There's servants running around the main dining hall here, which is the first area you encounter after descending from Lord Kevin's chamber. You see Lammermore in the distance, talking to some of the guards, who nod attentively before running off to attend some errand or another.
The servants seem to be the only civilians you've seen in the area.
Paul grabs one of the servants by the shoulder as he passes by. "Hey. It's getting to be about time to bring everybody who isn't fighting into the great hall. Could you help me out? We need to get the servants, the women and children, and everyone else not fighting in the keep and indoors so nobody gets killed by a stray arrow or something like that. Can you give me a hand?"
"Well, they should be safe behind the keep," he says. "That's what it's here for."
"I think it would be better if we brought them inside. If an arrow goes too far over, or a rock gets overthrown, people could die. And what use is defending the keep if we would let the innocents die in the process out of negligence?"
"Eh ... I don't think a bow shot could be fired the entire length of the keep," he says somewhat sceptically.
"My mother always said, better safe than sorry. And it would be better to have everyone in one place anyway, so we can keep an eye on them, keep them close, and reassure them so that they don't panic."
He looks doubtful, but agrees to follow you behind the keep to gather up anyone who looks like they might be in harm's way, though anything headed towards them will need to go through the keep before it reaches them.
Paul ignores the servant's bitching; after all, half the point of this is so that the people won't panic, and keeping them occupied and keeping them in a place that simply feels safe will help to do that.
The other half of the point is to keep an eye on everyone to make sure we don't have any fifth columnists dealing any damage. Paul follows the servant out to the back to see the encampment.
Torches and firepits have been set up through the encampment behind the keep, allowing you to see how far back the soldiers extend. There's quite a few of them, all told. The women seem content to remain where they are, watching over whichever tent they're sharing, and the children are mostly kept in place -- a few are still running around, and you can see most of the men checking over their weapons and armor, making sure everything is ready.
Paul looks around for a microphone and stage lighting. Failing that, a podium or high place where he can be heard around the encampment from.
That's not going to happen, unfortunately, given the size of the encampment. You can yell, but any speech you make is going to have to be repeated kilometers down the line.
Paul sits down on the nearest rock, then, and starts to play. Not a tune he knows from his own world, but one he learned from the book; something both popular and soothing, hopefully.
If the servant looks as if he's going to speak or leave, Paul holds out his hand and gestures him to keep still. Rather than yell for attention, he'll just play the tune as best he can and let people come to him.
<Huitzil> roll 3d6
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Huitzil ... : 3d6 --> {15}
The music, while you're playing it, doesn't strike you as your best work -- probably should have stretched your fingers, first. But the truth of the matter is that these people probably don't get much of anyone who can play an instrument at all, honestly, so by the time you finish the song, you've garnered an appreciable crowd. Not everyone, you think, but quite a few people.
Good thing you don't have stage fright.
Paul looks up at the crowd, and wordlessly begins to play another song. Partially, he's waiting for a bigger group; partially, to appear more enigmatic and thus interesting.
The ploy works, though takes time. As you play, more and more people come over to listen. With a liveried keep servant standing next to you, they reason, you must be doing something important.
Somewhere behind you, keeping time with the music, you can hear someone start to work metal in a forge.
Paul puts down his lute and speaks.
"The Dreadmarch is coming. This you already know. If you have not heard word of their approach, you have heard the thunder of their step. Even now, the holders of this keep prepare for battle. Swords are drawn and arrows are nocked. Thousands march to the urgings of some dark drum, coming upon us to sunder all we know and love.
"Yet, we are not afraid! Because we know if ever a place was secure, this is the place. If ever a troop was mighty, they were our troops. If ever a warrior was valiant, a general brilliant, or a leader righteous, we know they are here with us on this day. And this we know, that the Keep will not fall; as we know that the sun will shine upon us.
"Let the Dreadmarch come, I say, and let a thousand times its host as well! Because we know that we shall break them, weather their assault unharmed as a rock in even the mightiest stream. They will flow about us, but they cannot, and WILL NOT take us!
"Why, during this time of our glorious victory, should you be made to wait out here? Let all who know happiness and good come into the Keep, I say, and be safe within its stone. And moreover, let there be a FESTIVAL! We shall eat, drink, and be merry, we shall sing and dance as their army bears upon us because we know that this fortress shall not fall! Within our great hall, we shall make our merriment and spite that Darkness that shall futilely fall upon our anvil! Come, my brothers and sisters, come and share the joy of the victors."
After hearing your speech, all the civillians rally to your call, and flood into the keep, raising a great cheer as they do so. The servant standing next to you looks thoughtful for a moment, and then runs in after them.
