Sun Jun 26, 2011 4:14 am
There had been a stifling unease growing within Myrken Wood. Whispers travelled like wildfire.
Soon, they whispered. Soon.
The bard listened.
There was only one thing he could do, he started playing wherever groups of people could be found. He filled public spaces with stories of dashing heroes, of star-crossed lovers and of common folk who struggled against the odds. Folk who did heroic things despite their lack of titles, noble birth or training. Filling the hearts and minds of the common folk with tales spun from Myrken's own legends mixed in with outlandish sagas, romances and comedies.
Always positive, always uplifting.
The strange thing was, when asked, people didn't remember who had buoyed their spirits so. Oh, they remembered the otherwordly quality to the music, they rememberd the instrument that was crafted so elegantly that even they could tell it's worth, the voice that pierced their very souls and talked to none other than themselves. It seemed, however, none who saw the bard or heard the bard, ever seemed to -remember- what the bard looked like.
Oh, there were some rumours that it was that new bard who had only recently arrived and had been haunting the Dagger but it couldn't be him. All the young women agreed that they would -definitely- remember him. So the hunt continued for whoever the -real- talent was.
Some bard's whispered that with what they remembered and the instrument that he carried, he was clearly someone who was demeaning himself greatly to play so for common folk. Surely he must've performed in various courts for only the most distinguished of hosts. So many questions they couldn't figure out. Why wasn't he taking credit? Why was he not taking any coin in payment? Who had they heard of who possessed an instrument that they had either seen or heard described?
Surely -someone- had seen him!
They were all left with far too many questions and no-one able to provide the answers.
The common folk, however, warmed to the idea instantly, spreading even more rumours, adding more to the legend of 'The Bard of Myrken Wood.'. They didn't question the mystery, they didn't -care- who the bard was only that he had shown up and relieved them from the coils of restlessness that had ensared them all. No longer did they fear what disaster may inevitably strike Myrken. They had resolved themselves to that fate. No, now they wanted to live up to all the seeds that the bard had planted and continued to plant among them.
And Descant? Well, he was looking a bit more ragged these days, though he should look a great deal more rested since he'd been spending less time about the Dagger. Less time organising the Ball with Drache's occasional company. It was almost if he had spent every waking moment appearing about town and performing, almost as if -he- may very well be this mysterious bard. Ha. No, no way. Likely he'd just gone back to whatever hole he had come from and was busy nursing a bottle of red.
Besides, everyone -knew- that Descant couldn't be so altruistic. There were rumours already about him and numerous staff at the Dagger. Of how he was organising some Ball all on some challenge by a young lady (or possibly a young man. Being rumors, both sides had gained voice). Not to mention he was always wearing new sets of clothing and half the time he didn't even seem to have his mandora case. No-one had even heard him play. Likely he wasn't even a real bard.
The rumours all agreed on one fact and one fact alone. Whoever The Bard of Myrken Wood may be. It most certainly wasn't that no-good, womanising, pretty-boy Descant! He couldn't be -that- talented. He was far too young!