Pendragon
04-07-06, 11:59 PM
((solo))
No moon hung in the velvet sky as the lone traveler dismounted from his horse. Silent as the night itself, he led the horse to the stables before stealing back to the front of the inn. Without waking the hound that was asleep at the doorstep, he opened the door and stepped inside.
His black cloak no longer camouflaged him against the shadows, but rather drew the attention of every patron, bringing a silence to the conversations throughout the inn. With every eye on him the traveler removed his hood to reveal his face and long blonde hair. Choosing a seat near the roaring fireplace, he settled in and began warming himself from the heat of the fire’s glow. After another moment of accusing silence, he spoke.
“I’d be much obliged if anyone would offer a poor traveler a drink, though I’ve no gold for payment.”
The bartender was the first to respond, in a tone somewhere between insulted and disgusted. “Do Ah look a-like charity, boy?”
Smooth and cold as ice, the traveler shot back, “No sir, you look more like a cross between a horse and a barkeep.” Bristling at the insult, the bartender busied himself cleaning a table on the other end of the room form the traveler, and tried to ignore the sudden burst of laughter from half a score of men.
One man, called Dale, bolder than the rest, spoke up to the newcomer. “Do ye fancy yeself a wit, lad?”
The cloaked man continued warming himself by the fire as he waited for the laughter to subside. “Can’t say ’tis very fancy, though ‘tis my trade. Traveling tale-teller, minstrel, wit, bard, swordsman, drunkard, knight, priest, king, et cetera, what have you, though only the first few are in the realm of truth, m’friends. I would offer to sing if you’d offer to pay me, but just now I’m in the mood to tell a tale. Been on my mind all day, and if someone would buy a thirsty throat a drink, I could repay you with my services of the silver tongue. Any takers?”
Dale spoke for the group as he stood and swaggered over to the bar. “I’ll buy ye a drink if ye’ll tell us yer name, and another if I likes yer tale.”
The bard laughed, and even the fire seemed to shrink away from the sound. Something like a booming giggle and musical chuckle, the noise seemed far too big to be made by one man alone. “Have you never heard of the one called Grin the Traveler?”
He laughed again over the collective gasp of the crowd. Into the stunned silence Grin began to speak. “Bring along a mug, then, and give me a moment to collect myself as I give you a moment to find a comfortable spot. This is a long tale, and it might not be finished this night.” He paused to take a deep drink of the ale that was placed in front of him, and settled back into his chair with a satisfied sigh.
“Has anyone here heard of the Battle for Ridgefort?” Once more silence was his only response. “Then soon you shall. Listen close now! Three seasons hard travel to the west of this inn lies a small kingdom called Highland. Usually a peaceful place, it is filled with goodhearted folk like yourselves. I have been there twice, and believe me, the grass is truly greener over there. But it wasn’t always so. Half a score seasons ago, the grass was stained red with blood when the young King Lysac died quite suddenly. Some called it murder, some said the plague. A few blamed it on an accident, but as for myself…”
Here he paused for another drink. “I think the young King killed himself. Poison, probably. In any case, once the King died, there was no heir to inherit to throne, no Queen to step forward, no brothers or sisters to claim the crown. Panic gripped the kingdom as dozens of men declared themselves King, or else supported another’s illegitimate claim. In a week, war raged through the kingdom like wildfire, leaving nothing but death and destruction behind.”
Grin smiled, his famous namesake grin glistening as it caught the light off the fire. The inn was perfectly silent, and even the bartender hung on his every word, completely captivated, wiping the same spot on the table over and over, staring at the storyteller openmouthed, unaware of his own actions.
Grin the Traveler looked meaningfully around the room, catching and holding each man’s eyes in turn before breaking the gaze and shifting his focus to the next. Taking a deep breath, he smiled, glanced around again, exhaled loudly, and took another swig of ale.
No moon hung in the velvet sky as the lone traveler dismounted from his horse. Silent as the night itself, he led the horse to the stables before stealing back to the front of the inn. Without waking the hound that was asleep at the doorstep, he opened the door and stepped inside.
His black cloak no longer camouflaged him against the shadows, but rather drew the attention of every patron, bringing a silence to the conversations throughout the inn. With every eye on him the traveler removed his hood to reveal his face and long blonde hair. Choosing a seat near the roaring fireplace, he settled in and began warming himself from the heat of the fire’s glow. After another moment of accusing silence, he spoke.
“I’d be much obliged if anyone would offer a poor traveler a drink, though I’ve no gold for payment.”
The bartender was the first to respond, in a tone somewhere between insulted and disgusted. “Do Ah look a-like charity, boy?”
Smooth and cold as ice, the traveler shot back, “No sir, you look more like a cross between a horse and a barkeep.” Bristling at the insult, the bartender busied himself cleaning a table on the other end of the room form the traveler, and tried to ignore the sudden burst of laughter from half a score of men.
One man, called Dale, bolder than the rest, spoke up to the newcomer. “Do ye fancy yeself a wit, lad?”
The cloaked man continued warming himself by the fire as he waited for the laughter to subside. “Can’t say ’tis very fancy, though ‘tis my trade. Traveling tale-teller, minstrel, wit, bard, swordsman, drunkard, knight, priest, king, et cetera, what have you, though only the first few are in the realm of truth, m’friends. I would offer to sing if you’d offer to pay me, but just now I’m in the mood to tell a tale. Been on my mind all day, and if someone would buy a thirsty throat a drink, I could repay you with my services of the silver tongue. Any takers?”
Dale spoke for the group as he stood and swaggered over to the bar. “I’ll buy ye a drink if ye’ll tell us yer name, and another if I likes yer tale.”
The bard laughed, and even the fire seemed to shrink away from the sound. Something like a booming giggle and musical chuckle, the noise seemed far too big to be made by one man alone. “Have you never heard of the one called Grin the Traveler?”
He laughed again over the collective gasp of the crowd. Into the stunned silence Grin began to speak. “Bring along a mug, then, and give me a moment to collect myself as I give you a moment to find a comfortable spot. This is a long tale, and it might not be finished this night.” He paused to take a deep drink of the ale that was placed in front of him, and settled back into his chair with a satisfied sigh.
“Has anyone here heard of the Battle for Ridgefort?” Once more silence was his only response. “Then soon you shall. Listen close now! Three seasons hard travel to the west of this inn lies a small kingdom called Highland. Usually a peaceful place, it is filled with goodhearted folk like yourselves. I have been there twice, and believe me, the grass is truly greener over there. But it wasn’t always so. Half a score seasons ago, the grass was stained red with blood when the young King Lysac died quite suddenly. Some called it murder, some said the plague. A few blamed it on an accident, but as for myself…”
Here he paused for another drink. “I think the young King killed himself. Poison, probably. In any case, once the King died, there was no heir to inherit to throne, no Queen to step forward, no brothers or sisters to claim the crown. Panic gripped the kingdom as dozens of men declared themselves King, or else supported another’s illegitimate claim. In a week, war raged through the kingdom like wildfire, leaving nothing but death and destruction behind.”
Grin smiled, his famous namesake grin glistening as it caught the light off the fire. The inn was perfectly silent, and even the bartender hung on his every word, completely captivated, wiping the same spot on the table over and over, staring at the storyteller openmouthed, unaware of his own actions.
Grin the Traveler looked meaningfully around the room, catching and holding each man’s eyes in turn before breaking the gaze and shifting his focus to the next. Taking a deep breath, he smiled, glanced around again, exhaled loudly, and took another swig of ale.