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Punished GN
POOPHEAD189
CALEN SMALLWOOD, 4E208. The Tragedy of Sir Gregor Sibassius [self-released single]
w/ @Father Hank
Noon, 23rd of Last Seed, 4E208
Town square, Anvil
A quick visit to the city’s bathhouse and a spot of breakfast at a bakery had seen Gregor refreshed after his tumultuous encounter with Raelynn the night before. His wounds were healed, her scent washed off his body and his stomach was comfortably full. It was another warm, pleasant day on the Gold Coast and, despite all the unfortunate news that came pouring in from the rest of the province, Gregor saw many happy and relaxed faces on the streets of Anvil. Just like he had done the first day they arrived, Gregor went for a walk and let his feet carry him where they might while his mind continued to process recent events. He tried not to think about Raelynn too much but her sultry gaze and pained whimpers kept intruding -- it was hard to focus on something else when his whole body was still satisfyingly sore from the experience.
He looked up from his reverie when he heard a voice that he recognized. Gregor’s legs had brought him to the town’s central square, a bustling place of commerce and community, and it was there that he came upon Calen, the dashing young Nord whose carriage they had used to travel from Skingrad to Anvil. Gregor had already met him once before, however, way up north in frigid Skyrim, and it had actually been his conversation with the lad that had prompted him to return to the Imperial Heartland. A small crowd of spectators had gathered around Calen as he performed and Gregor joined them, watching him with his arms crossed over his chest and a small smile on his face.
“...When Elves lost Nirn to Man,
Akatosh gave the stone
To Saint Alesh in token of
Her right to sit the throne.
Red Diamond! Red Diamond!
The heart and soul of Men.
Red Diamond! Red Diamond!
Protect us till the end.”
As the song met its ends, some of the locals who had stopped to watch him perform clapped and cheered, dropping a coin or two within a bag that was at his feet, and carried on with their day. Those with nothing better to do decided to say and see what else the bard would sing for them. Chim-El Adabal, he learned, was a hit with the local Imperials. The song was rife with its history, and while the Red Diamond has been symbolic to all of Man through the ages, it held particular significance here in Cyrodiil. What’s more, they almost seemed to look to the song as one of hope for as long as the Imperial City remained under the shadow of the dwemer.
As he greeted each person who wanted to give their thanks or compliments, his eyes eventually landed on a rather tall and imposing figure amidst the people, as grim a sight as ever if he ever saw one -- and Calen greeted him with a smile.
“Ah, Sir Gregor!” He chimed. “What brings you? Come, sit! Join me! Can you carry a beat?”
The Imperial graciously accepted the offer to sit with Calen, the same smile still playing around his lips. “Hello there, Calen. What brings me? Naught but the whims of my feet. It’s good to see you again. Your song lifted my spirits, as I think it did everyone else,” he said and some of the other bystanders that still remained nodded in agreement. It was obvious that Gregor was a strange sight even in his homeland and he received many lingering stares, mostly focused on the various weapons he carried on his person and the unique set of armor he wore, but he wasn’t here to distract Calen’s audience. “Carry a beat? Oh, I don’t know. Fruits of a misspent youth. I’m afraid I have no talent in the arts. Why do you ask?”
“Because, my friend,” Calen began, grabbing a drum at his side and began gesturing it towards the older Imperial, “I hope to persuade you into joining me!”
Gregor blinked. He looked around and saw that several people looked at him expectantly. He
opened his mouth to say something, to protest, but closed it again. Hell, why not. He grimaced in resignation and accepted the drum, holding it beneath one arm like he had seen so many bards and minstrels do before. Almost immediately he could feel his pauldron stab into his shoulder so he continued to fidget with the drum’s position for a few seconds while Calen watched with a smile until it sat comfortably against his waist.
“Well then,” he said, trying to remain optimistic. “What are we playing?”
“Shall we start with something easy first?” The bard proposed. “If you’ve ever been to Whiterun, then surely you’ve heard of Ragnar the Red. Or would you prefer something more original?”
“Ragnar the Red!” Gregor exclaimed and laughed. “Oh boy, you bet I’ve heard that one. But I think it’ll be original enough for your current audience. What, uh…” he began to ask, unsure of how to phrase it. “What tempo are you looking for?”
