The charming man leans back against the round of the table, admiring the bar maiden whom is placing a fresh flagon of fine ale near him. Her casual smile from a person living a fancy and free life, giving just enough care to her customers, so that they remain, seated, drinking…and paying.
Artim lightly touches her wrist as she deposits the ale upon the table, attempting to hold her there for the moment, just enough time, he thinks, that he may trade her a poem, for all the simple pleasures of a simple smile she has given him this day, at the Elfsong open air tavern:
So as you work in the sun and open air
Look into my eyes and see what is there
My desire
Watching over you.
As you walk in the Gate's bustling streets
Listen past the paupers, con men and cheats
My voice
Comes to you.
And when you're alone, wandering the Wide
Know only kind faces, they do not hide
A shining star
Is what they call you.
In toil, or sadness or cloudy grey day
Hear the words yourself, that today I say
My thoughts
Are with you.
You are not average
You are not invisible
The Gate cannot hide you
The common people cannot ignore you
I will come for you
Faerün is richer with you
And the gods will smile
But oh, my love, guard yourself well—
All this may not happen for a long, long while.
Artim, most-of-the-time a charmer, lifts his hand from the bar maiden's wrist, and grins slyly, placing his hand now on the handle of the flagon, and bringing the fine ale to his lips. He winks to the bar maiden as she reacts.
Then he looks around the open air tavern, his eyes peering over the lip of his flagon, seeing if any other charmers of bar maidens might be near…for a dog must ever watch his turf.
He then swings a foot up onto the stool he occupies and looks out before him, casually. His hand unconsciously reaching down to his money pouch, touching it to feel that he has brought enough coin, should another tale teller emerge from the constant stream of business that is within the East District.
It is late at the Elfsong open air tavern. A few too many wine jugs litter the table top, empty, and many turned over on their side. A few late night patrons are still at it, laughing and jostling amongst themselves, at one table, over stories of good intentions with awful consequences.
Artim pulls a mug away from his lips, and leans to the man near him. "I be hearing a lovely tale of a failed idea…though others have gained from it. Maybe not such a failed idea as skill-less execution of said idea…but…"
The sometime charmer pulls at his sleeves, then continues on:
"Be a tale of good Poderik Strind…ye ever heard of him? Me either! But seems this chap was a clever fella, until…. Seems ol' Strind had a bit of luck one time, having survived his first attack from a golem. Strind be finding himself in the right place at the wrong time, but as luck of heroes has it, he beat the odds. Not being the exceptional gambling type, Poderik Strind was struck by a thought: if a person could harness the same magical energies that animated a golem, and put them on a suit of armor, that person would be a walking death machine!!! I be guessin' myself that Strind not wishin' to be tempting death again anytime soon, and having a bit of a good head on his shoulders, got to tinkerin' with magicks and metal. Must have. Cause ya see…it be said that ol' Strind be thinkin' that such warrior would be better than either a golem or a regular warrior, as he would have the strength and toughness of the golem, but the flexible mind of a man. Though I myself be thinkin' flexible minds of man be rare to find, that nonetheless don't be changin' what me heard eventually happen. What happened is that Strind done made himself this…golem armor…and he went to test his armor in a haunted cavern right here on the Sword Coast he did! But alas the design for the armor disappeared with poor Poderik, as he never came back from that adventure.
"Poor lad…"*Artim feigns a deep sigh and sadness for all to around the table to witness*"…to be a hearing some other adventure with a bit more skills, and maybe, with equal flexible mind had gone and made a fair amount of coin off that crafted suit of armor…."
*Artim then grins to all those at the table, and quickly touches a fair sized coin purse tied to his belt, jiggles it for all to see, then begins to laugh aloud*
At the edge of the tavern fence, a group of ratty, dirty children have gathered. Their eyes burning across the patio towards the roasting pig on the spit. Artim, seeing the little beggars gathered—the little imp-like creatures searching—catches a memory in his thoughts. A memory, yes, but actually a story, a tantalizing tale….
Calling over the bar maid, his latest fancy, he hands her a few coins and asks that she takes a healthy portion of that roasting swine, and lure the children back behind the Elfsong, so as to feed them, and let them escape their class poverty…if just for a small moment…for some can never escape the traps that they are lured—or born—into. Artim is pensive, as he sits there, after watching the bar maid leave with this coin.
