# A Bard's Tale (First Posting)



## Lord Pendragon (Dec 4, 2003)

This story hour is based on a campaign I am currently in that began just recently.  It's mainly a writing exercise for me, but I've always wanted to post a story hour, so here goes.  The Prologue is pre-game, and each chapter will contain one gaming session.  So far we've played two sessions.


                                            -Prologue-

Kaern is an old world.  It is a world of secrets, a world of hidden wonders and hidden shames.  It is a world of hope, both the hope of peace…and the hope of conquest.  Like all old things, it can be a bit eccentric at times; and like all old things there are layers of history to it that cannot be seen at a casual glance.  Kaern has seen many stories over the ages, buried like the bones of ancient beasts.  Most are eventually forgotten, for the hero of yesterday cannot shine so brightly as the hero of today.  But some stories, the deep stories, never truly die.  Instead they merely sleep, lying just beneath the surface of mortal consciousness, until the time comes for new players to assume the old roles, and the triumph…or the tragedy…begins again.

This story began in a small tavern called the Three-Legged Coney, in the Iothian town of Rhee.  It was early spring, and the planting recently finished, so that the taverns crowded with farmers and townsfolk looking to relax after several days’ hard work.  They came to the tavern to drink, and they came to the tavern to be entertained.  Their thirst would be quenched by the tavern keeper’s own brew.  Their boredom would be handled by Blackthorn.

Twenty-two years old, with dark hair, stormy eyes and an infectious smile, Blackthorn had arrived a year prior, drifting into town in the rootless way of skalds the world over.  Most of the farmers had expected him to leave with the summer warmth, but he had surprised them all by staying.  He spent all winter in the Three-Legged Coney, telling stories and listening to them.  And by the time spring came around again most of the farmers still considered him a foreigner, but they also considered him a friend.

It was another cool evening at the Three-Legger.  The tavern keeper had lit a fire in the hearth, but the blaze was overmatched by the lingering winter chill.  Five or six townsfolk had already found their way inside, and were throwing back their first mugs.  Blackthorn sat in his usual place at the far end of the bar, trying to decide on a tale.  He had heard one that he liked, recited by an old, grizzled bear of a skald from farther north, but that one had ended too darkly for his tastes.  And yet, it would be difficult to sell an alternate ending—one where the knight kills the dragon—in Iothcull.  The entire country was awash with dragon enthusiasts.  He had made a lot of friends in Rhee, but a foreigner telling a tale of dragon slaying in Iothcull…he was almost certain to earn a fair share of sour looks.

His line of thought was broken when a heavy hand slapped him on the shoulder, and a deep voice called out to him.  

“Blackthorn, what are you up to tonight?  Staying out of the kitchen, I hope?”  Blackthorn grinned as he looked over at the man who had spoken, a large, barrel-chested bear of a man named Ghor.  He grinned and clapped the man on the shoulder.

“No cooking tonight,” he smiled.  “Hilde threatened to beat me red as a turnip if I ever set foot in her kitchen after the last time.  Odgen still winces when he sees me with a spoon in my hand.”

The big man chuckled.  “It’s that iron gut of yours, ‘Thorn.  You keep tasting the stewpot and adding that devil dust of yours to warm your innards.  For the rest of us, it just burns right through.”

Blackthorn laughed at that.  There was truth in what Odgen said.  He had a nasty habit of spicing things up the way he liked them.  Unfortunately, some people (whom Hilde liked to call “the rest of us normal folks,”) didn’t care to have their food that spicy.  Still, he was learning.  Before the incident with Odgen, Hilde had shown him how to make a delicious stew that was bland as anyone could wish for.

_I’ll have to remember that the next time I get a chance to cook.  Hilde’s stew should be tame enough for anyone…_

“So what’s it to be tonight?  A war story?  A jape?  I could use some humor.  Mera tells me she’s thinking of marrying that lump of lazy Keld.”

“That’s great, Ghor, congratulations!”

Ghor grunted.  “We’ll see.  The boy swears he’ll be good enough to join the school this year, though that remains to be seen.  You might ask Raine about that, next you see her.”  He shook his head.  “Then again…maybe I don’t want to know.  Eigart, some brandy over here.  I need a break from thinking for a while.”

Another man walked in as Eigart was handing Ghor his mug, a tall man who had the worn look of a traveler about him.  He scanned the room for a moment, then his eyes settled on Blackthorn.  The traveler nodded, then walked over and stood directly in front of him.