Calen chuckled a bit before standing up and taking a step towards Gregor’s side, and he didn’t realize until this point that the two were of the same height. The knight had a presence about him that made him feel taller than he really was. The bard refocused and said, “Well first of all, here’s a tip: play with your fingers, not your whole hand. It’s easier to control the volume that way and…”
Calen rolled his fingers over the top of the goat skin, creating four quick separate beats.
“...it’s easier to control the speed. The pitch gets higher the closer you hit to the rim.”
Gregor followed Calen’s example. The concept of being able to control the pitch of the drum was new to him and he had to admit to himself that he’d never noticed the difference before. He really wasn’t very musical. “Use fingers, higher pitch close to the rim. Got it. Any more advice?” The Imperial looked Calen in the eyes with a pleading glance. He wasn’t bothered enough with public perception to seriously fear embarrassing himself, but he wasn’t actively looking to make a fool of himself either. Either way, he could tell that Calen was amused and that was enough for him. The lad was… endearing, and reminded Gregor of how he had been as a young adult. Before everything. The brief moment of being lost in thought was not lost by Calen, however, he didn’t seem to give any indication of noticing.
“Actually,” Calen began, “let’s try something a little different. An original, I’ve been meaning to show you it. Could you give me a one, two, pause; one-two, three, pause; one-two-three, pause; repeat?”
The idle strumming on his lute began to pick up as the bard began looking for his rhythm, and once he did, a folkish melody came to life from his fingertips. He looked to Gregor expectedly, humming to himself a song, but wasn’t prepared to begin until the Imperial was able to find his beat.
”One-two, one-two, three… one-two-three…” Gregor muttered the rhythm under his breath while his fingers tapped along. It took him a few tries to get into the groove without mixing up the order or getting the timing wrong, but after he did he looked down to Calen with a smile (still muttering) and a nod. The bard returned the gesture with an impish grin as he sped up the melody before his voice entered the song,
“It started with a flagon,
drinking in my wagon,
when the sight of him came to view.
The likes of who was between far and few,
when it hit me like a brick,
his enormous...”
Calen stopped playing his lute for a moment as if to allow the crowd to fill in the blank themselves, before giving them a cheeky smile and finishing, “...personality.”
The crowd laughed and clapped and Calen continued strumming, before aiming his cheeky smile at Gregor beside him. Gregor faltered for a second as he joined the crowd in laughter, surprised and impressed by Calen’s hitherto unknown (to him) songwriting abilities.
“His name was Sir Gregor,
a man full of vigor,
piss and vinegar,
a bottle of liquor,
and when the fair maiden came by, he would...”
Calen stopped playing once again, this time allowing the crowd to shout suggestions at him, most of which were lewd and foul, but Calen leaned his head in and corrected them with a smile, “...greet her respectfully.”
The contrast between Calen's finisher and the suggestions made by the crowd was enough to warrant another uproar of laughter among both the men and the women watching and listening, and he looked to Gregor once more and started slowing down the pace of his lute as a sort of signal to slow down the beat as well. Gregor complied, a wide grin on his face. The song almost seemed as though it was finished, until the crowd's disappointed silence gave way to what almost sounded like a stage whisper of a prayer, “Come to me, Dibella, for without you, my words must lie dull and leaden without the gilding of grace and sagacity to enchant the reader's ear and eye."
Then the pace began to pick up once again, but this time, on a more somber note. The melody was slower and there were more frequent rests, and when Calen's voice joined the strings, it was soft and gentle.
“Let's set aside all distractions, my friends,
and face a simple truth.
There's two sides to every septim,
just look to me for proof.
This knight's no exception,
don't you make no mistake.
The burden of vigilant shoulders,
is the lives of a hundred strangers at stake.
“Tell me, love,
would you sacrifice your right to be free?
To suffer Oblivion a hundred times
to save a family you'll never see?
“O, the tragedy of Sibassius!
To devote himself to Mercy,
yet to save no mercy for he!
O, the tragedy of Sibassius!
Running a race against death
until his last breath!
O, the tragedy of Sibassius!
Find humor in irony young lord,
for if not you,
then your memory will outlive the last of us!”
