Maximilien Roguespierre: Troubadour's End

[Kenshin]

The young man strode from the quay with confident strides. He had the assured air of someone in possession of good looks, easy charm, and the wherewithal to use both to good effect. Though of genteel upbringing, Maximilien of House Roguespierre was of an easygoing nature and little interested in trying to enforce class distinctions among the decidedly mixed company of adventurers with whom he has come to associate during his stay on the Sword Coast. A warrior poet, Max harbored hopes to be part of a grand undertaking that could then serve as the inspiration for a sublime chanson de geste that would secure his place among the legendary troubadours of Faerun for ages to come.

A slight smile played upon Max's lips as he headed through the city. The Whistling Wanderess has just tied up at the dock in Baldur's Gate and he was now free to follow up his recent study of elven music and lore. In his opinion the Tel'Quessir had an unmatched elegance with verse and harmony. If he could combine the immediacy, pacing, and energy of his own work with the refinement and ethereal grace of the best elven poetry and music... Well, were he to accomplish such a fusion only the great deed to be immortalized would remain.

Max's lips curled into a playful grin as he approached the livery stable. It would be good to take his courser out for a ride. He loved riding much the same way as he enjoyed sailing on the open sea: a supreme sensation of flying through a world of possibilities and freedom. Besides, it seemed like an age since he had taken a carefree ride. The horse certainly seemed to agree with such sentiments as it neighed expectantly while being saddled.

Once across the bridge Max allowed his mount to speed to a canter from the working trot that took them through the sprawling farmlands outside of the city. He was in no particular hurry though wanted to reach the Friendly Arm before nightfall to get an early start on the following day's ride toward Candlekeep and its intriguing collection of elven lore.

In the end it was almost midday by the time Max left the inn. He felt obliged to perform a ballad after his evening meal. Bentley had been a gracious host and plied him with the tavern's finest firewine, it would certainly have been discourteous to ignore his request. In the end it was well past midnight by the time Max was able to lay down to his rest.

To make up for lost time, the bard decided to cut through the eastern Cloakwood. He had little to fear from the creatures of the forest and they from him as long as he was assured a trouble-free passage. The woods were lovely and Max urged his steed on with a carefree heart. Horse and rider took pleasure in the late spring breeze as they flew through the broken woodland.

Max had expected to reach the Lion's Way before nightfall and to take lodgings at one of the small homesteads along that road. Yet twilight had settled on the forest with no sign of road or habitation to be seen.

The troubadour made a mock frown then burst into laughter at the thought of his impending 'rough' night under the stars. He dismounted as he reached a clearing with a small stream and began to look for a spot where he would be able to set up a makeshift campsite. At that moment a flash of bright color drew his eye to the treeline. Dusk was a time when human eyesight failed and colors faded, yet he was sure that he had seen movement through the trees. A bright dress perhaps with dance-like swaying.

Max grinned to himself. Why it had been at least a fortnight or possibly even longer since he last courted a fair damsel. And she had hardly even been distressed. No wonder then that he should imagine a dancing maiden or, better yet, a nymph in the woods to take his mind off the hardship of sleeping in the forest.



Awoken by the first shafts of sunlight rising above the horizon, Max walked down to the stream and washed in the cold water. As he stepped onto the grassy bank his heart surged. His pulse raced as he felt awash with sensations and the inspirations they engendered. His head spun and was abuzz with thoughts, images, sounds, words, and ideas. His mind was overflowing as he stood in the morning light, for a moment or an eternity he knew and cared not.

Dressed and remounted, Max felt happy and wonderfully alive. He felt he was on the cusp of something great. There it was again! Vibrant colors flashing through the trees. The movement of the clothes and hair were captivating and graceful. And now he caught sight of her eyes. Unfathomable pools that he wished to drown in! Yet she moved with ease, effortlessly staying ahead of him.

Max lost all track of time and place as he chased his vision. And then near a copse of ancient trees she stopped and waited with a smile. The knight-errant dismounted and approached his princesse Lointaine...

[Kenshin]

Epilogue



No word or sign of Maximilien Roguespierre was ever seen again on Toril. A fine ballad surfaced some days after his disappearance though no one on the Sword Coast knew aught of its origins.*

La Belle Dame sans Merci

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
'I love thee true'.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

*This rather famous poem is by John Keats.





Or is it just a new beginning?