Illogical Jim

The Bawdy Dog

Yeah forreals, I feel like I have to write a wall of text every time I come back to check on this. It's pretty intense.

Also shout out to @Illogical Jim who writes very well and made me chuckle when Ealdwine carelessly tossed Arthelia over his shoulder after fawning over it for 3 pages. That was a nice touch.

@Strafe

Aw, thanks. I'm glad you appreciated that- I wasn't sure anyone would notice.

The Bawdy Dog

Quite a few things seemed to be happening at once, now, but Ealdwine's gaze remained firmly fixed on the drow, his voice plodding through the lyrics and his fingers unerring in their performance. He felt an inkling of pride at her darkening expression. Ha! Not much used to the unbidden tongue of a free man, eh? He imagined she was used to being obeyed by males and feared by non-drow. But she would have no such pleasure from he! Nay, nay!

And then the drow maid turned toward him, and everything began to darken. The music faltered for the first time since the knife had been tossed. He could see nothing. His left hand went instinctively to his sword, loosing it in its scabbard.

"I told you to stop playing didn't I, foolish human?"

Ealdwine did not have to see to know who spoke. Fear gripped him, then. But he did not cry out, but offered a hearty laugh instead. She would not have the satisfaction of terror, by the gods! He had been pushed too far. Suffered too many bitter disappointments. Been scorned once too many times by fate itself. He did not want to die hungry. He did not want to die sober. He did not want to die at all, truthfully. But he would die on his feet, as he had lived- and that would be enough.

He called out loudly, uncertain how far away the drow actually was.

“You would sooner dance, dear lady?” he asked, a violent, mocking mirth creeping into his voice.

“A romp in the darkness, aye! We hardly know one another- but its never stopped my blade from striking home before. Come, and let us become acquainted!”

But he heard her voice again, evidently addressing another.

“You want to die first?"

And then, before he could even register that comment,

BANG.

Now that rattled the bard. He felt something pass dangerously close- a magical missile, perhaps? Panic rising, he ran his off hand across Arthelia's curved body. He found, to his utter horror, a sizable chip in her neck- and a broken string.

And then Ealdwine snapped, tossing his lute carelessly across his back. He drew his rapier, shouting. All pretense of civility fell away, and he uttered a lengthy stream of every applicable racist and sexist slur and epithet he knew, the most repeatable of which being 'thrice-damned, knife-eared strumpet!' After a brief moment of rapid firing vulgarities, he settled into simply yelling one particular four-letter Anglo-Saxon word, much too inappropriate to record here, dear readers.

He charged blindly toward where he assumed the drow was, his sword slashing this way and stabbing that way.

The Bawdy Dog

@ViolentViolet I did say one object per person, including spells. ;) how you interpret that is up to you. You can trade your Object for something else if you want.

I'm not keen on a massacre, personally.

@Mokley

Ah, so I suppose I haven't got a sword, either, then? Hm...

The Bawdy Dog

I get the feeling we're all waiting to see what @ViolentViolet will do. ;)

@Mokley

My money's on "congratulate the bard on the courage, and proceed to not try to kill him."

The Bawdy Dog

I was really hoping to play enough music to earn some food and drink.

But a fight could certainly be interesting. Either way's fine.

The Bawdy Dog

Ealdwine stopped playing abruptly. How could he not, with knives flying about? He had played hostile crowds before, certainly. But the fairgoers at Oxcross had thrown nothing more dangerous than rocks. This was simply too much. That knife had landed too close to his head- and far too close to Arthelia. But whence did it come?

He did not wonder long.

“Continue at your own peril, bard.”

The drow maiden at the bar. She must have lobbed the weapon, though he did not see her do so. Well! This could not stand! Though his stomach still ached with emptiness, he knew this was more important. She had not only insulted him- Ealdwine Silverstrings, musician to kings- she had insulted all bards everywhere.

He quickly adopted the manner of a sycophant, covering over what he imagined must have been a look of grim distaste. He smiled indulgently toward the drow and pulled the knife from the wall, examining it admiringly, and turning it about in the dim light of the tavern.

“I believe you dropped this, fair lady of the Underdark,” he called conversationally, as though it were a piece of jewelry or some such thing.

“Or was that a dark elf greeting that I, a well-traveled and learned man, am not aware of? In such case I would gleefully return it, but I fear my aim is not so keen as thine.

“I might hit you, instead of the intended near-miss. And, pray, we would not want that, would we?”

The bard tossed the knife carelessly to the floor, and after pausing for a space to lay his right hand on the pommel of his sword returned to his song with a smile as though nothing had happened.

He did not however intend to take his eyes off the drow again.

The Bawdy Dog

@ViolentViolet

Hmm. Tough crowd.