Sometimes talking to thin air as it is, Artim just speaks out the tale that has captured his thoughts:
"There be a popular legend you know, that tells of in the deep wood, of a sylvan creature luring the weaker willed of men, luring them into trees…though we may see them as solid, there be trees that are actual doorways into a mystical place, entire kingdoms, called the faerie realms. After some time, years even, the men return, having not aged a day, a minute…it is never said exactly why, and sometimes, they themselves remember nothing of where they have been.
But a more sinister tale, aye a less told legend, says of a more mischievous group of creatures, the imps….
As the tale sayeth, these imps lure people into their realms with taunts that steal the will of men by pulling at their greatest desires, you see…such as the weak man that seeks simple wealth in coin or pleasure by touch. And once the person does follow that imp, entranced by the whisperings of the little beasties—whom I do say must look an awful lot like those little beggar children once they show their true form—they that is lured finds themselves within a twisted abyss, with little to no hope of the possibility of escape.
A right imps' prison, it is called."
Artim finishes his quick monologue to what appears to be no one, abruptly. He pauses to stare toward the roasting pig, seeing it much lighter of the cooked flesh, he grins, then puts his flagon to his mouth, anticipating a fine swig of the finest of ales.
But only the tiniest of drops rolls onto his tongue.
Artim can be seen sitting upon the regular well-worn stool at the outdoor beer garden of the Elfsong…one hand upon a flagon of fine ale, the other with a hand upon an open page of a small book, laid out upon the table.
With a beating summer sun above him, warming his body and tanning his neck, he seems in full pleasure, absorbing a tale worthy of his collection.
Quite excited about what comes from the written tale, he starts to speak out loud to the others at the shared table, uninterested in whether they are listening or not.
"Oh my! Such is the body in need of healthful enchantments! Look here, look here...*he points to the page, not looking up at all, but just continuing reading*…What amazing recipes sit here. Such that give the body all the dextrous abilities to be more than just self…better at dancing, dodging, throwing knives…such recipes!"
Artim furrows his brow, as he starts to read aloud the details:
"A leather hide…a star sapphire…and this…air essence…. Air essence? How odd…." His finger speeds up a left-right movement as it goes over the page in rapid descent. "A leather hide…glowing air essence…and a Rogue Stone?!? Rogue Stone?"
At this point, Artim looks up from the book, and sees if anyone at the table he is sitting at, has a reaction. "Rogue stone?" Artim then goes back to reading more out loud…his finger still placed at the last word he read, but moving onward.
"A leather hide…fire essence…and a Blue Diamond. My…doesn't that sound just lovely!" he explains. For a moment he pauses and looks up, but his eyes seem glassy…dreaming of a Blue Diamond. "Must be expensive…," he says out loud but to himself.
"Now this…this…what a strength that could be had…to be able to carry so much, with the body alone!" Artim places his face just a tad closer to the page, and continues out loud: "the strength befitting a giant of stone…worn upon the waist, with magic forces granted through application of a spell of the strength of a bull upon these items: a leather hide, a glowing fire essence…and a Beljuril. A…Beljuril?"
To whomever sits at the table, he says to them: "Have you ever seen a Beljuril?"
In the East District plaza, in the foreground to the Elfsong Taven patio, a man is attempting to entertain a few commoner youths, with a show of dexterity, flipping a gold coin through his fingers, then, throwing the coin up into the air, grasping it firmly as it begins to fall toward the ground, finally, opening his palm to the audience, to show the absence of a coin, there.
The man seems to gain just as much enjoyment from the act, as would the audience show him.
At one point in the play, the man, with a charming voice, ends the show of dexterity and slight-of-hand magic, to hold a single gold coin up to the youths. Upon one face of the coin, he shows them a carved moon, then turning it, he shows them the back, a cloak.
"Listen now...for I shall tell you this tale for free...as it was once told to me...this tale, of The Fateful Coin.
As has been told by parent to child, priest to acolyte, since time can be remembered, it is said that that Luck—that which each an everyone of you may posses—plays a crucial role in each being's life.
When each new-born baby cries and finds it's own voice, the Lady that Smiles, Tymora the Fair, flips a coin formed from the memory of her own mother—though it is not her mother, alone. For our Shining Lady has a sibling, a sister, called the Lady Doom, thee or those without the blessing of luck, do heed. This dark sister, she is the one that calls the way the coin will land, while it spins in the air, for it is expected that it will land on of one of two sides—the moon or the cloak."
