour. Now that’s explained, well, i’d like to volunteer for a court of rights, i’d walk away with a reward, not a punishment, it only stands to reason. Right?”

Jacques suddenly wished he had kept quiet, for the judge was turning an interesting shade of red.

“Call in the witnesses!” A string of witnesses were brought in. The men he had hired to break the legs (apparently having cut a deal with the city), witnesses to the event itself, the father of a virgin he had deflowered to celebrate his upcoming birthday (34, still young for a half blooded elf), a fisherman who’s net had been ruined by entangling the body, and many more besides.

“Do you have anything to say to the testimony of the witnesses?” asked the judge, a predatory smile upon his face.

“She wasn’t a virgin” mumbled Jacques, who was feeling more than a little concerned by how this was all going.

“Jacques Papilio, I sentence you to ten years, hard”

“Hard?” asked Jacques, it sounded obscene to him.

“Hard labour, fool!”



*Artwork by Jason Engle
*Inspiration for scene by Hugh Cook

[Rumple C]

Clever mouth.

To say that Jacques was too clever for his own good, would be an understatement. Not only was he now into the first year of his well deserved ten years of hard labour, he was now being pressed for payment of earlier gambling debts. He had always been a little too fond of the cards on the outside. Alas, they spurned his affection, and he was now in debt to the tune of seven hundred and eighteen golders PLUS an undefined sum of “penalties”. He had thought himself somewhat safe turning big rocks into little rocks, but it turned out that the long arm of the lawless stretched well into the Waterdhavian prison system.

He had, of course, not done himself any favours when he began gambling on the inside...

“Pay up, shit eater” was the charming demand.

Jacques looked left, then right. His back was up against a wall, and he in the middle of a half circle of prisoners, who ran with the shadow thieves. They were out for blood it would seem. His bargaining position was poor.

“Whoa now, lets calm our farms, and talk this over like civilized folk, i’ve got the coin, and its on the way, I swear on my mothers shade”. He quietly apologised to his mothers shade in his head. It was certainly not the first time he had had to do such. Though it may possibly be the last if she didn’t bless him with a way out of this. The ungrateful woman. To think of all he had done for...

“Save it, Jacques, thats what you said last time, and we ain’t seen shit of your coin, the way we hear it, you’re as broke as a joke, and your head is already mortgaged to a half dozen dens”. This was alas, true.

Hmm.

“Lies, horrible lies, and vile slander, Clem”. He had addressed the largest and most senior of the prisoners, a thug with a reputation as poor as the odour from his armpits. Clem snorted, a better judge of character than he looked.

“Jacques, you know I like you, and killing me will hurt me more than it will hurt you. Well, on the inside. But business, is business, you know?”. Clem wore a wounded expression. He was a nice enough thug after all. “Just throw me a bone, yeah? Then I can buy you some more time”.

Jacques returned his sympathetic look. “Look... give me a day, I can hustle up a few coins, or get myself killed trying, and save you the effort. You know i’ve only got your best interests at heart”.

Clem nodded slowly. “I’ll give you two. Don’t make me kill you Jacques, neither of us will enjoy it. And two days is all I can give you”. Clem and his cronies turned and left the shaking Jacques.

He was so screwed.

...

The prison was housed on a small island thirty miles off the coast. By and large they spent their days turning large rocks into small with overly large hammers. Jacques formerly beautiful hands were now a mess of calluses. His life in the theatre now seemed a life-time ago. And it was time to leave.

He slunk away from the open aired dining hall towards the jakes, and hopped a quiet wall. He had already bribed the right guard to look the other way. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve at the memory. Not his most pleasant memory.

He shuffled quickly down to the beach, stripped off his clothes, and crouch-waded into the quiet surf. He winced as the bitter-cold water found his crotch. It would be a long night, that was for sure. Once past the surf, he rolled onto his back, and slowly fluttered his legs and hands, looking up at the stars, and he slowly jetted himself away from a certain death... towards an almost certain death. He smiled. One last gamble.

