Instant Music

[Brian]

He's not a great story teller, but his heart's really in it, and the listeners don't seem to mind.  Basically, the story has gotten to the point where Hadrick Shuker fought an ice-giant armed with a steel club -- a General -- armed only with his greatsword.  Despite the fact that the Jotun was fifty times Hadrick's side, Hadrick destroyed the fiend's weapon with his legendary blade -- the Archon-forged King of Swords, and then slew him, claiming victory, and ending the final day of the Dreadmarch.

Obviously, no ice-giant would really be that tall, and a sword couldn't so casually destroy a steel club that was twenty some-odd meters long, but it makes for a good story anyway.

[Huitzil]

Paul stays to the side and listens quietly, not interrupting the man's story until he's done telling it.

[Brian]

The story concludes with mighty Storm-rider Hadrick Shuker slaying a second Dreadmarch general (and shattering his sword in appropriately heroic fasion) and then heading north to cleanse some ancient passage clouded with evil.

Then, the man bows to some applause, some cheering, and a bit of hand waving, and the stage is open for the next willing performer to take a shot at entertaining.

[Huitzil]

Paul claps and cheers with the rest of the crowd as he walks up onto the stage. Should it quiet down, he then speaks up, projecting his voice as best he can.

"A wonderful tale, and wonderfully told! I had a far-away tale that I would tell to you, one that I doubt you have heard in the past... but I scare know if I can follow such an act. But -- I will try anyway! Should you care to listen, that is."

He then waits for an audience response.

[Brian]

The people recognize you as the one who dragged them all into the keep, and quiet down to watch you expectantly.

[Huitzil]

"I must warn you, this isn't a tale of the traditional sort bards tell. It is a tale of kingdoms, but not a tale of kings. It is a tale of men, men like you or I. They were five, at least in the beginning. In lands far, far from here, a place known as the Kingdom of Great Bounty.

"There was Bronson, a man of learning within one of their extensive libraries. Though a scholar, he had no reknown even among the academic circles; and he was not satisfied toiling away on obscura.

"There was Fonda, an artist, though not a master. He made his works for others, not himself, and he too found other pursuits far more satisfying that what he had ostensibly devoted life to.

"With him his friend of many years, Robards, the architect. He and Fonda had worked together many times, the artist envisioning a structure and the architect making it reality. They were as close as friends could be.

"Leone, the apprentice, studied under Fonda to learn his trade. And as many apprentices, as he learned from the master, the master learned from him, from his new perspective and new ways of thinking.

"Further still, in the Kingdom of Bamboo-Grass, lived Cardinale, a warrior with no army. He labored to make himself greater, a noble pursuit, but in doing so had gained the folly of thinking himself to be greater.

"This group had all met each other in the past, and though some lived farther from others, they had made effort in their letters to keep in touch with one another. They were not family, but they were more than strangers. They had forged bonds between all, and kept them maintained.

"Those are the players. This is what happened."

Paul pauses a second to gather his thoughts before continuing with the story proper.

[Huitzil]

"A scant few days after the new year's festival, late at night, Fonda sat in front of his easel, no canvas before him. He was engrossed in a stack of letters, most sent to him in response to his latest piece. He did not like the feedback, but the buyer had been pleased and wanted more from him. He sharpened his quill and prepared to respond to his critics when upon his door he heard a torrent of knocks, like rain falling upon wood. The hour was late, and reluctantly he threw on his night cap and carried his lamp to the door to quell its insistent tapping patter

"The old hinges of the door creaked as Fonda threw open the door to see who could be pestering him this late. Barefoot in the mud, wearing a shirt stained with sweat and sawdust, stood Robards, panting and with something obviously important to say.

"'Robards! For God's sake, come in, man, come in. You'll catch your death out there in this weather. What could be so important as to bring you here at this hour?' he said as he ushered his friend into the warmth of his house.

"'Something most troubling, I'm afraid. Do you know of the servant-girl I had hired some while ago, Ayame?'

"'Know of her, yes. Why, is she hurt?'

"'I... I don't know. I asked her to sweep the walks before we closed shop, and she didn't answer. I went into the next room and saw her sitting there, staring at her hand. She told me that it was strange to be able to see though these eyes.'

"'Strange to be able to see...?' Fonda poured his friend a glass of cordial to warm him up, having forgotten all about the trivial matters in which he was engrossed, now caring only for his friend and the mysterious mater he brought.

"'I thought it as strange as you did, and I queried her about it. Then she told me she was not Ayame at all. She said she was someone else, and she was as confused as I as to her location. She said that it was unusual to be able to see out of these eyes. She said, that she had to learn to see out of them as a child would.'

"It sounded mad, but Robards obviously was convinced, and knowing that convinced Fonda as well. Rather than question his sanity, they moved onwards. For Ayame's replacement was not the only matter. It was the message she had brought for him. She called herself an oracle, and she bore grim tidings. She spoke of her memories of things thought only to be legend, and she said that her arrival meant that others would follow her. Others that would wish to find Robards, and that had only darkness in their intent. She did now know whom, or for what purpose. They stayed awake until nearly dawn going over what had happened, and what was to come."

[Huitzil]

"After conferring, they still knew not what to do. They thought that they would make time to travel to the library of Calia and consult with their friend Bronsons. But Bronson, at this time, had trouble of his own.