The man—Artim would be his name—pauses the telling to again, roll the coin along his fingers, showing both sides to the audience, leading them into that belief, that there is but only two sides to each coin.
"If, it is said, the Lady Doom, is right, and the call she has made does land upright, that person is cursed with misfortune for the rest of his or her days. A terrible, terrible fate...but, I am sure, that has not happened to any of the likes of you..."
Artim smiles at the youths, such to ward off any of their own doubt.
"If Lady Doom is wrong, though...it is said the Lady Luck smiles on that child for the rest of his or her life! And for you young ones...I can see that glimmer of luck already, dangling from the edges of each of your smiles!"
At first Artim is smiling along with the youths, but then, his face becomes calm, almost pensive.
"For some rare beings, the coin—said to be touched in the air by an invisible power beyond the Gods— lands on the edge...."
With these words, Artim lightly flicks the coin into the air, letting it reach its upward trajectory and then, fall backwards downward...where he then catches the coin upon the back of his hand, the coin, precariously balancing there on edge...seemingly ready to fall to either side, but maintaining this upright moment.
"...And these luckless—or, as it is said, those beyond luck—these few can forge their own fates, for they have been granted more freedom over their destinies than the powers of Luck and Doom, themselves...."
Finishing his tale, the performer again flicks the coin up into the air, but this time he launches it high over the heads of the youths, for which one can see, they all begin to raise their own hands upward, with the desire to be that lucky one to catch the coin, of fair wealth to many commoner youth...but with his other hand, mostly hidden during the tale, Artim launches another volley of coins, that match the downward fall of the first coin, so that upon these youths, a light but literal shower of coin, is gifted to them...with each youth, hopefully gaining.
A strapping young man, known to some as Chord Silverstrings saunters up to Artim at his table. Chord doesn't look much past 20 winters, yet carries himself with confidence (some might say arrogance) and seems to have the weapons and armor to back it up. He gives Artim a friendly smile and bows deeply, flourishing his hat as he introduces himself.
"Well met, my friend. Chord Silverstrings at your service! I hear you fancy yourself a Procurer of Tales... well I've a one I give you for free. Mayhap you'll trade me one of your own, but to that we shall wait and see. Lend me your ear, just a moment or two and I'll give you a story I think you'll wish to hear. Order me an ale, friend for I must tune my lute and then let us drink our fill as we fill our heads with tales of beasties and booty!"
He would set his pack down near a seat and carefully remove a fine, leather-bound case, polished heavily to protect it from the weather. Opening the case he brings out a finely made lute. He then motions to a nearby chair, seeming to ask permission to join Artim at his table and awaiting his response.
"Please good sir, take a chair and settle in. I am eager to hear your tale, if you are ready to begin. I will order your fare, since it does seem we share, the interest in verse, whether spoken just now, or greatly rehearsed!"
Artim chuckles, then waves Chord into a seat nearest him. He waves to the nearest barmaid as well, for her attention to serve them, both, a rich round of refreshments.
Smiling and giving a small bow of his head he takes his seat. Once settled in he spends a few moments tuning his lute to his liking, occasionally testing a chord or two until he has it just right. Once the barmaid arrives he takes a good pull from the mug, enough to wet his whistle, then he begins to slowly strum the lute, speaking the lines of his poem in cadence with the beat set by his instrument. His voice is deep and melodic as he speaks, always just shy of crossing the line from spoken verse to song.
