The Storm did roar, the wind cried blood
Lightning shook the sky
Few men stood brave 'gainst the brood
Though many fled to die
A thick and heavy haze drifted through the tavern; making itself a lazy cloud floating just above the heads of wanderers, warriors, thieves, and harlots. The Frollicking Fey was packed this night, and for good reason. It wasn't often bards made a stop in such a small town as Fyorin - and even less often when the ones who did weren't more talentless than penniless. Tonight, however, they shared the company of a master of the craft, and his voice drifted with the smoke though it settled much more deeply upon the patrons all.
One thousand years or so I'm told
The Wyrms did sleep away
The world was young when they were old
Now they wake today
The bard - Sorlick of Daevania - held his audience captivated, and he knew it. His bold tenor voice rang out like a seraph's trumpet call so that even the tavern wenches stood slack-jawed and marveled. Fortunately, the barkeep as well - a clean-cut man whose angular features were slightly reminiscent of the ancient feyfolk rumored to have founded Fyorin centuries ago - was so caught up in the song he didn't notice.
Sorlick was dressed extravagantly - bedecked in purples and reds with golden bands about both wrists and a single silver earring that gleamed in the dwindling lamplight of the dimly-lit tavern hall. He wasn't a young man, but his spirit was; and he kept his beard shaved to a close-cut goatee which shaved a few years off of his appearance. Even so, his pale green eyes had lost just enough luster of youth that any who met them felt instantly in the presence of a man more worldly than his years suggest. He wore a feathered cap that settled loosely upon his dark blonde hair and a lute rested in his hands, supported by a strap that ran from his left shoulder to his right hip.
He was exactly what these rural people had envisioned when they'd heard word a bard was coming to town.
And he knew it.
They ravaged the land with storms and fire
No army could hold them back
One thousand years of the dragons' ire
Night and day, they attack
The age of man, so soon begun
Was doomed to be undone
His fingers danced gently across the strings of his fine instrument, itself as elaborate as he. The wood glistened with a fine ceramic finish that caught the candlelight and threw it back not unlike his jewels, and each string was made from the finest gut laced with silken threads. Three rubies adorned the instrument's base. The instrument had never known the touch of an unskilled hand - whether by craftsman or performer.
His tune shifted slightly as he proceeded into the next part, the tempo quickening and what once had been nearly a dirge becoming a heart-thumping rally march. The effect on the crowd was instantaneous and noticeable. Everyone from grizzled traveler to bright-eyed child sat a little straighter in their seat. The drunks with drooping lids roused enough to open their eyes much as the children, and many leaned in close. The magic of the song had them in full.
Yet one man stood against the horde
No knight nor king was he
He bore no sword, he had no lord
Him a bard much like me
Among the patrons a rumble of a chuckle went up, and one or two shook their head, thinking they knew where the tale was going. A short-cut mop of orange-red hair moved about among the seated and standing customers, inching ever closer to the stage. The red hair rested above a pair of inquisitive blue eyes nestled in the face of a young boy - not more than seven summers old.
The lad squeezed his way through, jostling more than one surly drunk and spilling a fair share of spirits - a heinous crime when the drink's owner is actually paying attention. And soon he came to the edge of the small stage where the bard stood, dazzlingly illuminated to the boy who gazed in wonder, his mind filled with images of dragons and of the bard in the tale.
The dragons laughed and rolled in tease
'Dinner and a song?' they joked
But soon he sang Dragonsong with great ease
The dragons stopped and choked
The song, tis said, moved them deep
With dreams of Dragonsong they sleep.
Sorlick finished his tale with a few lingering notes, mystifying the crowd so that a long silence rested among them until the notes died away completely. Then the silence was shattered as the bard swept into a grand bow, drawing his feathered cap away with a grin and a flourish. Applause rang out and life seemed to continue from the stasis the performance had rendered.
Suddenly the place was quite busy with bodies moving and jostling - some rushing the stage to shower the bard in what little coin they had and others doing so to touch him or plead a request for a song. The poor boy waiting at the very edge of the stage was nearly trampled before Sorlick plucked him up and helped him onto the stage, winking to the lad with a mischievous smile.
"Thank you, my fine ladies and gentlemen! You've been a most wonderful host to this humble singer, this evening," Sorlick lavished them with praise. Notably, he didn't bother to pick up the coins that littered the stage. "However, the tale's not yet done, I fear, though my time is. When next I pass through Fyorin you'll hear of where the dragons sleep today!"
And with another bow and flourish - and with one hand on the shoulder of the still-stunned boy - a different song came quietly from Sorlick's lips - one of magic. A swift verse later and the patrons all turned away from the stage, ignoring the bard they had just been ready to pounce upon - and ignoring as well the boy whom he quietly led away and up the stairs to the lone room for rent above the bar. This strange disenchantment of the people with the performer and his hostage-apparent lasted even after they exited the stage.
Not one soul turned an eye their way - and in fact whenever they passed within sight of someone, it seemed something would draw their eye in a different direction just long enough for Sorlick and the boy to pass. The patrons shouting for drinks at the bar drifted apart so that Sorlick was able to calmly reach over and grasp a moderately-sized pouch of coins from right in front of Aaron - the barkeep - who did not so much as glance his way.
The songmagic stayed upon the air like the very smoke that hovered about well until Sorlick had reached the stairs leading to the one room for rent above the bar. He led the boy up, no foul intent in mind. For he had seen a look just like that lad's long ago, and he knew what it meant.
When Sorlick himself had been a lad, he'd had that exact same look.
All the while the boy - young Tavaris - had no idea the adventure he was about to begin.
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