...

It was a long night. After half an hour he had lost all sensation in his fingers and toes, and his muscles were tired beyond measure. After two hours, it was all he could do to stay afloat. A current had long since seized him and swept him away from the island, and towards the great ocean. Alas, also away from the mainland. Still, he lived and breathed. For now.

He began to shiver.

...

Jacques had always liked the dark. It reminded him of just before the curtains were raised, and it was time for the show. The dark before the light, the calm before the chaos. This was the longest night of his life. He slipped in and out of sleep. There was little like a spray of salt water up the nostrils to rouse one from a pleasant or not so pleasant dream. He would snort, and wake to a world of watery nightmare, shiver, and try to will his body to float back onto his back. He judged this conserved as much energy as possible. He imagined himself a log that floated around the world, enduring for years until it washed ashore. Preferably at some exotic warm location with topless beauties. They would not have seen a man as handsome as he...

And he dreamed again, of nubile fingers making their way up his legs...

Argh! Snort! Soemthing was on his leg! He pulled his legs towards his chest, and promptly disappeared under the water. He pushed at the alien thing on his leg, and his fingers plunged into something jelly like and soft. He screamed underwater, then closed his mouth in panic, and kicked for the surface, mashing through whatever had clung to his leg. It took a full half minute before he was able to calm himself enough to take a breath. What the hells was that? Some kind of soft octopus?

He decided he hated the ocean. And promptly fell into a chill induced sleep.

He was awoken again by dawn.

And a sleek fin in the water.

...

He groaned, and lifted his legs up towards his chest. The fin circled him. He pleaded with the gods, and then umberlee, then the shark itself. “You can’t eat me, man, I can’t even come to your dinner party, for i’ve got a bare arse you see, i’m not dressed right, just give me two more days, same as everyone else”. Adrenaline fuelled his splashing survival, but is was wearing away fast. The shark whistled and squeaked into the water. A squeaking shark? Well I suppose it was better to be rescued by a novelty.

The shark brushed alongside him, with its smooth skin. He flung an arm over it, in tired desperation.

“Ahoy! You with the fish!”.

Huh? He raised his head from where it had been resting. There was a ship in front of him. Where the hells had that come from?

“We’re going to drop you a hook, be a good fellow, and sink it into the dolphin”. Oh, so thats what it was. I guess that explained why he hadn’t been eaten yet. Dolphins being notorious for play with their food before slapping it to death with their tails. He had been rescued just in time.

Jacques took the large barbed hook which they lowered down to him, and sank it deep into the side of the dolphin, which cavorted mightily. Jacques was slapped with a tail, and all went black.

...

He woke to another face-full of water, and floundered on the deck, imagining himself in the ocean.

“Easy now lad, how did you come to be here? Witchcraft?”. Jacques opened his eyes to a near hysterical captain.

“Nay man, it was right terrible with tentacles. A great kraken rose out of the water, and took our fishing boat, killed my father and uncle, i’ve floated for thrice nights, and live only by the grace of the bitch queen” Jacques lied, his eyes wide with his own hysteria.

The captain nodded, his fear of magic assuaged. “Rest easy lad, you’re safe here. There will be time to make your peace with the lost as we return to port. Here. Eat this, but not too quick mind”.

The captain handed him a bowl of dolphin soup.

[Rumple C]

The Knights Draconis.

Born under the dragon sky torn
The lightning flashed!, thunder struck!
And thus were the Knights born

We claim the name, The Knights Draconis!
By the right, by the sight! We own this!

Evil flees when we draw near!
It pisses front, craps the back
And then shakes with fear!

We claim the name, The Knights Draconis!
In the night, fear our bite! We own this!

