the Jester
Legend
The Siren
The siren sings her song laced with the joy she once knew, woven with her sad imprisonment now. How long until someone noble comes and rescues her? Her fey heart throbs with the desire for freedom. Anything! She would do anything to be free! She would even marry and love a mortal, love him for the rest of his short, sweet days. Ahh, Oberon, to taste clean air again rather than these damned golden mists!
Wait- what’s that?
Her pulse quickens as she realizes that she hears footsteps.
She wants nothing more than to give in and let the spark of hope flame anew, but she is afraid. Afraid to have her hopes crushed, to remain in the damnable mists for another dozen centuries. Oh, Oberon and Titania, to taste the clean air again, to feel the sun on her skin-!
But every time- every time- it’s either the evil one’s servants come to torment her and make her weep, or a band of stupid, greedy adventurers. Will there ever come someone pure of heart?
She does not give in to hope. Hope is a butterfly. Each time it is crushed, its wings are more bruised and it is less able to fly. She cannot let hope die. If hope dies, if she gives in to despair, she will have given the evil one a victory greater than any other he may have had. For though he may have crushed many a mortal spirit, she is a fey. She is hope, in a very real way. And to let him take that from her- no.
So she sighs and waits, hidden, in the golden mists, listening.
She hears voices- yes, adventurers. Speaking Forinthian- well, at least she can understand them. She cocks her head as she hears them debate what to do about the singing, and she abruptly realizes that she’s still singing now.
“Hello?” calls an elven voice. “Who’s there?”
The siren ceases her song. Her pulse quickens- she can’t help it, damn it!
She steps forward, her beauty radiant and splendid before these wan mortals. Damn fool adventurers, no doubt.
There’s the elf- an archer by the looks of him, but with a sword in hand. And a motley assortment of others- several in extremely heavy armor, one in robes only, several in between. At least one wears the symbol of a cleric of Galador. Perhaps, the siren dares to think.
The archer grins at her sardonically. “Hello there! I’m Drelvin the archer and these are my companions. Who are you, and what are you doing in this dark hole?”
Measuring her words carefully- for it is not worth the pain of trying to break the evil one’s geas- the siren says, “This one is here.”
There’s a pause while this impresses itself on the elf, then he says, “Well, uh, yes. But who are you?”
Struggling to maintain her composure- hope nearly brings tears to her face- she replies, “There are things this one may not say.”
“Uh... okay.” Drelvin looks to his companions. “A little help here, guys?”
“What’s up with the mists?” Angelfire asks.
“Some places are not safe.”
“She’s neither undead nor evil,” one of the heavily armored ones reports to the others. He seems suspicious, but like the cleric he wears the symbol of the Light. Not friendly to her kind, but much better than the evil one- and much more likely to free her than simply kill her. And is that an angel?
Oh please, the siren thinks yearningly.
“What are you doing here? Are you trapped here?” Drelvin tries again.
“Some remain here,” the siren says. If only she could tell them what she needs to tell them, or move forward and touch them! But no. She stands a full ten feet from the strangers. And besides, she knows the ways of adventurers. She has been... mistreated... by them before.
And, as she remains here, they’ve never done her any good.
Still, hope beats its wings.
“What’s in that room with you? Is there treasure?” the one who appears to be a half-dragon asks, his draconic greed showing itself already.
“There are objects,” she answers obliquely. Always obliquely. Oh, to give a straight answer!
“Objects,” the draconian one sneers. “Are there coins? Magic? Gems?”
She stares at him for a moment, her heart thudding. Hope spasms and starts to plummet downward. Not again, she moans to herself. “There are objects.”
“Can we go in there? Can you let us go in the mists?” Drelvin asks.
She struggles for a moment, gritting her teeth past a flare of terrible pain in her temples, then subsides, defeated. “Some places,” she repeats despairingly, “are dangerous.”
“Well,” says a fantastically beautiful woman slowly, “does anyone want to go in? Or should we leave?” The woman glances at the siren coldly. She doesn’t look like she cares at all about the siren’s plight.
“But there are objects in there,” the half-dragon objects.
“Fine,” says the burly human with the greatsword. “Go right in.”
There’s a moment of hesitation. Hope is spiraling down into the tar pits of despair. She’s seen this too many times. Soon one of them will do it, and...
Struggling not to cry- and not to show it- the siren turns around and walks back into the golden mists. She hears the group break out into arguments for a few moments and allows herself a few tears, but only a few. She flings herself onto her stone, big enough to lie on. Two sacks are on the ground next to it.
Someone enters the mist.
She can always feel it when that happens, like a spider feels the fly when it touches the web. An apt analogy, in a way, she thinks sadly. Not that she hurts them. No, it’s the mist itself. The mist is what does it- dumbs them down, makes them idiots. Then, if she’s lucky, they’ll wander off and starve or fall in a pit somewhere. If she’s not lucky...
The siren steels herself and wipes her eyes. Not with an angel there. It’s not possible.
