CARAAMON at 04:55, 20 October 2008

2008-10-20T04:55:53Z

← Older revision		Revision as of 23:55, 19 October 2008
Line 118:		Line 118:
	at the ash filled hearth. "And don't forget to cart out those		at the ash filled hearth. "And don't forget to cart out those
	ashes. . . My little Wren."		ashes. . . My little Wren."
	[[Category:Book]]		[[Category:Book]][[page type is::book\| ]][[guild association is::bard\| ]]

Maintenance script at 19:39, 9 November 2007

2007-11-09T19:39:54Z

← Older revision		Revision as of 14:39, 9 November 2007
Line 1:		Line 1:
	===Little Wren===		===Little Wren===
	by Freye Miststalker		''by Freye Miststalker''


	The wind outside gusted and pulled at the thatch of the roof as		The wind outside gusted and pulled at the thatch of the roof as
	it howled down the chimney, sending the flames dancing under the		it howled down the chimney, sending the flames dancing under the

Maintenance script: Book:IfmLW moved to Little Wren (book)

2007-11-09T19:38:40Z

Book:IfmLW moved to Little Wren (book)

← Older revision

Revision as of 14:38, 9 November 2007

Maintenance script: New page: ===Little Wren=== by Freye Miststalker The wind outside gusted and pulled at...

2007-05-05T03:09:58Z

New page: ===Little Wren=== by Freye Miststalker The wind outside gusted and pulled at...

New page

===Little Wren===
by Freye Miststalker

The wind outside gusted and pulled at the thatch of the roof as
it howled down the chimney, sending the flames dancing under the
old iron kettle. The Old Man in the shadows chuckled and puffed
on his pipe. "So ya wanna be a bard? Well," His rheumy eyes
crinkled as he drawled, "let me tell ya a thing or two." And with
that he began.
 
"Bards are funny folks -- some are drunkards, some rascals, but
all are dreamers. Nary a Bard ever walked this land that didn't
dream of fame suddenly thrust upon them." He leaned forward
stiffly, the old chair creaked beneath him in objection as he
continued. "Most are also of a practical sort, good with a blade
or a bow as well as a song. 'Sides," he observed with a shrug,
"a good meal and a warm bed are not to be scoffed at and few can
be had for the price of a song. Hard coin still runs the world."
 
"I bet ya didn't know that once't we were hunted like outlaws,
driven into hiding after countless hundreds of us were murdered
by those vile Dragon Priests!" I started in my seat as his fist
landed with a heavy thud on the arm of his chair. I could have
sworn his eyes glowed with the depth of his hatred. "If ye would
be a bard," he spoke with a quiet defiance, "be strong, be brave
and be honorable in memory of all your kindred that gave their
lives to protect this precious land. Become a Master of the
Blade and the Song. Let your voice carry the magic of Faenella
even as your sword offers protection to her children."
 
He seemed to deflate as his words faded into the quiet. Settling
back in his chair his eyes looked far away. I pondered his
words, my ears eager for more. "Study well your music." He
grinned, "And treat your instruments well, for they are life
itself. Clean and care for them like ye would your child or your
lover," his eyes took on a misty look as he continued, "and they
in turn will repay you with glorious song almost as if they were
alive themselves." I pondered his words, noting a hint of
something unsaid in the quirk at the side of his mouth. The
storm must have died, as the cottage was suddenly wrapped in a
blanket of silence. The fire crackled as he refilled his pipe
his green eyes seemed to appraise me as he did so.
 
"Ye will need armor and weapons to suit your strength and size,
but tis your wit, discipline and stamina that will carry you the
farthest in this world. The Magic of the bard works like no
other, requiring much of mind and body to perform properly. Seek
out your fellows, learn from them and teach them in turn. For
while a Bard is a Warrior, a rascal, or a knave he or she is also
a teacher. Many a soul would be hard pressed to find a finer
teacher then a bard well versed in the lore of the land.
 
"Let your muse free to create new and interesting songs. Sing
them often to build up your voice, which is undoubtably the
primary instrument of a Bard. Some songs are teaching songs,
learned from scrolls found about the shops of the lands. Easy to
sing, and good for the new Bard to practice while traveling from
place to place or entertaining on the Town Green in hopes of a
few spare coins. A Bard worth his or her salt is always aware of
the seasons, marking the festivals and holy days with song fit for
the gods. Eyes to the weather and the time of day, nothing will
ruin your instrument's voice faster then rain or snow on its
delicate surface."
 
I must have looked as if I had fallen asleep -- so deep was my
concentration upon his words that my heart lept when he suddenly
shouted, "It's time for a song!" I gasped loosing my seat and
landing with a thud on the worn wood of the floor. This caused
the old bard to roar with laughter. "Well now if it's a dance ye
want," his eyes sparkled as he reverently pulled his fiddle from
a worn and battered case at his feet. Carefully he appraised its
condition, softly plucking the strings to test its tune, then
smiling as he needed to tune it neither flat nor sharp. From
deeper within the case he found a dry clean cloth with which he
caressed the fiddle, eyes soft as he gently cleaned it.
Murmering quitely to himself as he rubbed down the polished
surface I could barely hear, "There ye are lassie, bet that feels
good." I stared at the wrinkled map of his hands as they whisked
to and fro. "How does one learn to sing magic songs?" I croaked.
 
He drew long on his pipe, the sweet scented smoke swirled in a
sudden draft until it made his face look almost ethereal.
"Well," He drawled, "now that's a guild secret." His eyes
seemed to twinkle. "But if you're sure you want to be a Bard
I'll tell ya." I could see he was waiting on me for an answer.
I wondered...did I really want to be a Bard? Did I deserve to be
counted among those who made their life on a song?
 
My mind filled with images of drafty taverns and sour ale, long
rain soaked walks from town to town, with a ride on the
occasional Trader's yak or caravan. Suddenly I wasn't so sure.
The wind rose in a whistling gale around the windows and still he
sat, waiting for an answer. He must have begun to play his
fiddle for I heard music soft and low -- it tickled at my ears
like the teasing of a young girl's laughter. Voices seemed to
fill the air, a chorus of notes both discordant and smooth
somehow forming a beautiful harmony.
 
"So what will it be?" A lilting voice whispered. "What will it
be my little Wren?"
 
Heat seemed to build in my chest followed by a bright and glaring
light that pried at my eyelids. The heat grew intense and I felt
as if I was burning up! Everything was lost to me in a haze of
searing heat and light. "Yes! Yes! I want to be a bard!" I
screamed at the top of my lungs arms flailing. Nearby, I heard
my mother's gentle laughter fill the room. "Well, I knew that ya
silly child. Now get up and go feed the hogs, and when your done
don't forget to milk the cow -- she has been lowing for an hour
or more.
 
I sat up with a start, blinking at the sun that was streaming
through the open window, the barnyard sounds of cackling hens and
loudly grunting hogs echoed across the room. I stared in
disbelief at my mother until I'm sure she thought I had lost my
mind. "Come on now...get up!" She gave me a shove and pointed
at the ash filled hearth. "And don't forget to cart out those
ashes. . . My little Wren."
[[Category:Book]]

Little Wren (book) - Revision history

CARAAMON at 04:55, 20 October 2008

Maintenance script at 19:39, 9 November 2007

Maintenance script: Book:IfmLW moved to Little Wren (book)

Maintenance script: New page: ===Little Wren=== by Freye Miststalker The wind outside gusted and pulled at...