Tales Worthy to Procure…both GREAT and small…

[stevebarracuda]

A charming man
With ale in hand
Sits at the side of the table.

He eagerly looks around
For people to be found
That would sell him a tale, if able.

The Elfsong offers seating open air
The barmaidens smiles are fair
Life in the Gate seems good.

The Procurer of Tales
And drinker of strong ales
Offers a stool nearby by him, if you would.

Speak freely and fine
Order beer or choose wine
His tab seems to never get full.

Will you speak of great deeds
Or whatever you please
So long as your speech is not dull.

Metaphors will entertain
Or speak simple and plain
Give it all that you have in your voice.

For the social man sits
Buying with coin or trading against wit
Because it is you, telling your tale, that makes the choice.

///if it isn't obvious, this thread is for forum RP. Because I seem to miss everyone when they are online.

[stevebarracuda]

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.

[stevebarracuda]

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*…me be a hearing some other adventure with a bit more skills and maybe with equal flexible mind done 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*

[stevebarracuda]

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.

[stevebarracuda]

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?"