She can hear someone babbling like an infant- stupid, stupid adventurers. They could have done it- it would have been so easy! But no, and now they’ll finally get in and the greedy bastards will leave her here again, just like every other time!
She’s furious, angry at them for coming, angry at herself for daring to hope- she knows better, mortals are all the same except the very long-lived, and there are too many others there for the elf to hold sway.
And then he emerges from the golden mist, sword in his white-knuckled hand, sweat on his brow. Somehow this Drelvin, this hero, is resisting the vapors of idiocy! Hope catches itself just above the ground and starts to lift again.
“What’s in there?” shouts a woman’s voice from outside- not the same as the mean one. Maybe the big one?
“The lady,” Drelvin calls back. Glances at the ground. “And two sacks.”
“Treasure! Grab it!” cries the half-dragon’s voice.
“Hold on,” Drelvin calls, then turns fully to speak to her.
“You’re trapped here,” he states.
She says nothing.
Drelvin stares at her, clearly puzzled. “Are you enchanted or something?”
“Some have constraints upon them.”
“Should we blow her up, boss?” a tinny voice comes from the sword.
“No, Shastruth, shut up,” the elf mutters, and sheaths his sword. “Sorry.”
“Not all are concerned.”
Drelvin looks around. The pungent golden vapors smell like honey and cloves and, even though he’s so far resisted the worst of it, it’s obvious that his head is swimming. Please, the siren prays.
“What is the purpose of this room?” Drelvin tries. “Is this some sort of test? What’s in those bags?”
“Things exist.” She gestures at the bags. “This one persists.”
The elf ponders for a moment, coughing at the vapor; then he asks, “Is there something in those bags that will help you?”
“This one cannot say.”
“Who can say?”
“This one cannot say.”
“I’m not really getting anywhere,” Drelvin groans. “How long have you been here?”
“Dragons live for ages.”
“Did she say something about dragons?” the half-dragon’s voice calls again.
“Shut up, Rex!” yells Drelvin. Then, turning back to her, he says, “I want to help you, but you can’t seem to help me help you.” Wryly, he adds, “And I’m not the smartest elf on the block. But I’m gonna see if there’s something here that can help you.” And he reaches out and grabs up a bag.
She vanishes.
“Aw, crap,” says Drelvin the archer, holding some useless coins.
The other bag’s gone too.
Glumly, he emerges from the mist and glances at the stupefied form of Angelfire.
“I think I made a bad choice,” he remarks.
Next Time: Our heroes journey onward and confront... the crypt of the demilich!
The siren sings her song laced with the joy she once knew, woven with her sad imprisonment now. How long until someone noble comes and rescues her? Her fey heart throbs with the desire for freedom. Anything! She would do anything to be free! She would even marry and love a mortal, love him for the rest of his short, sweet days. Ahh, Oberon, to taste clean air again rather than these damned golden mists!
Wait- what’s that?
Her pulse quickens as she realizes that she hears footsteps.
She wants nothing more than to give in and let the spark of hope flame anew, but she is afraid. Afraid to have her hopes crushed, to remain in the damnable mists for another dozen centuries. Oh, Oberon and Titania, to taste the clean air again, to feel the sun on her skin-!
But every time- every time- it’s either the evil one’s servants come to torment her and make her weep, or a band of stupid, greedy adventurers. Will there ever come someone pure of heart?
She does not give in to hope. Hope is a butterfly. Each time it is crushed, its wings are more bruised and it is less able to fly. She cannot let hope die. If hope dies, if she gives in to despair, she will have given the evil one a victory greater than any other he may have had. For though he may have crushed many a mortal spirit, she is a fey. She is hope, in a very real way. And to let him take that from her- no.
So she sighs and waits, hidden, in the golden mists, listening.
She hears voices- yes, adventurers. Speaking Forinthian- well, at least she can understand them. She cocks her head as she hears them debate what to do about the singing, and she abruptly realizes that she’s still singing now.
“Hello?” calls an elven voice. “Who’s there?”
The siren ceases her song. Her pulse quickens- she can’t help it, damn it!
She steps forward, her beauty radiant and splendid before these wan mortals. Damn fool adventurers, no doubt.
There’s the elf- an archer by the looks of him, but with a sword in hand. And a motley assortment of others- several in extremely heavy armor, one in robes only, several in between. At least one wears the symbol of a cleric of Galador. Perhaps, the siren dares to think.
The archer grins at her sardonically. “Hello there! I’m Drelvin the archer and these are my companions. Who are you, and what are you doing in this dark hole?”
Measuring her words carefully- for it is not worth the pain of trying to break the evil one’s geas- the siren says, “This one is here.”
There’s a pause while this impresses itself on the elf, then he says, “Well, uh, yes. But who are you?”
Struggling to maintain her composure- hope nearly brings tears to her face- she replies, “There are things this one may not say.”
“Uh... okay.” Drelvin looks to his companions. “A little help here, guys?”
“What’s up with the mists?” Angelfire asks.
