II-25: The Bard III
As dusk melded into the frigid darkness of the North, the wintry shroud enveloped the rugged terrain, snuffing out the dying light save for the sporadic flickers of hearth fires that punctuated the landscape. Nestled within this icy embrace, the local tavern bristled with life, an effervescent oasis amidst the relentless cold. Within its robust wooden walls, the air was dense, steeped in the rich scents of roasting meat and the earthy peat of the fires, all intermingling with the sharp tang of freshly poured ale.
Laughter, rough and unbridled, rolled through the crowded space, carrying tales of the day's toils and the night's promises. The shadows cast by the central hearth's leaping flames played upon the walls, animating the stony surfaces with the semblance of life, a dance of light and dark that seemed to mirror the ebb and flow of the patrons' moods.
Secluded at the room's far end, seated upon a stool worn smooth by countless others before him, was Oren Snowlute. His fingers danced absently over the strings of his lute, coaxing from it a soft, meandering tune that seemed at odds with the boisterous mirth around him. The melody wove through the air, a delicate counterpoint to the raucous laughter and clinking of mugs, a whisper of something more refined amidst the rough-hewn tavern. A bit like me, Oren mused, his lips quirking up into a wry smile. A touch of silk in a world of wool.
His gaze, sharp and observant, wandered over the assembled crowd, noting the ebb and flow of patrons as a serving girl deftly navigated the throng. Her tray, laden with frothy mugs of beer, balanced precariously as her skirts swished against the rough-hewn floorboards in brisk, determined strokes.
I'd like to give her some brisk determined strokes, he thought with a slight grin, catching the smiling girl's eye. She was a pretty thing, with rosy cheeks, a rosy chest, and a bouncing step that set her skirts to swirling around as she manuevered, a splash of color in the sea of drab cloaks and fur-lined jerkins. Mayhaps a tune for her later, Oren mused, his fingers already plucking out a sprightly melody. Something to match that spring in her step.
"Bard, give us a tune!" bellowed a drinker, voice booming above the din as he interrupted Oren's bawdy plans for later. The man was a burly sort, with a bushy beard and a nose reddened by too much ale, his eyes glinting with the kind of mischief that could turn to trouble if not managed carefully.
The bard himself looked up, eyes twinkling with mischief of their own as he grinned mischievously. "I thought you'd never ask, though shouting's hardly a tune in itself, is it?" His voice carried over the din, a clear tenor that cut through the rough Northern burrs like a fine blade through wool. Let's see how quick they are with their wits, he thought, his smile sharpening. A battle of words to warm us up.
"Those 'er words, not tunes," another gruff voice chimed in from the crowd, laughter bubbling around him. This one was older, with a grizzled beard and a knowing look in his eye, the kind of man who'd heard his share of bards and their tricks.
Oren chuckled, the sound rich and warm, a velvet counterpoint to the rough jests. "Ah, but what is a tune but words put to music?" He leaned forward, his lute cradled in his hands like a lover, his fingers caressing the strings. "The right words, mind, strung together like pearls on a string, each one shining in its turn." And let's see if they can follow the thread, he added silently, his eyes glinting.
The challenge was met with an empty cup hurled his way, which Oren himself dodged with a nimble lean. Of course. He only grinned broadly at the crowd, the flickering firelight casting dancing shadows across his angular features. "A tune, you say?"
"Aye!" the first drinker roared back. The crowd's attention now prickled with interest, their eyes turning to the bard with a mix of curiosity and anticipation.
Oh, I'll give you a tune, his grin widened ever so slightly more, a glint of mischief no longer sparking but fully alit in his eyes. And a tale to go with it, one you'll all be telling for summers to come. Oren's fingers danced over the strings of his lute, plucking out a few quick, teasing notes that hinted at the melody in his head.
"Well, I've a new one. Wrote it in Thornwell a few days past," Oren announced, gripping his lute with renewed purpose. He cleared his throat dramatically and struck a bold, loud chord that cut through the chatter like a sword through silk, the notes ringing out clear and true in the sudden hush.
