The last note of the ballad hung in the air as a reminder of the beautiful song that had just ended, just like the sunset was a reminder of the glorious sun that had burned over the Kharid in the day. Unlike the sunset, however, that brought with it the promise of a new day, the dying note did not hark the beginning of another citizens had listened many times to this song, but now they were getting bored. Ozan couldn't blame them – he knew better than anyone else how fickle human interest was. While earlier he would be showered with piles of gold coins, the past month or so had barely given him enough money to make an honest living.
But it also depended on what you would define as an honest living. While for most of the world, an honest living is making money while abiding by the law, for Ozan honest living is living by being honest to yourself. And so, for him, the only correct way to live was by stealing some money from there, and some food from everywhere. Even so, he wished it wouldn't come down to this. It is difficult to steal for a living in a city so small, especially when the city is already on high alert. He stared up along the high walls of Sophanem, begging lady inspiration to kiss him with her luscious lips.
She didn't oblige.
He picked up his cape and made way back to his tent in the poorer part of the city. Five gold coins, he counted. That should be enough to buy a small kebab, he figured. That will do him for the night.
Sophanem had only been his home for a few months. He had spent a number of years, however, wandering all along the southernmost reaches of the Kharid, trying to find a way into Menaphos. If he died on his quest to retrieve the Kharid-et from the clutches of Amascut, so be it. If he died while trying to clear his name off a crime that he had never committed, so be it. If he died before he could call Leela 'Princess' again without being a man on the run, so be it.
And he almost did.
A merchant from Sophanem had found him, deep among the dunes in the far north of the city, his body ravaged by the same Kharidian heat that he had loved throughout his life.
He recovered swiftly. His only regret was that there wasn't a song on his lips in those nearly-final moments. He wanted to die singing a ballad. He wanted to die by living honestly.
Now it seemed like he would indeed die without a song again. His trove of songs and epics and ballads, while vast, could only entertain a population for so long. Now, he needed more songs. But what could he sing about when all he had done was wander in the desert for more than a year, consumed by something akin to self-loathing?
He tried remembering what Ariane looked like. He knew her face was supposed to glow with delicateness and nobility, but he couldn't envisage her hands charged with powers and magicks beyond the talents of the most powerful mages.
"Her angelic beauty finds no peer;
Her locks come alive with magic.
She is a triumphant mage and seer;
Though her tale may be tragic."
He tried strumming his oud, but the words simply wouldn't flow, nor the music come alive. The ballad was begging to be enlightened by her new discoveries and theories. But he didn't know of any more.
He tried recalling Owen's person. Those blue eyes almost as icy as an icyene's, with that ferocious scar that added danger to the already heady mix of bravery and chivalry. Now that the gods had come back, had Owen finally got the honour to kneel at Saradomin's feet?
"Far more loyal than any priest,
His sword gleams with starlight.
At Saradomin's side he will feast;
Alongside an icyene he will fight."
No. This wasn't working, he thought desperately. The song carried none of the depth and complexity that defined the Temple Knight. The ballad was begging to be singed by the tales of his virtuous blade. But he didn't know of any more.
He tried summoning Xenia to his mind. That shrewd expression – and shrewder brain – always intimidated him just a little, but he wouldn't ever admit to that. What more secrets had that legendary woman, the mentor of Owen himself, hoarded up?
"A glorious mentor with a lot to teach;
Her wisdom and grace run far and deep.
Valour and bravery in all, she would preach;
The silver haired dame has little time to sleep."
He gritted his teeth. He couldn't focus. Why weren't the words binding together? Why wasn't the music flowing between the binds? The ballad was begging to be entrusted with secret tales and new adventures. But he didn't know of any more.
He tried visualising the Raptor. It was hard to visualise that moving suit of armour – precisely because no one in living memory had ever seen his face – but today even the rasp of his voice or the clunk of his armour wasn't coming to his mind.
"No one shall see him.
Mothers shall whisper his name,
To silence the children when the light goes dim.
In that armour he plays his own game."
"Gah!" He let out a roar of frustration and almost – almost – chucked his beloved oud against the tent flap. The ballad was begging to hear more pleas from more monsters as they were felled. But he didn't know of any more.
He tried bringing Linza in front of his mind's eye. What clever new technologies had she innovated? What deceptively light yet sturdy armours and weaponry had she designed? She had been the one to create the plans for his own bow and quiver, and it had served him well, and she had also crafted the Raptor's armour. He missed his own childlike curiosity when he would enquire about new blueprints.
"She is steady and strong and fair,
Her hammer strikes well and true.
She quickly brushes back her hair,
As she forges the metal through and through."
He started crying now. What else could he do but cry? He hoped at least his sobs were more melodious and soulful than his music. The ballad was begging to be brought alive from mere blueprints. But he didn't know of any more.
There was still one last glimmer of hope left, however. His eyes were wild with desperation. If he could remember and honour her, he could say that his songs still carried some skill and beauty.
"No one could match her fire,
No one could match her flame.
She has lit in the darkness a pyre,
That great Karamjan dame!"
But then he stopped. There were still enough tales to tell of the World Guardian, but she deserved more. She deserved to be remembered for every thing she continued to do, not just the things she had done before taking on that mantle. She deserved to have her efforts to protect the world, the choices she made, the heroes she inspired and the people she saved immortalised in history.
He needed to let go of the past. Everyone knew how she had become Guthix's daughter in all but flesh and blood. Everyone knew how she had joined Icthlarin in preserving the sanctity of the whole of the Underworld against the machinations of the devious Mahjarrat Sliske and the devilish Amascut. But everyone needed – and wanted – to hear something new.
He thought with a touch of shame how he had neglected the rest of the world in his self-pity. They had been lucky to have the World Guardian help Icthlarin – Icthlarin had said as much in one of his rare public appearances – but who all could the World Guardian reach in time? How many more innocents could she manage to protect? She needed someone by her side. She needed them all by her side.
He gently put his oud away and settled down to sleep. He would have to get up early tomorrow. It was time to let go of the past. It was time to see the bigger picture. It was time to find Ariane, Owen, Xenia, the Raptor and Linza in a bid to help defend Gielinor. It was time to be the other hero the Gielinor needed.
It was time to make sing new ballads, compose new songs.
This time, he would make sure he died singing a ballad. This time, he would make sure he would die by living honestly.