*Artwork by Chosac
...
Leopold Ludwig Cornelius in his prime, dressed for success
Artist Unknown
The Cyricist Lyricist
The Cyricist Lyricist
Leopold Ludwig Cornelius, suffering from decades of hard living
*Artwork by Chosac
...
Leopold Ludwig Cornelius in his prime, dressed for success
Artist Unknown
*Artwork by Chosac
...
Leopold Ludwig Cornelius in his prime, dressed for success
Artist Unknown
Last edited by Rumple C on Sun Feb 16, 2014 10:31 am, edited 3 times in total.
12.August.2015: Never forget.
Re: The Cyricist Lyricist
Better days
...
Verily verily, they turned and flee’d
Yet unreckoned on war bred steed
Ser Lotharius sank spurs into side
Trampling baseness until it died
- Exerpt from "The Road to Yulash in the Year of the Prince", 1357dr
...
1380dr, The Year of the Blazing Hand
It was a nice tavern. The kind that would tolerate a three day drinking binge, and had sawdust available to cover up the blood and vomit. The kind where you almost never find a broken tooth in the bottom of your mug. The kind where everyone knew your first name, but called you friend, as long as you were paying. The kind that still remembered the good old days and didn't mind giving you a few coppers for a song.
The bard staggered onto the small stage, stepping over a drunk hin, and squinting blearily out at the patrons who were mostly ignoring him. He carried a lute with broken strings, hung uselessly at his side. "Play The Road" shouted someone from the audience. The bard grimaced at the loud noise. The room swayed, and he staggered backwards into a wall before finding his balance again. He walk forward, and belched loudly.
Someone in the audience cheered.
He cleared his throat noisily, and spat onto the hin. "Ssss nice to be here, in... uh.... hrast".
Someone in the crowd sniggered.
"Ser Lotharious is a bastard" he slurred as floor rushed up to meet him.
Someone in the crowd applauded.
...
*Artwork by Chosac
...
Verily verily, they turned and flee’d
Yet unreckoned on war bred steed
Ser Lotharius sank spurs into side
Trampling baseness until it died
- Exerpt from "The Road to Yulash in the Year of the Prince", 1357dr
...
1380dr, The Year of the Blazing Hand
It was a nice tavern. The kind that would tolerate a three day drinking binge, and had sawdust available to cover up the blood and vomit. The kind where you almost never find a broken tooth in the bottom of your mug. The kind where everyone knew your first name, but called you friend, as long as you were paying. The kind that still remembered the good old days and didn't mind giving you a few coppers for a song.
The bard staggered onto the small stage, stepping over a drunk hin, and squinting blearily out at the patrons who were mostly ignoring him. He carried a lute with broken strings, hung uselessly at his side. "Play The Road" shouted someone from the audience. The bard grimaced at the loud noise. The room swayed, and he staggered backwards into a wall before finding his balance again. He walk forward, and belched loudly.
Someone in the audience cheered.
He cleared his throat noisily, and spat onto the hin. "Ssss nice to be here, in... uh.... hrast".
Someone in the crowd sniggered.
"Ser Lotharious is a bastard" he slurred as floor rushed up to meet him.
Someone in the crowd applauded.
...
*Artwork by Chosac
12.August.2015: Never forget.
Re: The Cyricist Lyricist
Morning breaths
...
Inn: The Silver Tap.
Location: Essembra
Description: Once a fine drinking establishment that attracted the best troubadours, now dilapidated and serving a rougher crowd.
...
1356dr - The Year of the Worm
Leopold cracked an eyelid with a smile. His sweet ray of sunshine was rubbing up against his morning pillar. He gave silent thanks to Sune for this one gracing his bed. Ah, sweet gods. Her mouth tasted of apples. He closed his eyes and lay back, enjoying the sensation as she dipped down and worshiped at his altar. Oh how he loved half elves.
A very familiar song came echoing along the corridor and then into the room. Leopold groaned. His paramour mistaking his groan, redoubled her efforts.
Yon birds are spring singing
Yon temple bells are ringing
Yon fair women are bringing
A good morn to you!
Despite the distraction of lips to his flute, he listens carefuly to the footsteps walking the song towards his door. At they neared, he called out… “I’m coming, I’m coming!” and was rewarded twice over. By the footsteps (and accompanying song) jauntily receeding, and by his wonderful tryst partner (what was her name again?) making it so.
