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“I was afraid you weren’t coming back, old man. You can’t leave such a story without an ending,” said the captain from his table in the corner of Brenaed’s Flame. Though no young man himself, his sun-wrinkled eyes followed the old man as he walked slowly with a lute in one hand and a cane in the other.
“I said I would be here, so I am here. Only the uncouth would hold the elderly or bards to any promises of specific times. This is the time for stories, and not a moment earlier," he said as he took his seat opposite his companion.
“Very well then, old man!” laughed the captain. “I thought bards were supposed to play their instruments and sing to crowds, not tell one stranger a long story over several nights.”
“Fuck you, I’ll play when I want. Just get me a drink.”
The serving wench came over quickly with a drink for the bard and another round for the captain. Service was not normally so quick in Brenaed’s Flame, but tipping well and not grabbing goes a long way. She smiled as she handed a drink to the one who smelled like the sea, and she nodded briefly to the one who smelled… like time. They were silent while she was there, but conversation resumed as she scurried back to the kitchen.
“So what sort of bard are you?”
“I’m the last of the Troubadours.”
“You mean you’re one of the Kin, like all the bards say they are?”
“No. My grandfather was the Troubadour.”
“What do you mean ‘the Troubadour’?”
“Are you a stupid man? My grandfather was Llewyn Cosgrove, the Troubadour. He built a community of bards, which treated each other much like family. They are called the Kin. His father was a great bard, his father was a great bard, and his father was a great bard, and so on until the beginning of Abril so far as any of us are concerned. They were all called the Troubadour, and I am the last of them.”
“Yes, I know about the Troubadour, but they say he had no children.”
“Does your wife know everyone you fuck?”
“Hey, now, that’s… no, she does not.”
“And so my grandfather was the Troubadour.”
“I assume your father was a bard.”
“No, he was a weaver.”
“How did that happen?”
“Is that really the story you want to hear, or do you want to get on with the tale of the heroes?”
“The heroes, of course.”
“Where were we?”
“They had just gotten off a boat and been challenged by Er’Dru’Lat, that plant and man thing.”
“Yes, of course, the Guardian of the Spirit Tree. Er’Dru’Lat was clearly of the natural world. Vines and flowers were not only on him, but they made him. It was strange, therefore, to see him wielding something forged of metal. Was it dropped by an unsuccessful challenger? Was it a gift from the gods? Did he forge it himself from deep within Abril? Well, no one knows. However he found it, he fought brilliantly with it. Brenaed, Sir Francois, Livid, Sir Alestair, and Brother Eisen fought hard, and so did Er’Dru’Lat. He reached into Abril and summoned forth dire bears made of the same flowers and vines that made up himself. He caused the grasses and shrubs to reach up and grab them. Still, they fought on, and Er’Dru’Lat finally fell. But as he did, he became a bed of flowers…. Much like the flowers that already decorated the clearing. Did each one mark a place he had fallen? Or were they just flowers? We may never know the answer to that.”
“You know these stories might better if you didn’t draw so much attention to the things we don’t know.”
“Do I tell you how to get cozy with a cabin boy while at sea for far too long?”
“What?! No!”
“Then don’t tell me how to do my job. Besides, it's all about the mystery. I want this story to stick with you, and it won't if you understand everything in it. Moving on, with the Guardian destroyed, they rested to recover from their wounds. They picked up the sword that was left behind by the Guardian, the Sword of the Living and the Dead. It was clearly of great power, and it was somehow tied into the elements of Abril. Sir Alestair and Sir Francois debated who should carry it, which was an option because it actually changed sword type based on who held it. It was decided that it would be carried by Sir Francois. Rested, they traveled into the heart of the island through the dense forest. There was a trail, and it brought them to a clearing. In the clearing they could see Ogdivin, the Spirit tree, the Elder tree of Trasselica. It stood four to five feet high.”
“Wait, did you say forty-five, or four to five?”
“Four to five.”
“That’s hardly impressive.”
“It glowed.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“More on the tree later, because they also saw a pile of gold.”
“You should lead with that. A pile of gold is far more impressive than a five foot tree.”
“Shut up. They saw a tree and gold. They were looking for the tree, so the gold was a surprise. It is said that Brenaed bent the fabric of reality to call forth a monkey from some other world—“
“Wait, what? Another world?”
“I don’t know. Ask a wizard. They monkey went into the clearing, and that’s when the great blue wyrm Garslixvalendornamstil flew down to stop them. Of course, a blue was immune to the lightning that protected the island, and the Guardian kept out most others, so recently this blue had made this clearing its home. It had not moved all of its treasure there yet, but enough to make a bed. Garslixvalendornamstil thought they were there to steal his gold and, being evil, decided to kill them immediately. A great battle took place in that clearing.”
“Your description was flat. I feel like you could have described the sound of the wings and the glint off the talons before actually just naming and identifying the dragon. It just needs more action.”
“I appreciate your input. Perhaps I will ask for more help with my next tune. It’s called Captain Leonard Cominic, the only man without a—“
“Ok, I get it. I’ll be quiet.”
