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Message: <blockquote data-quote="DMRob" data-source="post: 4638001" data-attributes="member: 6642">Backgrounds, Part 3Polyphony, Tiefling BardA shaft of anemic moonlight illuminates the hallway between dank prison cells in the Duke’s dungeon and cloaking each cell in shadow and musty air.  Once again, she could see the spotlight, but she wasn’t in it; ever left of limelight, it was up to others to be the star soloists, and her, the gentle background music.  The accompaniment.  The angelic voice from the darkness, the only part of her the heavenly firmament would claim. “Who else is there?” she asks, pressing her dusky cheeks against the cold iron bars.  “I can hear you breathing…” “Who’s askin’?” a gruff basso returns, sweetened by mead and trained, almost taut from a history of battle cries. She feels relief, at least, in not being alone.  “I would say I’m free to tell you, but free isn’t the apropos descriptor for our circumstances.” “Thanks for stating the obvious.”  A tenor in a different cell, out of sight.  The words may well be coming from the moonlight, silvery and smooth as gossamer.  “I really needed to be reminded.  I take it you’re new here?” “Aren’t we all?”  Another voice, contralto or countertenor, gender as indeterminate as the vocal range itself. A few minutes of recent history later, and they find that they’re all in the same key:  the Duke’s men, with flat cudgels and sharp boots, had arrested them all and brought them down here to be locked away without any exposition.  She protested, claiming accidentals had been written into the score of their fate, but the Duke’s men were either deaf or philistines.  “Certainly unwarranted, as I saw no warrant made out at all,” she jests, trying to lighten the grave mood, knowing there wasn’t much else she could do from behind the bars.  It was enough to get some conversation out of some of them as to who they were, but when the question was turned upon her, the moonlight stayed in its place.  Her time to shine and not a single star winking at her. “Once upon a time,” she begins, wondering if it was the last cliché she’d have a chance to use, “in a kingdom not so far away, there lived a noblewoman betrothed to a nobleman, which for him was merely a title of formality rather than a supporting adjective.  Born into wealth and privilege, he knew little of the rustic ways of men; to his servants went the task of laboring for the household, and to his wife, the task of laboring for the son he so desperately desired.  Nor was he a man fit for the hunt, a pleasure left to his gentlemen, but fit he was to have his fill of the meat they returned.  So invested was he in pleasing his king to earn greater station, greater power, and greater privilege that he was often out of the home, returning every few evening to sew the seed of his lineage.  As the story says, though the soil was fertile, the seed was dead before the planting, and no amount of precipitous tears from mother nature could bring about a sprout.  Fearing her own loss of nobility, she agonized, until sheer desperation and unkind words from her husband urged her to take action.  A holy man might have offered intercessory prayer for her plight, begging the gods to smile upon her and bless her with child; but she sought no saint, and commended herself into the arms of a sinner.” “The Hornéd Man, as the cards are dealt.  Dancing naked in the moonlight, eyes black as hell, eater of bone and offal with utterances fell that darkened the sky when he came into court to grant men their desires and take women for sport.  You’ve heard of him in childhood stories, in the tales parents used to tell, the antagonist in those moral fables we remember so well.  He figures in here as the sinner she sent for, who answered her call with a smile and a dozen roses.  I wish to give my husband a child, said she, bent to one knee, but fallow is he!  Then, said he, with quiet glee, a child unto thee shall he soon see.  Now away with me, said he, but she, did ask, what fee?  To which he, eager to hie, assured her his service was free.  The pleasure was its own reward.  One season hence, she began to show.  Two seasons in, that mother’s golden glow.  Three seasons gone, and the laboring came, along with the baby.” Pause. “Along with the shame.  Nothing about horns and ruddy skin was noble.  Her gambit lost, her husband shamed, the noblewoman was cast out of the court a whore.  But this story isn’t about her.  It’s about her little shame, swaddled in bloody linens and taken in rough hand, on horseback, to the farthest reaches of the kingdom and beyond, to a church across the border.  There, the Ladies of Corellon were obliged, by oath or virtue or sheer curiosity, to adopt this little outcast and raise her as their own.  Which they did…gods bless them…giving her the right proper education.  Under their tutelage and care, she learned the lore of the land.  She found passion and inspiration and music.  She learned to dress modestly as a lady ought to, even if she was no lady of the court, but a lady of the convent, clothed in propriety, dining on bread, water and sacrament.  She also learned a lot about loneliness there in that little temple to Corellon; the paintings that adorned their halls introduced her to the majesty people are capable of, yet none of the imposing, inspiring figures ever uttered a word to her, their mouths filmed over with glossy lacquer.  Nor did they move to wave or offer any greeting when she passed by, or consolation when she was sad.  The Ladies of Corellon, nice as they were, tread lightly around their adopted outcast.  So many of them go bad, they said.  There’s an evil in their blood, she’d heard some whisper outside her door at night when she pressed her head against it, and wondered why her door needed a bar when none of the others had one.  After holy days when the faithful would come and worship, while she was kept behind that bar, she would listen to them sing, and when they were gone, and the bar was lifted, she would go to this auditorium just to hear herself talk.  Because, if she timed it just right, she could ask a question, utter an answer, and then listen to hear herself more beautiful and voluminous than ever, requesting divine guidance, and a second later, receiving providence from an even more inspiring source.  Divinity from the echoes.  That auditorium became her confessional.  It became her sanctuary.  