George Longcloak - In search of a legend

[WouldBeBard]

The young man sits at his table again. The room is becoming more homely; a proper chandelier for extra light, relieving some of the perpetual gloom caused by the shadows of building upon building on this side of the city.
Curtains to keep out the chill from the window as the winter months approach. The lares have been given a pedestal seperate from his table, where the incense is still burning and a small offering of fresh fruit is made.
The corners are clear of dust and cobwebs. His clothes hang from a proper rack, rather than a hook. His blanket has been joined by a pillow.
He is writing calmly, deliberately, no real questions occupying his thoughts.

They think me a bard. Well. I'm not sure they all do. To begin at the beginning. Since my ordeal in Jiyyd's plains, I have been travelling around to look for trouble. I will not attain lofty goals wasting away in a city.

I had gone many places and dealt with several creatures, though none were a real challenge but in numbers. Then, as I walked through the city's docks, I chanced upon a sewer entrance. I recalled Shesarai say she had patrolled the sewers in search of coffins.
Have I mentioned Shesarai? Another lovely young red haired women. It's as though Sune and Tymora conspired to put so many redheads on my path. I haven't learned much of her yet, but I gather she is herself a bard, though I may be as wrong as she was.
Either way, on the one hand I felt the need to find out what these coffins were about, and on the other I believed I might do her a favour as she seemed resentful of the task. And so, I went sewer diving.

I tell you now, my unknown companions through these pages, I regret it. I fully understand her resentment. I spent the better part of the day wading in cold mountain streams to get the smell out. I have swam castle moats during sieges, and I will never forget the charming scent of an army's makeshift latrine, but it all fades to naught in light of the sewage system of a city of thousands.
It is hard to describe, and you should not wish to try, but suffice to say I feel for the guards posted so near, and the cultists below must indeed be insane to host their rituals in so foul an air. One would think whatever god they worship would smite them, for each ritual that reaches their domain must bring with it the waft of all Peltarch's debauchery's morning after.
Come to think of it, that might be the reason for its constant peril.

Either way, the cultists in the sewers. I did not find coffins, but I found them. Rather, they found me, as they were charging me headlong by the time I noticed them. As you read this, you can assume I survived, and they did not. It pains to admit it was the hardest battle I've fought so far, even if the opponents were just three. A normal man, and then some manner of priest with its summoned creature. The man fell easily. The summoned creature disappeared into thin air again before it managed to hurt me. The priest? That bastard managed a spell, and I felt feverish. Then he took my hilt to the face. He managed a second spell, and I felt a golden light burn away at me. For that, I gave him a gash across his leg. A third spell, and he sent wracking pain through me. I knew he would get the better of me if he kept it up, but I also knew he would if I ran. Despite the pain, I managed to cut his arm, and his next spell fizzled. I saw his eyes widen and he almost tried to flee, but there was nowhere to run. Three more spells he tried, three times more I stopped him. The last was fatal. Sadly, I destroyed his armour along with it.

I walked away then, with my life and a brewing fever. Luckily it never took real hold, and I lived to tell the tale to Shesarai and Gnarl.

Gnarl. Gnarl appears a kindly dwarf, even if his speech is short and to the point. He's also offered to buy any coal off me that I manage to find, and then encourages me to spend my hard earned coin at the Edge. His store. He's also a redhead, for what that's worth.

Gnarl mentioned he had a good scroll that would protect me from the spell with the red light, and I said I couldn't use it. Shesarai who'd joined the conversation by then was honestly surprised. 'But you're a bard, aren't you?'. A bard. I own, I hadn't given them much evidence to the contrary. My clothes imply the lust for life and all its vices which bards are known for. My speech, I'll admit, is verbose and lyrical, but as these people themselves are so eloquent, they bring it out in me. The manner of speech I used among rough soldiers has gone like snow before the coming of spring. And all they have seen of me is talk. Talk of past deeds, talk of future aspirations, and the spinning of a tale. Could I be a bard, though? I would never say I am so skilled.

They took me to the Kuo Toa in the caverns near Oscura that day, and I should hope my actions have proven me to be more than just talk. I'd like to think they did, as Isolde now teasingly calls me brute, gifting me a fine club, which I will cherish. A small part of the loot has paid for some much needed niceties in my room, the rest I shall keep to finance future endeavours. Gnarl, again, advised me that any loot I kept could be easily and freely spent in his store, and indeed, a crossbow bolt effortlessly ripped my chainmail as a reminder that I need something better.