Paul whistles in suprise (well, close to a whistle anyway), then jumps up and grabs the servant. "Hold on, hold on, not yet. There's a lot of people here and not all of them may have heard to go to the hall, and they aren't staying to spread the word. I need you to help me out by going around and checking out who is still here, and spreading the word. I'm going to head back into the keep, but first, I need to speak with the troops one last time. And thanks a lot for helping me out like this, man."
The servant nods, and does as you directed.
Paul heads back to the keep, up to the ramparts where he thinks most of the soldiers might be. His lips are moving slightly as he thinks of what he ought to say to them.
The majority of the soldiers are apparently milling around the courtyard, discussing things with their field commanders.
Paul looks about for the nearest lord, or failing that, somebody who looks as if he's in charge for the time being.
Lammermore and Kevin are standing at one corner of the courtyard, attended by about eight guards, talking with eachother, though you can't head them over the other men, as they scurry around and move bundles of spears to and fro.
Paul tries to make his way over to the two without shoving anyone aside or getting poked by anything sharp.
No one stops you, though the guards look at you suspiciously when you draw near. "Greetings, Master Durant," Lammermore says, aknowledging you with a nod, and prompting Lord Kevin to stop discussing whatever he was speaking about before, turning to look at you in surprise.
"Not to trouble or interrupt you, but I had wondered if I might speak to the troops before the battle begins in earnest. Raise their hearts, that sort of thing. I feel that I ought to do something to aid you, and if I can't boost your numbers, perhaps I could boost your morale."
"That's a good plan," Lord Kevin agrees. "Morale and hope are the weakness of the Dreadmarch. Right now, it's merely preparation. Master Durant, I'd like it if you would rest until the moon sets -- that's when the siege begins. I can have a servant wake you before the battle begins. That would be the ideal time for a speech."
Lammermore nods wordlessly. Behind you, you see that massive stone, giant ... troll ... thing walking through the crowd with heavy, deliberate steps. He's carrying what looks like a huge, flattened iron star in his hands. It's got eight points, none of them pointing directly up, down, or to either side, and it's about a meter across.
"Ah," Lammermore says. "We must attend Lord Boneforge." He hesitates, and then says, "You may join us, if you wish."
"Uh..."
Paul's jaw hangs.
"Uh, no, I think that will be quite all right."
Paul makes a stunned show of deference and then heads back to the hall, all the while thinking "Boneforge? BONEFORGE?"
The two nod, and then Lord Kevin and Sir Lammermore (and their guards) walk over to the granite giant, walking with him into the keep.
Now there's just soldiers on the courtyard, putting spears in accessible piles, and yelling out instructions on dealing with pieces of damaged armor.
When you reach the hall, it's still packed with civilians, now all cheering. They've got some guy on stage telling a story about one of the former Dreadmarches.
Paul waits, listening to the story.
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.
Paul stays to the side and listens quietly, not interrupting the man's story until he's done telling it.
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.
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.
The people recognize you as the one who dragged them all into the keep, and quiet down to watch you expectantly.
"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.
"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."
"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."
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.
"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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Paul rushes to the courtyard as well, hoping that he can give an inspirational speech before everything goes to hell.
There's a lot of men in the courtyard, apparently getting ready for the battle. The ramparts are lined with archers, and you can see lorekeepers on top of the towers around the area.
Directly in front of you, you recognize Lammermore, with about eighty soldiers in front of him, and Bjorn directly behind him. The rest of the men are standing about in loose formations behind their leaders, in groups of twenty.
Paul walks quickly to Lammermore. "Sir, with yourpermission, I would like to address the men before they go out, try to keep their spirits up. I feel it's the least I can do."
Lammermore grunts. "Don't take too long," he says.
"I'll make it as quick as I can."
Paul walks around the courtyard to a place where he can be seen by most, if not all, of the soldiers, and begins to speak -- not shouting, but projecting his voice as loudly as he can.
"They are here. Everything we have been building toward, everything we have been preparing for and hoping against and praying for safety from is now upon our doorstep. And yes, it is bad. Yes, it is to be feared. Were I to climb the ramparts and look outward, it is quite possible that I may need to be carried back down. And yet.
"And yet, here we are, myself standing before all of you. Their number is limitless, and yet you will fight them. Their power is unspeakable, and yet, you will combat it. One who was not here, one hearing news of this from afar, would say that it was utter and absurd folly to remain here and attempt to fight. And yet, that is what you shall do this day.