The crowd must have applauded and cheered, for the song was good and Calen’s voice beautiful, but Gregor did not hear them. A chill ran down his spine. Without knowing, Calen had sang a haunting song about the truth of his life and his quest. The young Nord had only referred to Gregor’s work with the Vigilants of Stendarr, he realized, since that is what Gregor had told him about (in some detail; Calen had been an eager listener) when the two of them traveled through Skyrim aboard Calen’s carriage, but it hit every beat of the real struggles he faced. Oblivion -- not the Daedric realms, but the actual void of amnesia -- was coming for him. He was, in the very realest sense of the words, running from death. The scars that crossed out Arkay’s face on Gregor’s chest itched. The grin had faded from his face and he looked away as a shadow fell over his features. And yet another thing was painfully true: there was a very real chance he would never see his family again. Between the Dwemer, his line of work and his precarious dealings with the Ideal Masters, Gregor knew he was walking on a razor’s edge every day. As for mercy...
“No,” Gregor heard Hannibal whisper in the back of his mind. “Don’t. Please.”
He looked up to find the crowd gazing at him expectantly and he conjured a wry, self-aware smile. “Aye, it’s a hard life,” Gregor said, playing off his reaction as an ordinary moment of reflection for a warrior and witch-hunter. “Well sung, my friend.” He meant it and tried to convey a sense of gratitude to Calen with a glance and a nod -- if not for the unfortunate accuracy of lyrics, the fact that Calen had created and dedicated a song to him was nothing but flattering and sweet.
“Thank you so very much!” He beamed graciously, bowing his head -- partially to hide the rosy-red flushing of his cheeks, but he popped back up with a wide grin full of shining teeth. He continued, “I make a habit of remembering as many of my patrons as I can, but you hardly made it difficult! The story of the vigilants has gone unappreciated for so long, and having the opportunity to hear yours inspired me. I was hoping that you would be the first one to hear it. I hope it wasn’t too dour!”
“Not to worry,” Gregor said and Calen’s infectious grin lifted his spirits a little. Still, he was reminded of his family and all of the associated fears for their safety now that the Dwemer had invaded Cyrodiil. “I just hope that all of my work to save my family won’t be in vain if the Dwemer attack Bravil…” Gregor added, trailing off towards the end. It was a realistic scenario and one he felt utterly powerless to stop. He looked at Calen and wondered if the grim reality of the situation would even make a dent in the young man’s optimism.
Calen’s eyes darted between the spectators, some of whom were walking up to drop a few coins into his bag, and Gregor himself, whose apprehension was not lost to the bard. A quick moment of decision-making, and Calen swiveled back around to the crowd, and threw his arms out.
“Thank you for your patronage, everyone!” He announced. “That will be all for today! Again, thank you all so very much!”
Between some applause, disappointed groans, and a few satisfied comments, those who didn’t wish to tip the musician for his services dispersed, and the others soon followed. It was in this time, that Calen waited anxiously for a moment of privacy with the knight whose praises he just sung. When he finally felt like he had a moment alone with him, he asked, “Can you not go to them?”
Gregor stared at Calen for a few seconds while he absent-mindedly placed the goatskin drum on the ground. “I…” he began, uncertain, as the truth of the matter rang in the back of his mind -- I can’t return home until my task is finished, lest I cannot find the strength to leave them again -- but he quickly found a more general, less personal reason. “I don’t think travel is safe, no. We don’t know where the Dwemer army is moving and the road to Bravil runs close to the Imperial City. The alternative is traveling through Elseweyr but I do not trust the Thalmor either, what with the moves they’re making.”
Calen nodded in understanding, and said, “I’m not so worried about the Thalmor, but trying to cut through Valenwood and Elsweyr… haven’t seen those places myself, but from what I understand, they’re not… heh, hospitable.”
The Nord thought about carefully a few moments longer. There didn’t seem to be any easy answer to trying to find and retrieve his family, nor was Calen of a tactical mind -- and surely the knight has thought of more in depth ways to recover them in all the time he has spent in Cyrodiil since the attack on the Imperial City. Finally, he sighed.
“You can always visit the Great Chapel of Dibella.” He resigned to saying. “She’s no Stendarr, but the Queen of Heaven is still a Divine. If not for mercy, then pray for a blessed life of love and happiness for you and your family. That is a type of mercy, I think.”
The Imperial averted his gaze and bit back a wretched laugh. The Divines… then again, his family had been no part of Gregor’s crimes. Maybe they would protect his family not for his sake, but simply their own. “Perhaps... “ Gregor said and rubbed his chin, his eyes finding Calen’s again. “It seems like that’s the best I can do at the moment. Thank you.” He placed a comradely hand on Calen’s shoulder and smiled. “The gods will provide. They always do,” he lied.