He then puts the quill down and throws some salt over the ink to help it set. Bending over from his seat, he reaches beside the table and opens a small, velvet lined case. He takes out an old, worn mandolin and sits himself upright, back straight against the chair, crossing his left foot over his right knee.
His fingertips slowly slide over the strings, pressing them down and taking in the feeling. As the winds in the city pick up and drive the rain relentlessly on, a first few unpracticed and uncertain notes can be heard from an unremarkable window in an alley in the docks.

[WouldBeBard]

Once again, the young man is found at his table, quill in hand, though he is not focused on his paper. He is gazing pensively at his arm, where the tiniest red mark denotes an infected insect bite, already healed and fading. His eyes then travel down, and his hand runs along smooth skin, a vague frown on his face. He gives a light shake of his head before turning back to his writing.

I returned to Jiyyd, today. Or rather, the area around it. Instinct tells me I should not head into the village alone. Part of it is morbid fascination, I suppose. To see how a land could be blasted the way it was. Another part is my belief that I should steel myself against sights like these. It unnerved me to the bone, to see such destruction and decay, but something tells me I will see worse if I aim to stay. Worse, and more personal. Then there's also the idea there is yet more to learn of the area, that it might yet be important to me. And last, there is the fact that there seems some coin to be made, at least.

No, dear reader, the irony of scavenging among scavengers that I called desperate just a few days ago does not escape me. It is actually quite bitter on my tongue. Hunger, however, would be all the more bitter, and there does not seem to be much paid mercenary work available. I might even have to resign myself to enlisting with the city's standing army, if this keeps up. Imagine that. My mother would throw even more of a fit.

I tried to press on farther, last time I got a glimpse of an old fortress before I turned back, and I wanted to see what secrets it held. Alas, it did not go as planned. Before following the road even halfway there, I bumped into one of the carrion crawlers. I thought to make short work of it, but they are hardy beasts. As I slew one, another showed up. And another. And another. I was backed into a corner as I defended myself, but I thought I would win the day. Until, of course, one of those damn corpse gnats stung me. That sting felt worse than any bite of the crawlers could give, and I damn near dropped my sword, fingers cramping and arm shaking, like a page the first day he holds a sword. I know not what filth it carried, but it got me good. Still I fought on, I had no choice. Eventually, I managed to slay the beasts, but just as I kicked the last corpse aside and finally started swatting the damn flies, four of the scavengers saw an opportunity. I'll not lie, my heart sank. I raised my blade to greet them and started the montante's dance to clear a wide street, in order to create a space to flee through. Just then, I felt another sting. And I caved.

I could feel my stomach heave, forcing the rest of me to bend over and hurl my breakfast to the floor. The first scavenger saw his shot and leapt at me. I could barely move. Barely drag my armoured self around. Still, I managed to force myself upright and swing my sword at him. Like a butcher. Like a barbarian. Like some dim witted oaf of a knight who swings his sword the same way he swings a cudgel. The dance was lost in me. Yet I struck home. He died instantly, giving his compatriots pause, but I must have seemed easy prey still. I do not know how I survived. Yet, some minutes later, four men lay dead, and I not among them. I bled, though. I had a hard enough time dragging myself out there, but I still stripped them of everything they had. Perhaps I was delirious, but not a chance in the Nine that I wasn't making coin off of this.

After bandaging myself up, I dropped my spoils by the girl with the wagon. A fair enough price, and the road back to the city would be too long dragging all that. I looked like shit and felt like death, but money made, right? Still, I balked at the idea of coughing up the coin it would take to set all this right.

But I didn't have to. I stepped into the Commons of the city, and the first thing I knew, Isolde sprang up to come to me, she hummed a song and touched me, and gone were the wounds. At her asking, I mentioned I wasn't quite right yet, so she picked up an instrument and continued her healing song. And gone was whatever filth ailed me.
The price? The smallest joke at me expense. She did it for free. Not even a hint at wanting coin or favour.
Healing magic was something I always thought of as precious, to be shared with the officers, and even then for a price, but here was this young woman who stepped up, bright and chipper, to help a man she barely knew, just for showing up.