"He cursed himself for not thinking to hire a carriage for the trip from the library to his home in a neighboring town. His boots crunched the snow underneath him, and a flurry of flakes blinded his vision beyond twenty paces. His clothing was warm, but not warm enough, and he resolved to himself that next time, NEXT TIME, he shall bring money for the taxi-man.

"More than half the way home, though Bronson had long ago stopped keeping track of his steps, he came across a man in the road. No fellow traveler was he, for he sat cross-legged in the center of the path, head down. He wore simple leggings, no shirt, no cloak, no winter gear of any kind. This was more and less unusual than one may imagine it to be. Less because he had no need of them. More because all around him, in a sphere, the snow simply ceased to exist. The ground steamed, the air was clear and muggy in a sphere all around him.

"His first concern was for the man's health, with the oddness of the situation a distant second. He approached the palpable wall of heat and asked him 'Sir? Are you all right?', and this was when he saw the most dangerous part of it all, the man's eyes. They were feral eyes, eyes of a wolf that preys upon the unwary in the midst of the night and carries them off to be devoured. Eyes of a bear that does not kill to save its cubs, but simply for the sake of killing. A wild-man's eyes.

"The man snarled something that was in no language save the primal one of hatred, and Bronson felt the heat intensify as if he were in a cooking-fire. As quickly as he could fathom this, a ring of flame burst forth from the man's position and swept toward him. The force of this was enough to knock him backward, but oddly, he felt no pain from it. The madman stood, shambling toward the prone figure of Bronson, his jaw hanging ajar. Bronson saw that there was no tongue within his mouth. The man gibbered incoherently.

"Without thinking, with noo intent for his own good or ill, Bronson slipped his hand into his pocket and put upon it a charm-bracelet he had been carrying about. It was no family heirloom, nothing of value, simply a trinket he had found one day and had kept for reasons unknown even to him. As he slipped it onto his wrist, he noticed it warm, in fact warmer than he was. He thought it odd, as was the fact the falmes brought him no pain.

"At this time, even in the muffling snow, they could both hear the clop-clop-clop-clop of approaching horses. Bronson wondered who it could be, but the madman snapped his head at the sound as if he recognized it -- and was not pleased.

"No sooner than the source became visible -- a black carriage, pulled by ebony-black horses that ran not because they were trained, but out of sheer terror of whatever may be within the transom they pulled -- did the madman summon forth another mysterious gout of flame, angled at the approaching horses. They were startled and terrified further by this. One broke his reins and gallopped into the woods. Another tripped upon itself trying to turn around, and tangled the horses with it, drawing the entire carriage off of the road, into a deep embankment, turned on its side. Bronsons saw as it fell that it bore the markings of the King's army. He knew that whoever was withint that vehicle was no vassal of the King. Its passengers wore all black, and they were not in mourning.

"Bronson did not wish to tarry with this man further, whoever he may be and whatever was after him, and began to crawl from the road that he might not be seen. Then, another clop-clop-clop, this time from the direction of the library. Another black carriage drawn by terrified steeds. As though the snow had opened to him, he could see its passengers. One was a woman, blonde, of striking beauty, who held the reins. The other, a tall, dire man, held a crossbow, and was angling it out of the window to fire it even as the vehicle moved at a full gallop. He made eye contact for a second, just a second. She smiled, and then she pulled the reins hard to her right. The horses neighed and turned, then stopped once they got off the road. The wagon skidded its wheels in the snow, and spun so that its broad side was now facing toward themadman, with a crossbow jutting from it. For a scant second, the "WHOOSH" of the bolt flying through the air was the only sound to be heard. Then there was the madman's speech-less howls as the bolt pierced him the shoulder -- it was meant to be a wounding blow, not a killing one.

"The man leapt from the carriage and grabbed the madman, striking him across the head with a blackjack to knock him unconscious. Then, far too quickly for carrying a man of that size, he had carrie him back to the carriage, and the reins snapped and the horses flew once more. When Bronson recovered from his shock on the side of the road, the carriage with the madman was gone, and the carriage knocked off the road had been emptied of passengers while he was not looking. Stunned, shocked, unbelieving of what he had just seen, he was left with nothing to do but continue his walk home as he had been before, as if nothing had happened at all."

[Brian]

The audience seems enraptured by your story, the only thing giving you pause is that you're unable to say 'horse', and the word you come up with refers to the oxen-like creatures that you've seen haul carts.  Perhaps there are no horses in this world.

[Huitzil]

"And, to my sorrow, I must cut the story off here. Not that it is the end -- there is far more to tell -- but the hour is late, and though the spirit is willing the flesh is weak. I must sleep, and I shall meet you here for the next part of the story tomorrow."

Always leave them wanting more.

[Brian]

You garner quite a bit of applause -- you've certainl captured their attention with that one, and left them wondering what is to happen next.

The applause follows you out the hall, until you're out of sight and earshot of the festival.  When you reach your room, your tiredness catches up with you and you quickly fall asleep.

[Brian]

You're woken -- you're not sure how much later -- by the sound of guards running through the corridors, probably getting ready for the battle.

[Huitzil]

Paul emerges, shakes off the confusion of just-waking, and opens the door. If there is a soldier immediately outside, he asks "Has the Dreadmarch come in force?"

If not, he walks out to try to find a soldier to ask the same question.

[Brian]

There is a guard outside, and he yells, "The moon's almost down!  They'll be here in minutes!" before vanishing down the corridor, most likely to the courtyard.

[Huitzil]

Paul rushes to the courtyard as well, hoping that he can give an inspirational speech before everything goes to hell.