The Bawdy Dog

Ealdwine's mouth twitched into an irritated frown. The barman had clearly ignored him! Him, who had played for the pleasure of high lords and illiterate peasants alike, who had crossed desert and sea, mountain and plain, and who had charmed a maiden from her petticoat in nigh every hamlet from here to Hell. Alas, it seemed that he would have to dip into his meager savings after all.

As he reached with his free hand for the pouch at his belt, he felt a touch at his arm. A young barmaid stood beside him, promising to grant his requests. She made eyes at the nobleman- and who was he, anyway?- asking for a dignified song.

As the bard considered a fitting song, the maid was pulled away by the barman, who dropped some coins into her hand and urged her off to do something or other. She disappeared in a hurry, but not before gesturing with some urgency at Ealdwine. He imagined she wanted to impress the fellow by conjuring some music for him. For his part, the bard intended to play his part in this little drama well. Though, he was not sure what she found so interesting about him. He was handsome enough, he supposed, in an effete sort of way. Perhaps they were already acquainted.

No matter!

And with that thought, he strode casually toward the spot indicated. He took the lute in both hands and cleared his throat, plucking gently as he manipulated the tuning pegs.

“Harken, gentle born and common folk alike!” he called, with the easy authority of the practiced entertainer. His voice was something short of a yell- loud enough to be heard clear, but soft enough to be generally ignored by the disinterested.

“I will sing, if I might, a tale of truth and honor, of pain and woe- but most of all, a tale of love triumphant. If you know it, and I imagine many of you do, I invite you to sing along.”

And without a further word he began to play. The music was fairly simple, rhythmic and low, here and there embellished with high notes and chords, and flourishing plucking. The style was imitative of the epic poetry upon which the song was based, which would originally have been chanted from memory.

The song was, of course, Galeas and Griselda. A story of a noble knight and a virtuous maiden on opposite sides of a siege. As the instrumental introduction came to an end, Ealdwine's voice joined the sound of the lute. His pitch was perfect from long practice, and his intonation unwavering in its repetition of the lyrics.

“Beneath the tower the foemen shined
in mail and plate bearing noble device.
From parapet, the maid fair,
did see below her gallant loved one there...”

The Bawdy Dog

A tall, middle-aged man wandered the streets in a sour mood, only dimly aware of the goings on around him. A lute was slung across his back, marking his profession clearly to all passers by. The rapier at his side marked his status as an itinerant adventurer. His weather-stained cloak, which had once been brightly colored, was now faded and patched. That, along with his worn out boots and his increasingly ragged tunic and leggings, marked only his poor fortune.

But night was falling, and he would need to find a bed soon. The emptiness in his stomach informed him more sharply than he would like that he also needed something to eat. He paused briefly, moving out of the flow of foot traffic, and opened up the pouch at his belt.

One silver and ten coppers. Not bloody much.

Ealdwine sighed, considering the ill luck that had brought him to this point in his life. His trip to Vandar's Tower, the former abode of a vile wizard of great infamy, was a lengthy trip- not to mention an expensive one. But the rewards were great indeed, said all the tales. Many people must have heard the same tales. By the time Ealdwine found the place, high in the Mountains of Terror, it had been picked clean.

He glanced about glumly, seeing a sign not far away. It read The Bawdy Dog. An inn. He figured he had enough for a room, a meal, and a few drinks to forget about his troubles. Maybe he could talk the proprietor into giving him all three in exchange for some music. It was worth a shot, certainly. He approached the door and entered.

Within he found a fairly dingy tavern. Not much to look at, but he could smell food and drink, and there certainly was an audience to play for. Just as well it reminded him of a place he recalled from his younger days, where he had dazzled a crowd with his songs and bedded a lovely, buxom barmaid. And then, the next day, her sister.

Simply remembering it was already putting him in a better mood.

He stepped lively toward the bar, carefully pulling his lute down from off his back. Arthelia was his most prized possession, and the greatest gift that his father, who had never really approved of his career, had ever given him. He had sold his books, he had sold his gear, he had even sold his horse- but he would sooner starve than sell Arthelia. He leaned against the bar near a dark elf maiden, a young girl (where were her parents?), and a suspiciously familiar high-born fop. Where did he know that fellow from? Was it from some Quest? He would have to ask later.

For the time being, he cleared his throat and addressed himself to the balding barman.

“Pardon me, good sir. I am Ealdwine Silverstrings, a bard of some renown,” he began, with a wholly-unnecessary half-bow,

“and I would like to offer my humble services as an entertainer. All I ask in exchange is a meal or two. And a place to lay my head, if one might be forthcoming..” he trailed off.

“And perhaps a few drinks.. If my performance proves satisfactory to yourself and likewise agreeable to your patrons.”

The Bawdy Dog

@Strafe

I went with 'servant'- in this case, a musician and instructor.

And I went with the assumption that Edward didn't much care for his lessons, or his teacher, if that sits well with you.