Isolde. I haven't written about her yet, have I? A beautiful young woman who I've come to understand is a bard of some prowess and note at the city's College, always a smile on her face, a ready wit and an eye for mischief that puts even mine to shame.
She asked me for the first chapters in the story of George and the Dragon, joking how I would come to meet a gold dragon who falls madly in love with me, fiercely jealous of any human competitors. I could live with that legend, I think.

For her kindness, I told her of my youth. Of running away to join a mercenary band, as my mother tried everything in her power to shield me from the military life, of the band I joined together with my cousin, and a short view into the adventures had, and my choice to come north, to Narfell, chasing the stories my grandmother told. She seemed genuinly pleased, and even the others around the Commons listened and asked or interjected.

It was strange. In the Black Band, you were barely spoken to when you arrived. You were arrow fodder. Meat for the grinder. The first sent in, and the first to die. At best, they learned your name so they could order you about in between fights.
Surive a campaign or two, kill more than a handful of men in a single battle, earn some good loot off corpses or ransoming wealthy opponents, make enough money to wear their fashion. Then they'd speak to you. Then they'd call on you. Then they'd count on you.
And it made sense. New kids died. If not in battle, then from wounds. There was always more fodder, any that climbed the ranks were a bonus.

Not so, here. They want to know you. Your past. Your experiences. Your wants, needs and desires. They want to know what drives you.
Perhaps I am focussing on the wrong type of wealth. Perhaps it is allies and friends I should be seeking.

[WouldBeBard]

The same familiar scene. The young man behind his table, the burning incense before the lares, his freshly oiled and polished sword in the corner, his cloak and hat over the hook. There's a snazzy new leather jacket to add to it now, though.
And a blanket.
He sits there, quietly writing away, far more determined this night.

If it is indeed luck, I begin to suspect it's of the sort the Smiling Lady has a hand in.

I started my day as I said. Running through my drills again and again. I must not have been a fearful sight, though, as even something as low as a bunch of feral cats felt like I was prey. They were wrong, of course. I have to admit it was something else, however, fighting cats. And I do believe I learned at least some little things. I pray I need not apply it to these man eating tigers I heard about any time soon.

The damnable weather and cold eventually gained the upper hand, though. This land can be so dreary and desolate. Being cold and wet doesn't exactly help. So, south I went, in search of new sights and people. I eventually made Norwick, and saw a new face.

A pale elf, clad all in silver armour, the symbol of one of their gods on his belt, an ornate sword in an ornate scabbard. He held himself with grace and dignity, and showed the signs of age, so rare in his kind, that I'm unsure how ancient he must be. I greeted him as master elf, and he challenged me on that perception in a mild mannered way, asking how I figured he was a master of anything. He had a strange sense of humour, and it was at my expense, though there was no malice there as far as I could tell. Still, eventually he seemed satisfied or even amused at my explanation, and we introduced one another. It was Raryldor, the famed elf I was told to seek out by Kaitlyn, just the day before. The only friendly face I'd seen all day, and it was a living legend. No, I no longer think it was just happenstance that I chance upon these people.
For good or ill, I turned this way at the earliest opportunity, and fortuitous meetings have been thrown at my feet since I arrived. I think I shall see what else this fate has in store for me, and rent this room a while longer.

On old glories, however, he wasn't too talkative. A part of me understands. A life as long and filled with conflict as his must eat at him more than I can imagine. He felt it better not to speak unless I had a specific question, which I admittedly did not have yet, and instead look forward in life. He did explain the lay of the land to me, where what creatures dwelled, and which would or would not likely get me killed. I thanked him and moved on. The lessons taken from past conflicts will have to wait.

Instead, I set out to find my own conflict. I have scoured the restless dead, exorcised possessed swine, cleaved through goblins, but I learned little. I decided to ferry across the crater, to see this Jiyyd with my own eyes, Now, I have seen the wholesale slaughter of a pitched battle, the merciless culling in ambushes and the brutal reality and cruelty of siege warfare. I have yet to see something quite as oppressive as Jiyyd, however.

