A BARD'S MELODY
Lurbuk, the bard, woke up in high spirits this morning. Without a bad dream to shake off and the sun shining rays of joy, he rises from his straw-filled bed to brush his tusks before breakfast. If a bard is to be the best, then surely, he must have good breath. That is the first rule taught in the Bard's College. Or so Lurbuk had heard.
He applied five times when he was eighteen. On the fourth declining letter his father told him to aspire to other professions. Smelter. Blacksmith. Warrior. Hell, adventurer even. Or, mercenary, if Lurbuk had the ambition. But most of all, his dad wanted him to be chief of Dushnikh Yal. His family's stronghold.
No, instead of the aggressive nature his fellow Orcs took, Lurbuk preferred to sit on his windowsill and dream. When the weather was right, he would lean out and sing about the wonders of Skyrim. There is only so much emotion that can be conveyed through a tale told by many. It's nothing like music.
At ten-thirty sharp, he plops down in his rickety chair for breakfast. With all those creaks, Lurbuk supposes he should invest in new furniture. But he won't get his next paycheck until the end of the month…so the rickety chair it is.
While preparing his meal, he mindlessly hums the chords of his new song. Taps his spoon along with each beat. It's been in the planning stages for some time. The song sounds strange to come out of his mouth in perfect clarity, but here he is. He makes sure to grab his handy bowl and spoon for some cereal. One the fellow villagers has taken up grinding those honey nut treats down into crumbs. Better to digest with some milk. Speaking of, he races to the nearest chest to find a tiny bottle of it which sits on a small patch of ice. It was better cold.
Along with him at the breakfast table is his trusty lute. His maiden. She sits across from him like Lurbuk supposes a good friend or even a girlfriend would. But she is much better. She won't drone on and on about trivial aspects of her day and expect Lurbuk to keep up. He has a wandering mind.
There is so much beauty in the world and his only wish is to convey it in such a manner. It was like the first bard he had ever seen. The one he always wanted to aspire to. A snowy haired woman in the Winking Skeever. His father had business, of the hush-hush type, so Lurbuk was left to his own devices while the bartender babysat him.
That day as a young fellow, he was bundled up in the corner and while the other patrons took to drinking and talking. Lurbuk watched in awe as the woman painted pictures in his mind with words. Stories of adventurers. Jarls, come and gone. Fair maidens. Now, it was all about the Age of Aggression and this so called, legendary, Dragonborn.
Lurbuk chuckles around his spoonful of honey nuts. Dragonborn. Dragons are no such thing. And the Thalmor? Many people knew they were the true keepers of Skyrim but in his heart of hearts Lurbuk hopes Ulfric wins the war. He doesn't know what that might mean for his Orc family in their closed off community. But he is getting gods tired of singing the Age of Aggression all the time. Carelessly, in one of the high notes of his practice song, he shoots his hand out, spilling the milk all over the table.
"Agh! Again?" He leaps up to move the lute from the approaching white liquid. She would be no use if she were waterlogged. Yet, she was too far from the spill to be in much danger. But Lurbuk will not take the chance. He cleans it while scolding himself. He knew he had bad luck. He saw it in all things in his life. But some days were better than others. This milk spill, however, might mean the start to a very unlucky day…he needs a way to cheer his spirits and everyone else's.
That's why, tonight, he will sing his own song. He's been writing it for the past few weeks. Inspiration struck him one night. He was mulling over an event he heard about that day. A friend, his name was Hroggar, told him that a hagraven was blasted with strange magic after her fiancé wanted their ring back. And not only that, apparently, there were two fiancés! An old man and a woman sought her out and when the hagraven declined, they killed her in cold blood.
This story had Lurbuk up for nights. How could someone, who supposedly loved you, be so cruel and calculating? How in all of Nirn, could you fall for someone who would betray you so devastatingly? What compelled two people to fall for the same person? Lust? A simple love triangle? Lurbuk's imagination was running wild. He was certain when he finished inking it, that it was his best song to date. He just hopes the audience approves.
Some nights were good, some bad, but most people got drunk at the little Inn. Mainly adventurers and guards taking the night off. Joanna was kind enough to let him stay, and send word around town that Lurbuk, the bard, was a mainstay resident at the Moorside Inn!
When the milk is all cleaned up, Lurbuk sits back down, only for the chair to creak and snap into pieces underneath him. Unlucky day, indeed.
Later on, sweat beads along his sideburns as the stage is set up for him. All Falion has to do is move a few barrels and the floor was his. This is always a tense moment. The few seconds before getting up in front of the crowd. This is exactly the feeling Lurbuk thought his father used to have when he worked as a mercenary. The now highly regarded chief used to tell Lurbuk before each kill, his heart would race in anticipation. Would his prey fight? Or flee? Would the crowd cheer? Or boo? One would not know until they stood tall in front of them.
"You're on." Joanna whispers from behind him. She's furiously cleaning mugs as soon as they come in. It was a rowdy night and one person of all was drinking the most. Taking up all of Joanna's time with all the ale they were buying. Lurbuk hopes that person at least tips well.
He slides his hands around the red lute like the caress of a lover. His maiden. She would sing with him tonight and aid him on his risky endeavor. He stands before the unrestrained crowd and plays the basic songs. When he gets to Ragnar the Red, to which most of the drunks were singing along, he sees a strange fellow.
A woman. She is clothed in black armor and looks like she will pass out any moment. Her head, filled with ebony hair, lays face down on the sticky table. Lurbuk nods to Joanna and she winks back when she sees the woman. Soon, the bartender moves to help her.
Now is the time. So far, the crowd is receptive. Cheering, hollering, laughing. Smiling at him. Because, even though the booze is pristine here, they truly came for Morthal's best bard. It helped that they were drunk, admittedly, but all of them were waiting for him to sing again. Lurbuk, the bard. He will not disappoint. He opens his mouth to begin the first chords of the song, aptly titled, "Shackled at the Shack of Love".