"Ah, ah, have any o' ye heard tell of the White Blade o' the North?" he shouted, his voice rich and carrying, the words rolling off his tongue with the ease of a practiced storyteller.
"White Blade? 'wots that?" a skeptical voice called out, no less curious despite the implied disbelief.
"A young lad, hair of gold, eyes of blue, with a magic blade roaming the Dread Lands," Oren answered, stalling slightly as he prepared to ready the song he'd been working on for the last few days since Thornwell. A bit of mystery, a dash of danger, and a hero to tie it all together, he thought, his fingers still plucking out the opening notes. The perfect recipe for a tavern tale.
"Magic?" another man blurted out with a mocking laugh, ale sloshing from his cup as he gestured dismissively. "Are ye serious?"
"Serious as a blizzard. Lad saved me life, he did," Oren pushed on, his voice weaving through the room like a strong wind, carrying his words to every corner. "Yer poor bard, tossed into the dungeons by a wicked castellan, all for naught but a song he didn't quite fancy."
Laughter erupted from a corner where a group of women in daringly cut dresses perched atop the laps of several broad-shouldered men, their painted lips curved in the smiles of those who knew they'd be making coin before the morning. "What'd ye do then, sing of his beard comin' off thin?" one of the women jeered, her loud, clear voice slicing through the murmur.
Ah, a sharp tongue to match those sharp eyes, Oren thought, his grin turning sly. Let's see if she's as quick with her wits as she is with her words. "Nay, this bard had no idea the castellan was keeping it a secret he took kneeling in front of his lord a bit too serious," Oren punctuated the joke with a wink, sticking his tongue out. It was always good to play the humor up a bit, especially in front of a group like this. Might never land otherwise.
The woman's eyes widened for a moment, then she threw her head back and laughed, the sound rich and throaty, setting off a chain reaction in the tavern. It only took a good second or two—maybe a bit more if he was being honest—but once one eye widened after her and the first laugh sputtered out, the entire tavern followed, and they all erupted in cackles, the sound bouncing off the rafters and mingling with the crackling of the fire.
Too easy, Oren thought, his grin turning smug as he leaned back, his lute cradled in his hands. Give them a laugh, and they're putty in your hands. He let the laughter roll for a moment, his fingers picking out a jaunty tune that seemed to dance with the flickering flames, his foot tapping in time. But laughter's just the start.
Oren smirked, leaning forward as he prepared to launch into his song, his fingers poised over the strings, the anticipation building in the room like a gathering storm. "Now, how does the song go again?" He let the question hang in the air for a moment, his eyes sparkling with mischief, his lips curved into a teasing grin. Let them dangle for a bit, he thought, let the anticipation build until they're ready to burst.
"How should we know?" Yet another jeer rang out in the crowded room, the voice rough with impatience and ale. "It's yer song!"
More laughter rang out, a rolling wave of sound that crashed against the tavern walls and broke around the bard like foam on a rock. Patience, Oren. He held back the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes as he cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the noise like a blade through butter. Smallfolk, no taste for artistry. Instead, he continued strumming steadily, the notes flowing from his fingers like water from a spring
"In the dungeon's grip, where shadows creep," he began, voice resonating with the grit of the north, the words seeming to rise from the very stones of the tavern floor. "A young soul stirred from restless sleep," he continued, the audience's murmurs fading into attentive silence, their eyes fixed on the bard as if he were the only light in the room.
That's it, Oren thought, heart beating in time with the music, draw them in, make them feel the tale as if they were living it themselves. "With a star metal blade, bright and deep," Oren sang, his eyes flicking across the faces of his listeners, watching as the wonder kindled in their eyes, as they leaned forward in their seats, firelight reflecting in their gazes like stars. "He shattered my chains and broke fate's keep."
The room was hushed now, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the gentle thrum of Oren's lute, the firelight casting flickering shadows that seemed to dance to the rhythm of Oren's ballad.
"In halls where whispers of dread take flight," he crooned, the strings of his lute trembling with tension, the notes hanging in the air like a held breath. "And dark lords scheme by the flickering light," he took in a slight breath, letting the suspense build for a heartbeat, two, three, before he continued, "he stands alone, fierce in the fight, a shadow in winter, silent and slight."