"Why do you -- do we all -- stay and fight? Because we know that we are higher than they. They fight out of fear of their dark masters, they fight merely to destroy. They fight on behalf of chaos and discord. We fight on behalf of something thousands of times greater, and for this, we will triumph. We fight on behalf of those who cannot defend themselves. We fight on behalf of not only the people of this Keep but of their children and grandchildren and grandchildren's children to come. We fight to preserve what is good. We fight on behalf of life.
"When you pull back your bowstrings, the rush of air shall be the breeze through the tulips on every cold spring day yet to come. When you draw steel, it shall be the sound of every mother shushing a babe to sleep in the cradle of her arms. The clanging of your shields shall be the sound of every silver church bell rung for weddings or births or simply to express joy.
"Yea, their number is limitless, and yet, our number is greater! For you are no ordinary troop of men, not in hundreds or thousands or tens of thousands. All that is good, all that is just, all that is simply right shall fight with you, shall amplify you, shall empower you! Children laughing as they chase each other through the fields, kisses stolen by firelight with a secret love, brothers helping each other in times of hardship, all these things and countless others shall swirl about you and become as a shield of hope, for you fight to preserve these simple and yet priceless things.
"Go forth, and fight them! Let them come stacked three high, let the flurry of their arrows blot out the sun, for you will cleave them all the same! For while each of them is but a soldier, is but a minion, each of you is a vessel for a hundred-thousand hopes and prayers and joys and loves! May your blades and arrowheads cleave their ranks like paper, emboldened you are with the power of all those who cannot fight here! Go forth, and serve not only your lord, but serve ALL free men who ever are or ever may be! Go forth, you warriors of light!"
Lammermore raises an eyebrow at that, just a few seconds before a flurry of spinning lights flicker into being around him, spinning around and weaving (and it really looks like the strands of light are being woven) into a guize that leaves Lammermore looking exactly like the Archon who fled a few days ago.
The men all turn to look in awe at the now three meter tall Lammermore. "It worked?" the Archon asks, in its low, breathy voice. "Well, you heard the bard! Let's get ready to give them hell!"
Paul backs out of the way, but stays in the courtyard for a bit longer yet to watch the soldiers move out.
The doorways to the keep are ponderously swinging open -- they're huge, well crafted, solid doors made of thick wood and reinforced multiple times with metal.
The men begin to march through the doorway, and onto the battlefield.
Paul returns indoors, not wanting to get in the way of the soldiers or be struck by fire, friendly or otherwise.
No one stops you, and you reach the main hall without any trouble. The party is still going full swing, too.
Paul asks one of the castle servants aside, the first chance he gets to see one, and requests a favor. "I need you to help me out. Could you round up a couple of guys and put them near the doors out of the hall? I don't want anyone wandering out there and getting lost during a battle, so I'd like it if anyone who left the hall could have an escort -- for the time being, anyway."
The servant nods, and this is set up pretty quickly. Kind of convenient to have a little pull around here....
With that done, Paul partakes in drinking and revelry for a little while, before he goes up and continues his story proper.
This time, everyone quiets down when (after you've had something to eat, and something to drink) you approach the stage.
"When I left off the story, we had traveled from the household of master Fonda to observe astrange predicament befall master Bronson on his travel home. Let us change location again, and ride the thermals as a bird does, taking us to the Kingdom of Bamboo-Grasses. We shall fly over it but let us not linger long; for as strange as its houses of paper and its honor-bound clans are to us, so are we to them, and they have little love for interlopers such as we.
"What we desire to see is outside of the cities in any case. Away from red stone castles and away from busy marketplaces, away from the thousands of men in their thousands of houses. We travel over this, and then across acre after acre of green paddies filled with water and plant life, over rocky and cold heaths where many travel and none stay, all the way to its distant shorelines. And then, across the many islands that dot its coast, we focus on one in particular. Small, circular, with a house large enough for one man and a garden large enough to feed one house. There is no bridge, but a small skiff thrashed together of long bamboo-poles lying on its side shows that the house's occupant can travel to mainland when he finds need.
"The denizen steps out of the house, and he leaves the door open behind him. He is garbed in the loose, colorful robes favored by men of this land, and carries on him a pouch. In it are two swords, a loose pile of copper coins, salted fish, and other sundries. He leans over, turns the boat over, and pushes it onto the sand with his foot. After one last look at his house, he steps in the boat, takes the small wooden oar in it, and pushes himself off of the coast, then starts to row toward the body of mist he knows to be the mainland. His face shows nothing but granite determination. His name is Cardinale. Tonight we will hear his story."
This thread now comes to a close.