...
1381dr - The Year of the Starving
Leopold cracked an eyelid with a noiseless groan. A ray of sunlight was streaming in through closed and dilapidated shutters right his damn face. He cursed at Lathander for waking him up. Ah, gods. His mouth tasted like the inside of a dwarfs boot. Gradually he became aware of the lumpy pale green woman? (gods, he hoped so) snoring next to him. Ugh, not another orc, he had promised himself that last time.
He closed his eyes, willing himself back into oblivion. Then came the voice, echoing inside his head.
Yon birds are spring singing
Yon temple bells are ringing
Yon fair women are bringing
A good morn to you!
"Piss off, you ganch" he muttered. His bed partner (please be a woman) lifted up her head, and rewarded him with an elbow in the chest. “Ooof!” the wind was knocked out of him as she rolled over, and grabbed him painfully by the chin. “Funny little man, telling me to piss off, eh?” she said, reaching down a hand and grabbing his balls, gripping them far more firmly than was comfortable. He winced, at being winded, at her breath, and at the promised injury to his sack. “You couldn’t perform last night, my little songbird” she leered, shaking his bag “so now you need to sing for your supper, maybe if you sing well, I’ll let you stay one more night”. She grabbed the top of his head, and pushed it down under the blanket.
A good morn to you! taunted the voice.
Whatever reply Leopold tried to make, was muffled.
…
Leopold Ludwig Cornelius in his prime, dressed for success
Artist Unknown
...
Inn: The Silver Tap.
Location: Essembra
Description: Once a fine drinking establishment that attracted the best troubadours, now dilapidated and serving a rougher crowd.
...
1356dr - The Year of the Worm
Leopold cracked an eyelid with a smile. His sweet ray of sunshine was rubbing up against his morning pillar. He gave silent thanks to Sune for this one gracing his bed. Ah, sweet gods. Her mouth tasted of apples. He closed his eyes and lay back, enjoying the sensation as she dipped down and worshiped at his altar. Oh how he loved half elves.
A very familiar song came echoing along the corridor and then into the room. Leopold groaned. His paramour mistaking his groan, redoubled her efforts.
Yon birds are spring singing
Yon temple bells are ringing
Yon fair women are bringing
A good morn to you!
Despite the distraction of lips to his flute, he listens carefuly to the footsteps walking the song towards his door. At they neared, he called out… “I’m coming, I’m coming!” and was rewarded twice over. By the footsteps (and accompanying song) jauntily receeding, and by his wonderful tryst partner (what was her name again?) making it so.
...
1381dr - The Year of the Starving
Leopold cracked an eyelid with a noiseless groan. A ray of sunlight was streaming in through closed and dilapidated shutters right his damn face. He cursed at Lathander for waking him up. Ah, gods. His mouth tasted like the inside of a dwarfs boot. Gradually he became aware of the lumpy pale green woman? (gods, he hoped so) snoring next to him. Ugh, not another orc, he had promised himself that last time.
He closed his eyes, willing himself back into oblivion. Then came the voice, echoing inside his head.
Yon birds are spring singing
Yon temple bells are ringing
Yon fair women are bringing
A good morn to you!
"Piss off, you ganch" he muttered. His bed partner (please be a woman) lifted up her head, and rewarded him with an elbow in the chest. “Ooof!” the wind was knocked out of him as she rolled over, and grabbed him painfully by the chin. “Funny little man, telling me to piss off, eh?” she said, reaching down a hand and grabbing his balls, gripping them far more firmly than was comfortable. He winced, at being winded, at her breath, and at the promised injury to his sack. “You couldn’t perform last night, my little songbird” she leered, shaking his bag “so now you need to sing for your supper, maybe if you sing well, I’ll let you stay one more night”. She grabbed the top of his head, and pushed it down under the blanket.
A good morn to you! taunted the voice.
Whatever reply Leopold tried to make, was muffled.
…
Leopold Ludwig Cornelius in his prime, dressed for success
Artist Unknown
12.August.2015: Never forget.
Re: The Cyricist Lyricist
love this. great descriptions, love the juxtaposition of past and present, and the sensate details grounded in our setting, mouth like the inside of a dwarf's boot, brilliant!
"So Mom, Dad... about that gold those guys brought me when I was a baby. You remember that GOLD, right?" - Jesus