A boy out of the Age of Heroes, Oren mused.
He sped up his strumming slightly, the tempo building like a galloping horse, carrying his listeners along for the ride.
"'Who's this stranger?' the smallfolk say," Oren's voice rose, breaking the spell just enough to beckon their participation. "'With no banner to wave, no debt to pay.'" Some in the crowd began to nod, their heads bobbing in time with the music. "Yet where wolves tread close or fiends betray," he continued, his voice gaining strength, the words ringing out like a trumpet call, a summons to bravery in the face of darkness. "He keeps watch at night and fights by day."
Smiles cracked, cheers peppered the air, and tankards clanked in rhythm, the tavern coming alive with the spirit of the song.
"'Who's this stranger?' the people say," he repeated, altering the chorus slightly. "'With no banner to wave, no debt to pay.'" He grinned as the listeners slowly mouthed the words he laid out. "Yet where wolves tread close or fiends betray, he keeps watch at night and fights by day."
Then, the melody took a turn as Oren hummed an interlude—"badadadadada badadadadada badadadadadadabumdadadadada"—his voice weaving through the tavern with the nimbleness of a dancer. The room clapped and tapped along, the vibrations of his humming filling the space with a lively energy.
"They'd called me a liar, by castellan's word," he sang, his voice a defiant whip, cracking through the air, the injustice of it all ringing out in every syllable. "With chains on my wrists and my songs unheard," the tavern now thick with the scent of anticipation and ale, he sang, the indignation clear in his melody, a rallying cry for every soul who'd ever been wronged.
And who among us hasn't? Oren thought, his eyes scanning the faces of his listeners.
"Yet He cut me loose, never a word," Oren proclaimed, strumming harder, the resonance filling the space, the notes seeming to vibrate in the air. "Just purpose enough for the bold and absurd." Laughter broke out, a few patrons clapping him on, their hands keeping time with the beat of his lute.
"In forests where shadows drift and leer," Oren's voice took on a slight tremble as he continued the song, painting a picture of darkness and dread, the beasts of recent fresh on the minds of many lowborn. "Where monsters feast and the lost disappear," the audience leaned in as he hushed slightly.
"He carves a path through beast and fear," Oren's tone was triumphant now, a rally to the spirit of every hardened soul in the room. "A guardian's wrath, his blade cold and clear."
The drunkards bellowed, tankards slamming on tables, feet stomping in time with the beat, the room alive with spirit. "Who's this stranger?" he called again, the tavern now fully his, voices rising in chorus with his, a unified shout that seemed to shake the very rafters. "the people say."
"THE PEOPLE SAY!" the tavern erupted again, the words a roar
And again, more confident as they sang with him, "With no banner to wave, no debt to pay." Their fists pumped in the air, tankards raised as they belted, "NO DEBT TO PAY!
YET WHERE WOLVES TREAD CLOSE OR FIENDS BETRAY
HE KEEPS WATCH AT NIGHT AND FIGHTS BY DAY!"
A hero for the people, Oren thought, his grin widening, his fingers flying over the strings, the music swelling to meet their voices. A champion for those who have nothing, who owe nothing. That's what they need. That's what they want.
The final verse came as a victorious shout, the entire tavern cheering now as he sang, "Raise a hand to young Greg Veder!"
"VEDER!" they yelled, the sound nearly drowning out the strum of the lute, the name almost a battle cry.
"For the North he guards with flame and bone," he continued, fists thumping on wooden tables as his accompaniment, the rhythm a heartbeat. "Raise a hand to young Greg Veder!"
"VEDER!" the room shook with the force of their unified cry.
"The blade of the North, no king, no throne." The final words rang out, a declaration, an anthem of sorts, met with whoops and long-lasting applause that echoed against the stone walls.
Oren Snowlute could only grin as he muttered to himself, nearly dodging coppers thrown his way, the coins clattering onto the floor around him. "Oh, milord, you're going to love me for this."
And if he doesn't, Oren thought, his grin turning sly, his eyes glinting with mischief, well, there's always more songs.