The bard took a long, slow drink as he stared into other man’s eyes. After several awkward moments, he continued, “The battle was of lightning, fire, and steel. Arrows streaked through the air, and explosions shook the forest. During the battle, Sir Francois was sent to the realm of the dead.”
“You mean he died…?”
“No. He was mortally wounded, and then he went to the realm of the dead.”
“Right, that’s just a poetic way of saying he died.”
“Not at all. Well, yes, it would be, but not in this case. He was no longer among the living. He was gone, but he took his body with him. He took his gear with him too, and he appeared under a massive Elder tree that glowed.”
“Is that what it’s like to be dead?”
“I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.”
“Why not?”
“I have never been dead.”
“Fair enough.”
“The tree was massive, reaching out to the edge of the clearing. Instead of forest, there was just blackness.”
“I bet that’s the real realm of the dead.”
“Probably, but not being a moron, Sir Francois did not go investigate. He looked around and noticed he could, to some degree, sense the position of his comrades. He could feel sense the strength of will to bend reality that represented Brenaed. He could sense a cold, deadly wind that must be Livid. He could feel an immovable wall of faith that must be Sir Alestair. He could sense the wanderlust of Brother Eisen. Where the dragon should be, he could sense nothing at all. However, he reported that he thought Jonril waved at him. Dismissing these thoughts, he climbed the tree to reach the elder berries.”
“Wise plan. Seriously, though, that little dragon is crazy.”
“Yes. Meanwhile, the battle raged on. The ancient blue took to the skies, but Brenaed cast his fire upon him, and the blue was unconscious. He plummeted to the ground and exploded in a sickening sound that one does not commonly associate with dragons. Moments later, after eating the elder berries from what may or may not have been the realm of the dead, Sir Francois reappeared in what was unquestionably the realm of the living.
“From the tree stepped an ancient dryad, Trasselica. She explained that the dragon had come here and found it a convenient new home, and the Guardian was unable to enter the clearing. She was happy to have him gone. She further explained that Ogdivin is small in the realm of the living because so many have died. It is a reflection of the power and numbers of the realms. Some time ago, the elder tree was much larger here in the realm of the living. Still, it is expected he will grow in both realms given time. There is much that is not understood about Ogdivin, and even the dryad cannot explain it all. When asked why the dragon did not appear in this realm of the dead by Sir Francois, she said that dragons are *of* Abril. They do not exist in realm of the dead.”
“So the dryad lives *in* the tree?”
“To my understanding, yes.”
“How does that work?”
“I don’t know. I tell stories, not study the fey.”
“Fine. Go on.”
“They were given berries and instructed to eat them before setting foot on the Isle of the Font. The corrupted magic that came out of the font would assuredly drive them insane as it must have done to those who were in the temple. With the berries they need, they set off for Tyrhaven to buy new goods.”
“Wait, they went shopping with the future of all Abril at stake?”
“Obtaining superior weapons, armor, and magic is critical to any successful quest.”
“Of course, but why do you need to tell me about it? They also presumably have had a few shits here and there, but you know well enough to keep that out of the story.”
“I felt it was necessary to explain they spent the blue’s hoard on goods to help them with the quest. So while the dragon was evil and killed many good people, the end result has been beneficial to the quest to save us all. I was going to make it a subtle little thing, but your incessant questions forced my hand.”
“Sorry.”
“After Tyrhaven, they traveled quickly across the civilized lands back to Port Hemstin. There they found a boat, the Swift Raven, under command of Captain Darlick, who was willing to take them to the Isle of the Font for a rather high price. It was a dangerous journey.”
“I knew Darlick in my younger days.”
“Wonderful. Could that possibly relate to the story?”
“No, I don’t suppose it does.”
“The Padraic sea was ferocious. They could see the storm, but it was like no storm they had seen before. It was a wall of wind, rain, and sea. No ship could possibly penetrate it, but the Isle of the Font was outside the storm wall. There was a small harbor where they could get to the dock, and they could see shapes moving on the shore. They looked like men, but they did not move like men. Preparing for battle, they ate their berries and made their way towards shore. It was the 27th of Summer’s Breadth in case you’re keeping track.”
“Oh, so the Tournament of Roses was going on like when their story started!”
“No. It would have been, but it was canceled that year due to all the undead swarming the land and the Red Plague. The rebellion in Nosland didn’t help much either.”
“So they went ashore, and then what?”
“You’ll have to find out later. I decided I will perform now.”
The old bard stood up and made his way slowly to the small stage in the front of the tavern. He strummed and tuned, strummed and tuned, quietly preparing his lute while being mostly ignored by the patrons. Then, without warning, he began, his rich voice ringing out to reach every soul there, immediately capturing their attention. He sang an epic tale of the glory of kings and noble warriors, and then the tale moved towards the details of the maiden left at home. The saga was filled with sorrow and greatness, love and loss, honor and betrayal. Finally, the last golden note faded into the silence, and the crowd roared.
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Do the asparagus look threatening?
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