6 Ches, Year of the Cauldron
Seemingly every muscle in my body aches stiffly. I cannot remember having hiked and hauled so much in so short a time as the past few tendays here on the Isles. I never thought I'd haul a dead body anywhere in a cart. I've hauled two. I've slung stones at orcs and ran from their charge when the bullets flew beyond their mark. I've trekked and sailed to and fro and even tested my endurances in an exercise run with Scisha. My exertions serve as distractions. Wyssin leaf is scarce in my pack and my visit to Skaug only frustrated me with its temporary tastes.
I miss Goewyn. The darkness of her hair and eyes. Her breath in my ear and voice in my head. Her song in harmony with mine. I've left the Sword Coast but of course I could not leave me. My heart. Incomplete. My mind. A Gondish wheel, spinning noisily. I'm chasing after solace and that contentment I once had with her. I've lost touch somehow of our secret song and worry I'll be left to suffer my own memory of what once was and will not be again. Her death remains unacceptable. Vengeance that can't be grasped sits within me like an acid. I burn quietly and try to smoke and drink away the pain. How novel.
My music helps some. It's good when I've time to work it but there's nothing fresh, nothing new. Same old songs I did not write, sung with little conviction. I hope to find some manner of employment here in Caer Callidyr. I do not know what, if anything, Lady Derstaad will busy me with.
Kard Lyonson
Re: Kard Lyonson
8 Ches, Year of the Cauldron
Minstrels can't work it here on the Isles like they can on the Coast. The Ffolk have their Greater Bards and their Lesser Bards but the Greater Bards raise the standard of musicianship and showmanship so high that the Lesser Bards too are very competitive, to the point, I feel, that the Less than Lesser Bards like myself are dismissed. I can gather a small audience, hold their attention, but not get the kind of cheer and warmth I could back on the Coast. Hells, I could go into any tavern tween Daggerford and Nashkel, half-drunk, needing a bath, play Tonight I Hear and Bonnie Lee twice and would get not only a hot meal, but a few silvers in my lute case and a few flirting exchanges with the lasses. Here is different. The Ffolk expect a certain magic in their bards. And magic the Isles' bards have. The lutenists have a very dextrous style of play and their melodies can go from dizzying to spellbinding. The tales told have a charm and dignity I've not heard before.
Very well. I'm uneasy about hearing from this Derstaad lady. Will I make a fool of myself in front of these Ffolk? Somehow, probably not. Yet I'm afraid. Fear hangs on me like a wet cloak. There, I wrote it. And I've no idea what I'm afraid of or how to dispell it. Marvelous.
Minstrels can't work it here on the Isles like they can on the Coast. The Ffolk have their Greater Bards and their Lesser Bards but the Greater Bards raise the standard of musicianship and showmanship so high that the Lesser Bards too are very competitive, to the point, I feel, that the Less than Lesser Bards like myself are dismissed. I can gather a small audience, hold their attention, but not get the kind of cheer and warmth I could back on the Coast. Hells, I could go into any tavern tween Daggerford and Nashkel, half-drunk, needing a bath, play Tonight I Hear and Bonnie Lee twice and would get not only a hot meal, but a few silvers in my lute case and a few flirting exchanges with the lasses. Here is different. The Ffolk expect a certain magic in their bards. And magic the Isles' bards have. The lutenists have a very dextrous style of play and their melodies can go from dizzying to spellbinding. The tales told have a charm and dignity I've not heard before.
Very well. I'm uneasy about hearing from this Derstaad lady. Will I make a fool of myself in front of these Ffolk? Somehow, probably not. Yet I'm afraid. Fear hangs on me like a wet cloak. There, I wrote it. And I've no idea what I'm afraid of or how to dispell it. Marvelous.
Re: Kard Lyonson
Oh what to write now that my hands have stopped shaking? Skaug. Comfortably employed for the time being. The voyage here from Corwell was the stuff of dreams. Nightmares rather. A battle at sea against the pirate undead. Still trying to absorb the enormity and horror of that fight. The riggings writhed with zombie rats. It was one of them that took a chunk out of my left arm. I am thankful for the sailing priestess's healing. Seems all those coins I've tossed into the Bitch Queen's waters have sank true, a fair reaping.