It is dark, day and night. The ruins lay as they lay when whatever cataclysm happened, happened. The restless dead roam, along with carrion crawlers and all manner of pests, and bodies as broken as the weapons they wielded lay strewn about. When I see the old battlements of Norwick and destroyed towers in the Nars Pass, I see the beauty of nature, even if it is desolate and unforgiving, I see heroism and bravery, even if it failed.
No such thing around Jiyyd. The area reeks of despair and fear, so thick that you could feel it creeping into your soul if you stayed long enough. The destroyed natural beauty, the crumbling defensive structures, the roaming scavengers, the rumours of demons. The entire area weeps one sentence. "Here, the heroes failed." Perhaps that is why the overlooking hill is called 'Heroes Bluff'.
That is unfair of me. I know not the odds, nor the enemy they faced. Given the result and the might of some of these fine people, I think I will hold my tongue, lest my hubris is the end of me.

I was beset by a group of these scavengers when I could stomach no more and returned. What desperation drove them to assault me, I do not know, but they did not have much time to regret it.
I took the leather jacket one of them wore. There was a lesson learned in Jiyyd, on the price of failure, and I aim to keep it with me.
It looked ghastly, though.

As a sidenote, if I died a pauper, it is because of the accursed Vanity Plates.
Avenge me.

[WouldBeBard]

The young man sits at his table once more. The incense he lit has smoldered to dark ashes, still giving off scent and a faint trail smoke. Even his candle burned a quarter of the way, dripping its wax on his table. In the right hand, he has his quill, tapping it gently against the wood, the ink long wasted on random spots of table. In the left, he holds one of his small figures. A fully armoured knight, sword and shield up in a defensive position. He twists it around and lets it catch the light this way and that. Given the right angle, one could see a worn engravement on the knight's breastplate, depicting a knight's chess piece.
There's no real saying how long he sat there, staring at the piece, but eventually he sets it down at the top of the pattern, next to three others, dipping his quill in fresh ink, and finally sets to writing.

I tried to collect my thoughts before writing. For my own sake, as well as posterity's. No such luck.
Luck. That might be a good word to start on. Luck. Good Fortune. Serendipity? Providence? Fate? Possibly irony.

I've spent a good few nights in the commons of Peltarch now. Seen many faces and listened to many people. I've kept myself to the background for now, however, difficult as that may be.
Everyone here seems genuinly friendly. Genuinly kind. Genuinly interested. Genuinly helpful. It is as if everyone that knows anyone is on the same team as everyone else. I suppose it's natural for a country this dangerous and plagued by war. You very quickly come to know those you can rely on in a fight, and bonds created on a battlefield rarely break.

And oh yes, it is plagued by war and dangerous, having heard and read more tales. What was I saying about luck? Ah yes. I've made my first acquaintance today. Her name is Kaitlyn, a pretty girl not much younger than myself. Don't get the wrong idea, while I own she is a looker, she's… Shy. Timid. Kind, sweet and gentle, no doubt, and probably responsible and dependable, but there seemed to be no real fire, there.

Either way, here I am, in this strange land, rumoured in the outside world to be dangerous beyond belief, trying to dig up knowledge and relics of its countless wars, and the great deeds they inspired, ready to throw myself onto the anvil and join the fabled names this place has spawned, and there she sat.
By a stray strand of fate, she was on my path.
A historian and lorekeeper. A swordsman, her manners and speech leaving no doubt that she was under the tutelage of some of the best this city has to offer. A faithful of the Red Knight Herself. Born from a soldier who she claims ascended to a celestial being in the Grandmaster's service. This, I cannot call coincidence.
We spoke of wars past, of Eastland marauders, red dragons and more. The libraries contain countless tomes, she says, but there are those who lived the wars, still here.
Aelthas, Raryldor, Thaeon. Names I should remember. People I should speak to if I want to know.

Excited as I am, I have neglected other duties. I have gone around the city to see the sights, as though it were my first campaign in a foreign land. More interested in stacked stones and pretty girls than training. And while I'm happy to have found the Ferret and have stared in awe at the temple of the Triad, I will do these kind people no good if my swordarm tires the next time some ungodly creature comes to tear down these walls.

He looks up from his writing, to where a strangely elegant two handed sword stood in the corner, then nods to himself.

At first light, I will take my montante to this land's cold hills, and I will drill, drill, and drill again, until I am warm enough to wade into the Icelace.