"Let me tell you a tale of adventure and woe
Warm yourself with mead and spirits
I will give you the blow by blow
‘er the end, might be you’re better for hearing these lyrics
It all started with a great danger to the land of Nashkel in Amn
There were tales of a Great Wyrm, white as snow
In yon town, a band of hero’s gathered that would be the balm
The agreement struck, the courageous company, death-bringers with sword and fire and bow
Tales had spread of the damage the wyrm it wrought
Farmer’s cattle stolen, crops destroyed, unsuspecting travelers missing
Signs of struggle, terror the land was fraught
To this land came our benevolent band a traipsing
Up the great mountain, Speartop they climbed
Hordes of beasts, demons and other nightmares
Our hero’s paid dearly for their ascent, arriving up top bloodied and grimed
Reaching the summit, a giant cave, within lies the beast most quare
Long and hard they fought and tumbled
The Great Wyrm struck with claws and ice
And in the end, yon beast was humbled
As it fell, suffering many blows, who landed the last is imprecise
Of our hero’s there were seven
The Sentinel, Kory…Hoar’s Favored
Beautiful Elvina, thy wards a gift from heaven
Plar, small of stature, yet with skill may prove his companions savior
Tirion, warrior of the Elfkin, the wyrm would ne’er scare
Revenark, brave and true, Dwarf of Kings
Jane, adventurer of here and there
And finally, your storyteller, Chord Silverstrings"
As he finishes he strums a few more chords on his lute, before smiling at Artim, giving a seated bow and reaching for his refreshment.
chad878262 wrote:
As he finishes he strums a few more chords on his lute, before smiling at Artim, giving a seated bow and reaching for his refreshment.
Artim claps against his thigh with one hand, heartedly...as his other hand is quite busy lifting a stein of ale.
"Spectacular, in both performance and story! A white dragon you have slain?! A feat assumed only capable by the chosen of the gods! Maybe...that is what you are, Sir...a empowered Man of Our Smiling Lady? Her gifts have been abundant of late....but to receive such a pleasure is surely not just luck...but a challenge!? Is it not? Have you come to set a contest before me, to see what side the coin will land?"
Artim expresses excitement in his voice, but also a hint of caution...as one who is greatly concerned over a situation possibly created by divine action (as reflected in his words and actions).
Chord would grin at Artim's words, enjoying being considered a favored of the gods, or perhaps even a gift of the gods... So lost in his own thoughts of fame and glory that he seems to have failed to listen to anything after 'smiling lady'. Once Artim complete's his questions, the handsome young man would stare at him for several moments -- but seeming lost in his own thoughts -- with a self-satisfied grin plastered on his features.
Artim more or less slams down his ale stein on the table top nearest him.
"Hey! HEY! Are you channeling good Sir?"
Artim leans into and towards Chord, trying to see if the man is truly dazed, or possibly...drunk.
"Have you laid out stakes, and thus, am I the one to equal your tale of great effort and adventure? Or simply, I may pay you coin for this tale to be, as I see fit, retold when the fancy finds me?"
Artim takes a moment to drink again from his ale.
"Or do you wish to raise the challenge, up the wager, create a circumstance of higher import?!?"
Snapping out of his delusional wanderings the smile disappears as Chord is wrenched back to the present. His smile quickly returns and he gives a small laugh before responding.
"Apologies, good sir, I was but remembering the valiant adventures of me and my followers... Ah, such good times. The open road... fine inns" he nudges Artim's elbow "finer maidens! Why yes, I'll put such a challenge to you, should you so desire! Let us order another round and put our heads together, you and I and mayhap we can think between the two of us what sort of adventure would give you muse to create your own tale, yes?"
Without waiting for response he raises his hand, index finger extended and, upon getting the serving girl's attention he makes a clockwise circular motion to indicate another round is needed, then he returns his attention to his singular audience.
"A ha! A true challenge indeed. How to...choose your own adventure...as it may be said, in this moment. Yet, what do we do, by tempting fate, that we shall create, with wit and some care, a hint of danger manifests in the air, a tale that needs a beginning, something like your own story but equally fitting, to a moment where two set out on foot, an inspired minstrel and companion seeking a route, to mysteries secreted well, and in the very end we gain not only treasure...but a tale to tell!"
Artim raises his ale to Chord, then swallows down the last taste within it, looking equally happy at the incoming round of libations.
Chord's grin widens at Artim's wordplay as he follow his movements and begins thinking.
"I can think of no better beginning than right here and right now. Good sir! Let us plan out our trip for we may only reap if we sow. No doubt there will be danger and evil, but mayhap treasure too. In the end there will be a fine tale for certain, to tell about me and you! Now let us discuss if we should head North or Southbound, West is out-lest you have a boat-but East surely has fame and fortune to be found! So what do you say, what shall it be? We are certain to make new legends, you and me!"
Chord accepts his incoming beverage with a wink and a smile, he takes a long drink before setting down the mug and setting about securing his lute in it's fine, leather case.