The meeting with Derstaad was surprisingly enjoyable. I should say I am quite comfortable in her Hall and employ. Still anxious of the future though. Fearful even. Something's chasing me in the shadows it feels, and when I search, 'tis nothing to be seen.
The Crossbow Inn. It was night's heart, my coworkers retired for the evening, and I go outside for open air and to let my lute strings sing more clearly. The din of the drinking hall had been making my head spin. In the darkness of the inn's shadow I smoked and played, sinking into memory, silently secretly mourning.
My strumming attracted attention. More than I would have ever imagined. Quickly put to work, a new boss not of the Dance Hall. This turned into more than a minstrel gig. Had to hire some quick help. Went quite well with his providing of diversion. The poor'll do most anything for coin won't they? Unfortunately, I realized the cheap ruffler might sing. Assuming the boss would plug any holes, I bring him to the ken. That proved to be a foul up. Now I looked sloppy.
We drank some together first. I was happy for him in his moment. Just yesterday, he was angling for coppers. Now he was a paid man, good and drunk, without worry or fear. It is said you never forget their face when you have that chat with someone. I'll do my best to try.
The meeting with Derstaad was surprisingly enjoyable. I should say I am quite comfortable in her Hall and employ. Still anxious of the future though. Fearful even. Something's chasing me in the shadows it feels, and when I search, 'tis nothing to be seen.
The Crossbow Inn. It was night's heart, my coworkers retired for the evening, and I go outside for open air and to let my lute strings sing more clearly. The din of the drinking hall had been making my head spin. In the darkness of the inn's shadow I smoked and played, sinking into memory, silently secretly mourning.
My strumming attracted attention. More than I would have ever imagined. Quickly put to work, a new boss not of the Dance Hall. This turned into more than a minstrel gig. Had to hire some quick help. Went quite well with his providing of diversion. The poor'll do most anything for coin won't they? Unfortunately, I realized the cheap ruffler might sing. Assuming the boss would plug any holes, I bring him to the ken. That proved to be a foul up. Now I looked sloppy.
We drank some together first. I was happy for him in his moment. Just yesterday, he was angling for coppers. Now he was a paid man, good and drunk, without worry or fear. It is said you never forget their face when you have that chat with someone. I'll do my best to try.
Re: Kard Lyonson
Exhausted but rarely sleep. Days and nights blend together into dark stretches of time. Stormy season it seems, with Skaug getting hammered with fierce but brief storms. The sky, a canvas of bruised grey.
Apple Barrel Inn, resting from work. Pleased with my crew-mates. Impressed, really. Flash flingers and disguise artists among them.
A revisit to tavern sports has me spending another evening with Marty. Cards mostly, blackjack or leucrotta. I rest unafraid for a change, watching the Luck Sisters have their way, watching the coin come and go. Go mostly.
Supply's holding well. Smooth sailing from here. Until work picks up again and forces me to feel. I must do what I must do. Got to keep her singing.
I stare at the playing cards and watch the clubs change to raven feathers, the spades turn to knives. And every queen became Goewyn. Bloody and weeping.
Apple Barrel Inn, resting from work. Pleased with my crew-mates. Impressed, really. Flash flingers and disguise artists among them.
A revisit to tavern sports has me spending another evening with Marty. Cards mostly, blackjack or leucrotta. I rest unafraid for a change, watching the Luck Sisters have their way, watching the coin come and go. Go mostly.
Supply's holding well. Smooth sailing from here. Until work picks up again and forces me to feel. I must do what I must do. Got to keep her singing.
I stare at the playing cards and watch the clubs change to raven feathers, the spades turn to knives. And every queen became Goewyn. Bloody and weeping.
Re: Kard Lyonson
Calm winds and clear skies return to Skaug. Mornings bring sudden yet brief showers that serve to rinse some of the filth from the streets. The shadowed urban coves and stone-paved alleys are rife with all manner of greed and aggression. Keep to yourself but walk like you belong there. If a heavy looks at you, look him back in the eye. Thugs prey on those that look weak, wanting the easy bite. So far, staying out of harm's way on the streets of Skaug hasn't been a challenge.