Listen well to their galloping thunder
Riding hard, kicking arse
Finding villains to tear asunder

Led by Jacques, the brave, the pure
The greatest adventurer ever lived
That’s for sure

Millia of the oak ever at his side
Skin of jade, face of ivory
Tracking the clouds through the skies

Then Boz the dwarf made of rock
A stout handle on his axe
But a thicker one on his cock

Xavier of Mystra, master of mysteries
On matters arcane
He writes the histories

Damien the druid brings us to five
Healer by trade
Praising Chauntea to keep us alive

Also Bjorn the Bezerk leader in war
The giant northman
Is always ready to kick in a door

Last is Ref the gallant, innocent as a dove
While we bring the war
He brings the love

[Ithildur]

Great stuff.

[kid]

*A dirty old city born-dwarf would pass by as the odd jester man rehearses the song. His right eye begins to twitch as the man continues to sing. Muttering and grumbling low, muscles contracting, the old dwarf would lower his hand to a rusty knife at his belt while he moves carefully around the man, blending into the shadow of a nearby building. But then... some line about stoutness gives him pause, and as the next line follows he exhales, steps out of the shadows and walks away muttering low* Fookin' dam rite. like a fookin' trunk, the blody lot of us. *He would nod approvingly to himself and wander off, not bothering to listen to the rest of the song, but simply agreeing with himself that he will not shiv the clown-man. At least not right now*

[Rumple C]

Truthing the Mask.

"It's time, It's time" Jacques muttered to himself as he hunched over the cramped desk. Scattered to his left and right were discarded parchments, ribbon, and empty inkwells. His hands were smudged with ink and paint and charcoal. So far all had been going to glorious plan. The star of the Knights Draconis was on the rise, and with it, so was his fortunes. They had had some modest success in making a name for themselves, kicking kobolds up and down the river, and driving wyverns off from Rivermoot. There were setbacks as well, such as saving the maiden who burst into cockroaches after wards. Yet it seemed they had hit a stagnation. He had begun to blame the others for a few weeks. However after much reflection he decided that his leadership may have played some small slightly more than insignificant role in their plateau. It was time to renew himself, to emerge from his chrysalis.

In his mind he stood on the steps of the palace in Silverymoon, addressing a throng of people.

"Citizens, Fellow Knights, Lords, ...Ladies. You have met the man behind the mask as Jacques Papilio, leader of the Knights Draconis... it is now time you met the mask itself." With those words, Jacques lifted the black and white mask over his face, and tied it firm behind his head, all to the rapturous applause and adoration of the crowd.

With those words, Jacques Papilio retreated, and like the mighty phoenix, was the Harlequin born from the ashes.

[Rumple C]

Perception is an odd thing.

The Harlequin beat upon the wall of force, begging and pleading with it, while behind him, his companions fought ever advancing shadows.

Give, you ganch! Please! Hells tits!

The Harlequin pushed and prodded, spat and slid, lifted and licked, yet to no avail. The wall of force remained over their only route of escape. Behind him, the shadows gibbered, as the walls whispered. Wetness ran down his left leg though in his desperation he noticed it not. He let lose his most powerful weapon. His tongue, spilling out desperate passwords, and nonsense in the hope of triggering its collapse. He started with the gods of shadows Mask, Shar, then curses Beshabas tits, MotherSucker! and finally randoom words Horse, haberdashery, flagstone, yardarm, pole-axe!

The wall began to give under his relentless word driven assault, until it collapsed , sending him sprawling on the steps. We're out! he cried, running up the steps, ignoring his skinned hands.

Once again, the brave hero had saved the day.

[Rumple C]

Irony.

Found upon the slightly bear eaten body of Jacques Papilio, self declared Knight, Waterdeep declared murderer and escaped fugitive.

The tide of green
Advanced anew
Facing steel
Behind Strained sinew

Three stood
Crazed attack
Heroes pressed
Back to Back

Edges cut
Blood welled
Tide advanced
Knights ne'er felled

Maidens wept
Nations grieved
Death assured
But we believed

Battle won
Glitter sky
Truth known
Legends ne'er die

[Ithildur]

((#@%$$%^# it!! ))