Lightfoot
03-29-11, 04:51 PM
((Solo for now, I suppose. Message me if you have a great desire to join.))
"Long ago there lived an elf so brave,
so pure, and true and bright.
That his kinsman used to call him,
Radasanth the Starlight.
The bard nodded and smiled as the tavern crowd cheered, his fingers replaying the same set of notes as they clapped, waiting to continue his song. Jasker eyed the man, or more specifically his fingers, from his corner in the tavern, palewood pipe hanging from his mouth, wooden carving occupying his hand. They grasped the lute nimbly, and played the instrument deftly enough for the halfling to guess at the man's experience and balanced it against his skill. The bard himself had only just touched his thirtieth year by the looks of him, and by the familiarity and self-assurance he held Jasker estimated he had been playing for about half that.
He had seen better, but he had definitely seen worse as well.
The nature of Jasker's profession gave him a great wealth of knowledge with taverns and bards that stretched across most of Althanas. By far, the best he had seen of both was in Fallien. He had accepted some work from a Scarabrian noble of the Queen's court who held an odd interest in the desert land. He had tasked the thief with "acquiring" a certain tribal idol of fertility in the Outlander's Quarter of southern Irrakam.
Jasker, knowing that such things had become a bit of a novelty item in those parts, was able to find a suitable gift for his client quite easily. All it took was a couple copper out of his own pocket. So, with a few days to spare until all the proper documents were in order so he could leave, he sought out the nearest tavern where he could find a hot meal, a strong ale, and some time to think of the mythical heritage of his new acquisition.
The Oasis, it was called. He would never forget it. They served the best spiced red ale he had ever tasted and a strange, thick, wonderful soup so delicious he almost melted in his chair. The air itself smelled of comfort and delight. The innkeeper was was a bald, tanned, man with the manners of a saint. The barmaids were beautiful dark haired, dark-eyed wonders that never let your mug drain past half and swayed you with an easy smile and joyous eyes. A truly fine establishment.
About halfway into the second day a dark elf minstrel set up for the night. Her silver hair seemed to catch the light just right to set it aglow. Her violet eyes were piercing and old. She took a spot on a stool she had set in front the hearth. After opening her lute case and bringing the instrument to rest on her thigh, she grasped the neck like you might caress an old friend, gingerly and warm, and, without so much as an introduction, began to play.
The joyous tavern began to quiet then as all attention was brought to the music. She began to sing, softly at first, over the lilting notes. They were in her native tongue, and although the halfling knew the language, he chose to ignore it. He had learned that oftentimes the words didn't matter but for the emotion underneath. So he listened as her voice slowly rose, full of pain, sorrow, regret; a tone that only an experience of lifetimes could portray.
She continued singing for the rest of the day and well into night, until finally finishing an hour after midnight. The echoes of the final chord reverberated from the walls, and all was silent. The halfling spotted a singled tear streak down her cheek, her gaze on the floor.
Jasker looked at the other patrons. Some were new, and some he recognized from the day. But they were all silent, save for the murmurs of praise. Soon after, she left. He never knew her name, where she was from or where she was going. But when he went to bed that night, he cried with tears of silent appreciation.
As the din died down, Jasker was jarred from his thoughts. He took a glance over to Owen, his friend and proprietor of The Peaceful Promenade, and when their eyes met he gave the large man a look that said, Not bad.
Owen nodded in agreement.
The bard continued his song, but Jasker hardly heard it, or rather chose not to. Songs of the great Radasanth were well-received throughout all of Corone, but to Jasker, the name only reminded him of the struggle that gripped the island nation, of the Empire and their bid for domination, and of the reason for the halfling's attendance in the first place.
Radasanth had been Jasker's home for many years, its streets and back alleys as familiar to him as the lines on his hands. He hated seeing his fair, beautiful, dark city in the hands of tyrants. So, when things had started to die down, he set out for Corone, and ultimately Underwood, the Rangers' base of operations, hoping render assistance in any way he could.
The thief scoffed at himself. For years he worked, never asking questions about what he stole, never really caring enough to ask why, and suddenly now he grows a conscience?
Jasker kept hard at work on the carving in his hands, pondering the shape. An eagle?, he thought to himself as the carving blade worked and he chewed on his pipe. He turned it upside down and gave it a half squint. A wry smile formed on his lips as he exhaled smoke from his nose.