Out of wyssin and short on gold. Had to buy some goods for work. Parchments and elixirs, as suggested. Might have to sell them before the work hits. I must do what I must. For now though, I steel myself for study, thinking I'd hide myself away in the library. It's a challenge as I write. The librarian, if that is what he truly is, is a grump who reeks of dead fish. Order could be improved concerning book and scroll organization. Many subjects are missing, leaving vacancies on the shelves. Many tomes suffer rot and water damage, many books damaged with pages of maps and navigational information removed by local readers. Much to my delight, I found what I was looking for and have contentedly began reading over the material. Study helps me get out of my thoughts when not dancing with the smoke and drink. Sahuagin Ecology & Society curiously penned by a Freewalker and Locathah Anthologies by Myrym of the Rolling Shell. The latter tome was horribly damaged but one surviving chapter entertained me entitled, "The Bitch Queen and The Taker."
So I sit in the musty stink of what passes for a pirate library, uncomfortably sober, and read.
Out of wyssin and short on gold. Had to buy some goods for work. Parchments and elixirs, as suggested. Might have to sell them before the work hits. I must do what I must. For now though, I steel myself for study, thinking I'd hide myself away in the library. It's a challenge as I write. The librarian, if that is what he truly is, is a grump who reeks of dead fish. Order could be improved concerning book and scroll organization. Many subjects are missing, leaving vacancies on the shelves. Many tomes suffer rot and water damage, many books damaged with pages of maps and navigational information removed by local readers. Much to my delight, I found what I was looking for and have contentedly began reading over the material. Study helps me get out of my thoughts when not dancing with the smoke and drink. Sahuagin Ecology & Society curiously penned by a Freewalker and Locathah Anthologies by Myrym of the Rolling Shell. The latter tome was horribly damaged but one surviving chapter entertained me entitled, "The Bitch Queen and The Taker."
So I sit in the musty stink of what passes for a pirate library, uncomfortably sober, and read.
Re: Kard Lyonson
Ches, Year of the Cauldron
Did you dance in the drudachs when you were a child?
Or have your first kiss in a crowded sabban?
Ever weep within the Temple of Old Night?
Or did you count your coppers for fat Waukeen?
Does a wife await and a child as well?
Do they craft you cheap baubles to sell?
Will your sons weep and your mistress wail?
Or are you forgotten, unloved and unknown?
Oh what did you dream so still in the night?
When death's embrace smothered all light?
Did you wake to see that black blossom
From your chest did sprout so gruesome
With a root that feeds on your soul
Right now it makes me feel whole
So I'll weep with your wife and your brood
And feel guilty if I'm in the mood
Did you dance in the drudachs when you were a child?
Or have your first kiss in a crowded sabban?
Ever weep within the Temple of Old Night?
Or did you count your coppers for fat Waukeen?
Does a wife await and a child as well?
Do they craft you cheap baubles to sell?
Will your sons weep and your mistress wail?
Or are you forgotten, unloved and unknown?
Oh what did you dream so still in the night?
When death's embrace smothered all light?
Did you wake to see that black blossom
From your chest did sprout so gruesome
With a root that feeds on your soul
Right now it makes me feel whole
So I'll weep with your wife and your brood
And feel guilty if I'm in the mood
Re: Kard Lyonson
I remember how quiet it was. There, in the dark. The insects and wetskins halted their music, giving audience to my shadow stroll. The wind receded to a breeze.
I remember how dark it was. There, in the night. Starless, with Selûne and her Tears held back by the Singer's hand. The fog was not a natural ghostly mist but a thick consuming presence. Invading the air around me with a black darker than ink. Obviously imagining for I've never sung such magic. A kind of blessing then, if only in my mind.
I remember the shaft looked like a dahlia. There. In the dark. Most of the wood buried, leaving the fletching standing up from his heart.
"A posy for you, my lady, my love."
I remember the sound it made. A soft whistle and gurgle, like some distant crimson brook. His nightsong was brief. I can still feel her smile.
I remember how dark it was. There, in the night. Starless, with Selûne and her Tears held back by the Singer's hand. The fog was not a natural ghostly mist but a thick consuming presence. Invading the air around me with a black darker than ink. Obviously imagining for I've never sung such magic. A kind of blessing then, if only in my mind.
I remember the shaft looked like a dahlia. There. In the dark. Most of the wood buried, leaving the fletching standing up from his heart.
"A posy for you, my lady, my love."
I remember the sound it made. A soft whistle and gurgle, like some distant crimson brook. His nightsong was brief. I can still feel her smile.