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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Ruined" data-source="post: 1234409" data-attributes="member: 113">10th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V. The Hunting Owl tavern boasted the best meals, liveliest entertainment, and softest beds in all of the Heteronomy of Virduk. Surielle hoped that the claims were false, or the entirety of the country would be a quite unpleasant place to stay.She knew she was bitter. Now that they had achieved their goal and traveled north out of Zathiske, the task of finding an unknown wizard seemed beyond reach. None had heard of Kelkarrin, or any wizards of renown in these lands. She was sure they would have heard some fantastic rumors spread by the villagers, yet the locals had remained as quiet as the red-and-gold amulet suspended from her neckAfter a brief shoring in the ports of Calas, the Whispering Dragon had journeyed to Three Moons as promised. It was a sad farewell to Valanduros and Mikkal, with Tréan taking it the hardest. Surielle hadn’t asked, but Tréan seemed to truly take comfort in the presence of other elves. There was some unspoken issue with her heritage, but it had never come up in conversation.“I am lost as to our next course,” Tréan said. “I’m concerned for Helena, and I don’t know where we should turn from here.”  Surielle nodded to show that she felt the same.Gerad returned from the bar with an odd look on his face. Surielle stiffened; she had heard the horror stories of the previous bar fight from Tréan. She hoped that he wasn’t about to start another.“Ladies, do you see that young gentleman by the bar?” Both women looked. A thin young man dressed in ill-fitting pantaloons and a gaudy vest watched them from the bar. Surielle recognized him as the bard who was performing when they first entered the Hunting Owl. He was quite bad at his craft, reading his long-winded poems that didn’t follow any rhyming form she could recognize. *“Yes, the bard.”  Surielle said, glumly looking in the bottom of her cup for more mead.“Right,” Gerad continued. “His name is Barrett. It’s hard to believe, but he claims to know a tale about Kelkarrin.”Both of the women straightened immediately.“Are you sure? He wasn’t lying to get a coin?”  Gerad shrugged, unwilling to put faith in the man’s words. Quickly they offered him to come sit with them at their table. Barrett was quite nervous and fidgety, as much from the attractive women as he was from the threat of a paid performance.“You said you had heard a tale of Kelkarrin?”“Yes. Something old I had heard my father recite when I was a child. I don’t usually perform it, as I’m trying to achieve a different…” Gerad motioned him on, apparently having heard the lengthy story before. Barrett blushed, and then spoke again.“It takes place in Oakdale, a smaller village over to the east just outside of the Hornsaw. I tried to perform it there, but those who listened told me it was a tall tale, that they’ve never heard of a Kelkarrin.” “We would love to hear your tale,” Surielle said, consciously batting her eyelashes and leaning in close to him. The effect was instantaneous. Barrett nervously nodded and looked around the room. He cleared his throat and began to recite the tale of old.The Grand Mage KelkarrinWe start with a tale of Oakdale,Far too close to danger’s maw,The village had its share of troubles,It lay south of the deadly Hornsaw.A town of humans and halflings,From Three Moons and Calas’ dell,And one citzen of note,the mage Kelkarrin as well,Grand Mage Kelkarrin, Oakdale remembers thee.The council was proud of their patron,A distinguished magister true,Yet his time was spent in his tower,And not at the parties they threw,Few saw him leave the tower,His home seemed more of a cage,The townsfolk simply nodded to themselves,Who can fathom the ways of a mage?The Grand Mage Kelkarrin, Oakdale remembers thee.The evils of the Blood MonsoonPoisoned the waters of poor OakdaleAnd the Council turned to Kelkarrin,In hopes that magic would prevail,Kelkarrin would not aid the village,For it was not the path he would choose,The Council was not pleased by this,But there was little that they could do,    Aloof Mage Kelkarrin, Oakdale remembers thee.Oakdale survived the monsoon,After numbers were lost to the drought.The city now started to prosper,Until the Wasting Sickness came about.Once again they sought Kelkarrin,Still a recluse, aloof and alone,Yet no assistance would he offer,And Oakdale was left to its own,    Selfish Mage Kelkarrin, Oakdale remembers thee.Years passed and Oakdale lived on,Through several of winter’s first thaw,Until a messenger came bearing woundsAnd news from the deadly HornsawThe gorgons were massing their borders,Unitaurs and goblins behind,Sure to destroy all of Oakdale,The halflings and all of their kind,Some thought to turn to Kelkarrin,But the Council said not to waste breath.The past had taught them their lesson,He would not save them from death.The militia stood ready and firm,As titanspawn approached by the hour,And all hope was lost for Oakdale,Until one man emerged from his tower,“I would not assist you before,When you could prevail on your own,Yet this threat is beyond your power,And I will not let them destroy our home.”With that he called down great fires,And lightning and rains that burned,He sundered the ground before him,And quickly the tide was turned.    Grand Mage Kelkarrin, Oakdale remembers thee.Kelkarrin was grim and silent,As the magnificent slaughter was done,Oakdale praised their protector,But on the next day Kelkarrin was gone,His tower disappeared overnight,And not a soul could follow his trail,No one knows what happened to Kelkarrin,But he never returned to Oakdale.Grand Mage Kelkarrin, Oakdale has forgotten thee.The group sat stunned by his performance. While Barrett was unsure of himself in the earlier poems, this tale was recited with growing conviction and strength. Indeed, when his tale was done, the entire bar was silent, having been drawn in by his words.Surielle let go of a breath she had been holding and smiled. It still seemed a needle in a haystack the size of Ghelspad, but she had the growing sense that they were nearing their destination, guided by the hands of fate.* the Bard was actually doing verse in his new experimental form – something very close to iambic pentameter. Not a crowd favorite at the time.  <img src="https://cdn.jsdelivr.net/joypixels/assets/8.0/png/unicode/64/1f600.png" class="smilie smilie--emoji" loading="lazy" width="64" height="64" alt=":D" title="Big grin    :D"  data-smilie="8"data-shortname=":D" /></blockquote>

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