"I may be a hypocrite, but at least I'm still a damn fine carver."
"Long ago there lived an elf so brave,
so pure, and true and bright.
That his kinsman used to call him,
Radasanth the Starlight.
The bard nodded and smiled as the tavern crowd cheered, his fingers replaying the same set of notes as they clapped, waiting to continue his song. Jasker eyed the man, or more specifically his fingers, from his corner in the tavern, palewood pipe hanging from his mouth, wooden carving occupying his hand. They grasped the lute nimbly, and played the instrument deftly enough for the halfling to guess at the man's experience and balanced it against his skill. The bard himself had only just touched his thirtieth year by the looks of him, and by the familiarity and self-assurance he held Jasker estimated he had been playing for about half that.
He had seen better, but he had definitely seen worse as well.
The nature of Jasker's profession gave him a great wealth of knowledge with taverns and bards that stretched across most of Althanas. By far, the best he had seen of both was in Fallien. He had accepted some work from a Scarabrian noble of the Queen's court who held an odd interest in the desert land. He had tasked the thief with "acquiring" a certain tribal idol of fertility in the Outlander's Quarter of southern Irrakam.
Jasker, knowing that such things had become a bit of a novelty item in those parts, was able to find a suitable gift for his client quite easily. All it took was a couple copper out of his own pocket. So, with a few days to spare until all the proper documents were in order so he could leave, he sought out the nearest tavern where he could find a hot meal, a strong ale, and some time to think of the mythical heritage of his new acquisition.
The Oasis, it was called. He would never forget it. They served the best spiced red ale he had ever tasted and a strange, thick, wonderful soup so delicious he almost melted in his chair. The air itself smelled of comfort and delight. The innkeeper was was a bald, tanned, man with the manners of a saint. The barmaids were beautiful dark haired, dark-eyed wonders that never let your mug drain past half and swayed you with an easy smile and joyous eyes. A truly fine establishment.
About halfway into the second day a dark elf minstrel set up for the night. Her silver hair seemed to catch the light just right to set it aglow. Her violet eyes were piercing and old. She took a spot on a stool she had set in front the hearth. After opening her lute case and bringing the instrument to rest on her thigh, she grasped the neck like you might caress an old friend, gingerly and warm, and, without so much as an introduction, began to play.
The joyous tavern began to quiet then as all attention was brought to the music. She began to sing, softly at first, over the lilting notes. They were in her native tongue, and although the halfling knew the language, he chose to ignore it. He had learned that oftentimes the words didn't matter but for the emotion underneath. So he listened as her voice slowly rose, full of pain, sorrow, regret; a tone that only an experience of lifetimes could portray.
She continued singing for the rest of the day and well into night, until finally finishing an hour after midnight. The echoes of the final chord reverberated from the walls, and all was silent. The halfling spotted a singled tear streak down her cheek, her gaze on the floor.
Jasker looked at the other patrons. Some were new, and some he recognized from the day. But they were all silent, save for the murmurs of praise. Soon after, she left. He never knew her name, where she was from or where she was going. But when he went to bed that night, he cried with tears of silent appreciation.
As the din died down, Jasker was jarred from his thoughts. He took a glance over to Owen, his friend and proprietor of The Peaceful Promenade, and when their eyes met he gave the large man a look that said, Not bad.
Owen nodded in agreement.
The bard continued his song, but Jasker hardly heard it, or rather chose not to. Songs of the great Radasanth were well-received throughout all of Corone, but to Jasker, the name only reminded him of the struggle that gripped the island nation, of the Empire and their bid for domination, and of the reason for the halfling's attendance in the first place.
Radasanth had been Jasker's home for many years, its streets and back alleys as familiar to him as the lines on his hands. He hated seeing his fair, beautiful, dark city in the hands of tyrants. So, when things had started to die down, he set out for Corone, and ultimately Underwood, the Rangers' base of operations, hoping render assistance in any way he could.
The thief scoffed at himself. For years he worked, never asking questions about what he stole, never really caring enough to ask why, and suddenly now he grows a conscience?
Jasker kept hard at work on the carving in his hands, pondering the shape. An eagle?, he thought to himself as the carving blade worked and he chewed on his pipe. He turned it upside down and gave it a half squint. A wry smile formed on his lips as he exhaled smoke from his nose.
"I may be a hypocrite, but at least I'm still a damn fine carver."