Prologue.
Of Singers and Fools
"Minstrel," Lord Grendel called. "Enchant us with a tale, if you will."
The decadently decorated hall was filled with the gentry of Victoria. For a single night, the warring Kingdoms placed their petty troubles aside to celebrate the winter solstice, the beginning of life. On this occasion, no politicks were discussed, no alliances made – they were one people under Cygnusian rule.
The bard stood, acquiescing to his Lord's request. The weave of delicate long fingers was memorizing as he passed them through his nyckelharpa.
"Your will, sirs," he called to the table, his voice enchantingly low. "Perhaps a tale of woe, of betrayal, for you to better appreciate your fineries." Pausing, he strummed lilting notes on his instrument. "Perchance one of might and valor, so the strength of your knights do not go uncelebrated." Grasping the strings with stiffened fingers, he allowed the music to flow to a resounding chorus.
"Command me, Lords."
The Lord Dances with Balrog stood and roared, the feathers of his tribal ancestry standing proud on his headdress. "Give me a tale of bravery, song man. On this night, I want my heart to sing!" Grabbing a bag of mesoes from within his bodice, he threw it to the musician. Athena, graceful and slender, added to the offerings of her rival ruler.
"At once, m'lord of Perion, m'lady Athena." Deft fingers snatched the payments from the air and quickly pocketed them.
Silence had fallen across the hall as the various leaders and lords paused in their revelries. The singer commanded the presence of a King, and he used it well to his advantage. Leaping swiftly on the long table, he scattered the dishes. Dark, shadowed eyes peered from beneath his fool's cowl, glaring balefully at the assembled aristocracy. Even the soft chirping of the crickets now added to the mystique of the man.
Grasping at the wand beneath his robes, he cast a quick fire arrow spell, banishing it after only a moment. The effect in the darkened assembly was spectacular.
For that brief moment, he was surrounded by an aura of heat and flame, both of which sharpened the hues of color that had been painted skillfully onto his skin. Gasps rose from his audience, followed by titters as the moment passed.
A soft haunting melody now drifted up as his fingers performed a magic of their own.
"My Lords, my Ladies, gentles all. You might know me, and again, you might not. I hail from the dark dungeons of Sleepywood. The magic of life was… is… strong there… so strong that even plants walk in the dusk of night. And it was there that I crafted my sagas. We, the people of the dark wood, remember even as you have forgotten. I sat at the feet of Sabitrama as he regaled us with the histories of old, and I learned lore. I studied with the Alchemist as he mixed his brews untold, and I learned wisdom. I learned of our forefathers and of our land and of our blood. I shared in the agonies of Ereve… I mourned for the fall of Orbis. "
His voice drifted off slowly, before returning with a greater intensity.
"My Lords! Do you remember your heroes? Do you remember the valor of Chrishrama as he fought the generals of the Black Mage? Does your heart ache for the sacrifice of Manji as he held the pass of Perion for that last fateful night? Does it roar for the fall of the Aran?"
The intensity of the silence was palpable. The performer gazed on the assembly, and his winter-blue eyes seemed to meet with each and every one of the amassed men.
"Throughout this forsaken land my tales have been mentioned, repeated oft over the dying embers as adventurers prepare for slumber. Some will make your bones tremble; others your soul to tear. I am Casaran! I am the Lord of bards, the master of singers. And after today you will know my name!"
"The tale I am to share with you is not one of sorrow, or of grief. It is a tale situated during a time when heroes were simple, when they did not shy from shades of black and white. The greatest act of Manji was to refuse the death of a babe for the life of a town, yet men have scorned him for that act since. Tonight, I will tell you what it means to be human."
Casaran took a deep breath, and the congregation breathed with him, so enthralled they were in his words.
"Tonight," he said, "you will hear of the final charge that broke the vast army of the Black Mage. You will hear about the simple courage of the Knights. This is the tale of Jacquen Shan, Lord of the ancient house of Golem, the last Cygnusian King.