Here she could be anyone she wanted to be and do anything she wanted to do.  She was many voices, all at once.  She was Polyphony.” Dramatic timing.  No questions.  She pressed forward, wondering if those were footsteps she heard somewhere in the dungeon.  “She lived like this until today.  The nobleman in the story?  Clinging to the robes of his king, quickly bidding to be emperor.  The noblewoman?  Swallowed by the world.  The Hornéd Man?  Wicked as ever, always finding himself the figure of a new cautionary tale.  But the shame, the little outcast, had dodged her comeuppance for too many years by hiding amongst the faithful.  And so her sanctuary was raided by men with iron shackles, her named called to bear for crimes committed in breathing air, in eating food, in singing, in smiling, in being the product of villainy, which was itself the sum of villainy, and as she went from the Church, she heard the Ladies protesting, but not too hard, because they knew it, too – that it was just the right way of things.  Born under a bad sign, deserving whatever fate was thrown her way.” The footsteps closer, somewhere in the distance.  A rattling, keys on a chain.  “You’ll forgive me, but I’m going to save my breath now.  There’s never telling how much of it any of us has left.”Krag, Dwavren FighterKrag Gunderson, Killing Machine Krag Gunderson had always been a bit odd. His family was normal enough. His father was a sensible and well respected Dwarven craftsmen, one of the finest woodworkers of his people. The Gunderson family lived near to the surface of their mountain home for easier access to the valley filled with trees above. His mother was a fine cook and a good housekeeper. His oldest brother was acarbon copy of his father, already becoming a fine woodworker in his own right who would surely bring more success to the Gunderson name. His youngest brother had been apprenticed to the clergy of Moradin, which made his parents beam with pride. Then there was Krag himself. His job was to chop wood for his families business. Of course all three boys had at some point served in this duty, but somehow it seemed Krag had never managed to find anything else to excel at so the brunt of the woodcutting fell to him. While his older brother worked hard at his craft Krag would walk around the woods above, playing at soldier with his younger brother Durak. The two boys would beat each other senseless with sticks hollering battlecries that scared birds for miles. When Durak was granted his place within the Priesthood Krag had nothing to do. He began to imagine the trees he had to chop were Ogres and Minotaurs, hewing at them mightily and then getting a stern talking to for uneven and wasteful cuts from his father. Once, out of either boredom or a misguided attempt to impress his father, Krag took the head off of two axes and used his father's tools to create a single double headed axe. He showed it to his father and claimed it would let him chop trees twice as fast; his father called it "an impracticle bit of nonsense" then went to inspect his tools. Krag found that it was indeed impracticle at first, but was far to stubborn to admit it. He just swung faster in an effort to back up his claim of chopping twice as fast, causing even more complaining about uneven cuts. All in all, Krag's life was unbearably boring. It remained so until a band of Goblins that had somehow managed to sneak into the Dwarven valley had a bout of fatal stupidity. There leader Griksnot saw a lone dwarf out chopping trees and decided it had been too long since the boys had any cruel sport. The fight looked pretty fair to Griksnot, the dwarf did have a strange axe but he had tenbuddies with spears. So with a high pitched war cry they rushed forward. Krag was momentarily suprised but recovered before the greenskins closed in. He waded into the throng of goblins and hewed left and right like he was felling a whole grove of saplings. The spray of hot blood, the flying limbs, and the high pitched squeals of pain made Krag feel truly alive for the first time. He laughed maniacally as their spears pierced his flesh, the sensation drowned by a wave of adrenaline. By now the goblins had him surrounded, and the thought of his immenent death seemed to amuse him even further. Just as it seemed sure Krag would be overwhelmed a figure suddenly appeared in the middle of the fray, his twin longswords weaving a beautiful dance of death among the greenskins. The goblins were taken back and quickly slaughtered by the flashing blades of the dwarf and his mysterious savior. Griksnot screamed out about the unfairfight as a sword stroke severed his head. When the last of them were put down the stranger introduced himself as Kelethin, an Eladrin ranger who had tracked the goblins down to put an end to their miserable existence. He bound up Krag's wounds and they sat to rest. Krag was enthralled by the ranger's tales of excitement and adventure, and within a few hours of their meeting asked if he could accompany Kelethin on his journeys. The eladrin was obviously quite amused by the dwarf's enthusiam and agreed. So for the last time Krag made his way to the Gunderson household, with his new mentor in tow. He walked into the house, his beard still caked with goblin blood, and tossed Griksnot's head onto the table. "This is Kelethin, he helped me fight off a goblin attack. I'm leaving with him now to be an adventurer. Say hello to Durak for me next time you see him. Goodbye." His parents just stared at him blankly for a moment and then Krag turned and left with nothing but his doubleaxe and bloodsoaked clothing. It was only after the door shut that his father turned and said, "Running off with faeries. Hmmph. I guess I shouldn't be suprised." to which his mother replied, "I told you all that time outdoors would rot his brain!" Krag travelled with Kelethin for a long time, learning some of the arts of the ranger and mastering the double headed axe he stubbournly insisted on weilding. He and the eladrin remain good friends to this day, though they parted ways 8 years ago when Krag took to mercenary work. The money was better, allowing him to enchant his axe and gather other unique items. Protecting the woodlands was a worthwhile pursuit to Krag, but he preffered the part where he hacked enemies to pieces.  After all, no one complains about uneven cuts in a goblin corpse.</blockquote>

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