[center][h3][center]>>--[color=darkgreen]Andry Laughwell[/color]--->[/center][/h3][/center]
Come just after sundown, when the day's plowing, washing, and hammering was at its end, the weary workers of Kasdella would make their way to the local pub. They ambled inside, found seats, sipped at a pint that would slowly loosen their taut muscles and open their hearts to laughter again. And every evening, a foreign halfling named Andry Laughwell would be there to aid them in that endeavor.

Andry performed for the patrons as part of her boarding contract with the innkeeper, but really, free housing was just a bonus for the opportunity to perform, to bring alive the ghosts of legend, to make all those present bear witness to the glory and heartache of the past, which demands to be felt! Or so she would say. Andry was mortal like everyone else, and needed a safe place to stay. Especially these days.

It had grown harder and harder for her to stir up the souls of the patrons. The rumors about the nearby keep were circulating the town like pollen on the wind, taking hold in their hearts and saturating them with trepidation. At first, her usual songs about great heroes coming to rescue poor villages of hardworking folk were received with sadness and anxiety. Then she tried singing of the gods, and noticed that, instead of staring at her intently and swaying along with the undulations of her lute, the people were pressing their hands together and dipping their heads in prayer. So on the last night, Andry remained in the corner of the pub several minutes past her call time, wondering what she could do to restore some life to the people of Kasdella.

She made her way over to the window at the north end of the pub and looked out over the fields and hills, turning inky blue in the growing moonlight, to the solemn wood that encircled Castle Larendale like dark parapets. She couldn't well sing of the strengths of walls built by renowned imperial builders, nor could she serenade the valor and diligence of knights. The people of Kasdella had no one who they could expect to come to their aid, no local garrison, no feudal protectors. All they had were farmers, smithies, the occasional weaver, and whatever vagabonds might wander through the inn.

Andry turned her back to the window and made her way to the middle of the room. She cleared her throat and tapped her foot against the dull bustle of the pub. She fingered the strings of her lute and began to pluck a tune whose notes floated from her instrument as cautiously as a butterfly at first, and then with the composed desperation of songbird:

[i][color=gold]
We sing a song of the brave,
Nay of knights, nor lords, nor knaves,
We sing a song of the brave,
And all the hope we have gave.

Come forth, ye brave, and sing!
Raise thy glinting sword and swing!

For we are your people,
And we are all kings,
And hope to this land we shall bring.
[/color][/i]

The patrons amused themselves by watching and listening to Andry the way a wise woman listens to a hollow promise or an elaborate lie. So she bit her lip at the end of the verse, fingers plucking dutifully at the strings of her lute while she tried to think of something else to sing to the unaffected crowd...