“Some places are not safe.”
“She’s neither undead nor evil,” one of the heavily armored ones reports to the others. He seems suspicious, but like the cleric he wears the symbol of the Light. Not friendly to her kind, but much better than the evil one- and much more likely to free her than simply kill her. And is that an angel?
Oh please, the siren thinks yearningly.
“What are you doing here? Are you trapped here?” Drelvin tries again.
“Some remain here,” the siren says. If only she could tell them what she needs to tell them, or move forward and touch them! But no. She stands a full ten feet from the strangers. And besides, she knows the ways of adventurers. She has been... mistreated... by them before.
And, as she remains here, they’ve never done her any good.
Still, hope beats its wings.
“What’s in that room with you? Is there treasure?” the one who appears to be a half-dragon asks, his draconic greed showing itself already.
“There are objects,” she answers obliquely. Always obliquely. Oh, to give a straight answer!
“Objects,” the draconian one sneers. “Are there coins? Magic? Gems?”
She stares at him for a moment, her heart thudding. Hope spasms and starts to plummet downward. Not again, she moans to herself. “There are objects.”
“Can we go in there? Can you let us go in the mists?” Drelvin asks.
She struggles for a moment, gritting her teeth past a flare of terrible pain in her temples, then subsides, defeated. “Some places,” she repeats despairingly, “are dangerous.”
“Well,” says a fantastically beautiful woman slowly, “does anyone want to go in? Or should we leave?” The woman glances at the siren coldly. She doesn’t look like she cares at all about the siren’s plight.
“But there are objects in there,” the half-dragon objects.
“Fine,” says the burly human with the greatsword. “Go right in.”
There’s a moment of hesitation. Hope is spiraling down into the tar pits of despair. She’s seen this too many times. Soon one of them will do it, and...
Struggling not to cry- and not to show it- the siren turns around and walks back into the golden mists. She hears the group break out into arguments for a few moments and allows herself a few tears, but only a few. She flings herself onto her stone, big enough to lie on. Two sacks are on the ground next to it.
Someone enters the mist.
She can always feel it when that happens, like a spider feels the fly when it touches the web. An apt analogy, in a way, she thinks sadly. Not that she hurts them. No, it’s the mist itself. The mist is what does it- dumbs them down, makes them idiots. Then, if she’s lucky, they’ll wander off and starve or fall in a pit somewhere. If she’s not lucky...
The siren steels herself and wipes her eyes. Not with an angel there. It’s not possible.
She can hear someone babbling like an infant- stupid, stupid adventurers. They could have done it- it would have been so easy! But no, and now they’ll finally get in and the greedy bastards will leave her here again, just like every other time!
She’s furious, angry at them for coming, angry at herself for daring to hope- she knows better, mortals are all the same except the very long-lived, and there are too many others there for the elf to hold sway.
And then he emerges from the golden mist, sword in his white-knuckled hand, sweat on his brow. Somehow this Drelvin, this hero, is resisting the vapors of idiocy! Hope catches itself just above the ground and starts to lift again.
“What’s in there?” shouts a woman’s voice from outside- not the same as the mean one. Maybe the big one?
“The lady,” Drelvin calls back. Glances at the ground. “And two sacks.”
“Treasure! Grab it!” cries the half-dragon’s voice.
“Hold on,” Drelvin calls, then turns fully to speak to her.
“You’re trapped here,” he states.
She says nothing.
Drelvin stares at her, clearly puzzled. “Are you enchanted or something?”
“Some have constraints upon them.”
“Should we blow her up, boss?” a tinny voice comes from the sword.
“No, Shastruth, shut up,” the elf mutters, and sheaths his sword. “Sorry.”
“Not all are concerned.”
Drelvin looks around. The pungent golden vapors smell like honey and cloves and, even though he’s so far resisted the worst of it, it’s obvious that his head is swimming. Please, the siren prays.
“What is the purpose of this room?” Drelvin tries. “Is this some sort of test? What’s in those bags?”
“Things exist.” She gestures at the bags. “This one persists.”
The elf ponders for a moment, coughing at the vapor; then he asks, “Is there something in those bags that will help you?”
“This one cannot say.”
“Who can say?”
“This one cannot say.”
“I’m not really getting anywhere,” Drelvin groans. “How long have you been here?”
“Dragons live for ages.”
“Did she say something about dragons?” the half-dragon’s voice calls again.
“Shut up, Rex!” yells Drelvin. Then, turning back to her, he says, “I want to help you, but you can’t seem to help me help you.” Wryly, he adds, “And I’m not the smartest elf on the block. But I’m gonna see if there’s something here that can help you.” And he reaches out and grabs up a bag.
She vanishes.
“Aw, crap,” says Drelvin the archer, holding some useless coins.
The other bag’s gone too.
Glumly, he emerges from the mist and glances at the stupefied form of Angelfire.
“I think I made a bad choice,” he remarks.
Next Time: Our heroes journey onward and confront... the crypt of the demilich!