“Are you the skald known as Blackthorn?” said he.

“Yes.  Yes, I am,” replied Blackthorn, puzzled.  “Do we know each other?”

“No.  But I was given your description by a farmer a few leagues south of here.  I’ve a message for you.”  He had a satchel at his side, Blackthorn realized, of the kind favored by royal messengers and letter-carriers.  He reached inside it, then pulled out a folded paper missive and handed it over.

“Thank you, sir,” Blackthorn said as he took the letter from the carrier’s hand.  “You look beat.  Would you care for a mug?”

“My thanks.”  The carrier took a seat at the bar.  Meanwhile, Blackthorn studied the letter he had been given.  It was bleached paper, rather than parchment, and his name was spelled out clearly on the outside in a flawless cursive script.  He wondered who had sent it.  The paper alone marked it as expensive, but at this stage in his career he could count the number of aristocrats he had entertained on one hand.  For a brief, terrifying moment he considered the possibility that it might be from his father.

_No, he wouldn’t…_

Shaking his head, Blackthorn broke the plain, unmarked seal and read:

_Dear Blackthorn, 

   I hope this letter finds you well. I hear snatches of your abilities and exploits here and there so I know you haven’t yet met the wrong end of a husband’s sword! 

   I am writing you to ask a favor, a favor for me. I recently ran into an old friend. I have known Isgouhi for ages now. He is a great seer and a very wise man. He began telling me of some great quest or mission to save the world. OK, OK he is a bit batty and daft, but he is very old and can be forgiven some eccentricies. Anyway, he mentioned you by name! He was quite interested in you and questioned me about you. My answers seemed to satisfy him and he said that you would be quite an asset to his quest. Now why he didn’t ask me, I don’t know, since it was I who taught you how to even string a bow! But nevertheless, he has asked me to ask you to meet him. And I am asking you as a mentor and as a friend to at least go and meet with him. Yes he is a bit odd and I don’t know what this whole quest thing is about, he wouldn’t elaborate much on that. But for me at least go and meet him and hear what he has to say, he was most insistent that you come. He will be expecting you at the Horse and Hare Inn in Dettingard, Tarngeld on the eve of the next moon. Well take care and keep that bowstring dry!

Silverbow_

“It’s from Duncan,” Blackthorn said in amazement.

“Father?” asked Eigart, glancing at the letter in the bard’s hand.

“Gods, no,” Blackthorn replied.  “He’s a friend.  He saved my life once, and gave me a new one besides.”

“A good friend, then,” Ghor remarked as he finished off his mug.

“The best of friends.  He wants me to go to Tarngeld to meet with a friend of his.”

There was a long pause as the three men considered.  The tavern keeper was the one to finally break the silence.  He gave Blackthorn a long look.  “Raine isn’t going to like it.”

                                 *          *          *          *          *

He told her about the letter that night in bed, as the two of them lay together, legs intertwined, flushed in the aftermath of lovemaking.  She stiffened in his arms, and Blackthorn counted a dozen breaths before she finally found the words to respond.  They weren’t the words he was expecting.

“I knew this day would come,” she said softly, as he stroked her hair.  Her hair was auburn by day, long and soft like cornsilk kissed by the sun.  Caressed by the russet glow of the lamplight, it deepened into liquid bronze.  He buried his face in that river, the sadness in her voice pierced his heart.

“I have to go,” he said softly.  “If it was anyone but Duncan—“

“Shhh.”  Delicate fingers pressed against his lips.  Dark eyes, green as the depths of a forest pool, held his own.  “You were a skald when you came here.  I knew you would eventually move on.  No promises.  No apologies.”  Her fingers left his lips, traced the line of his jaw, twined in his hair.  “No regrets.”


When he woke the next morning she had already gone, though that was no surprise.  Raine danced the Dragon’s Claw.  Her practice began at dawn and did not end until late in the day, sometimes well after dusk.  Blackthorn dressed quickly and headed into town.

Having decided to leave, the day seemed to pass more quickly than he could believe.  Before he knew it, he had said his goodbyes, gathered what supplies he would need for the three day ride south to port, and purchased a fine mare named Cinammon for the trip.  

With all of his preparations made, he thought about staying at the Three-Legger for the night.  The previous night with Raine had been…difficult, and he was not sure his heart could take another parting.  Not only that, but despite her words he had felt the way she trembled in his arms at learning of his departure.  He feared that seeing him now would only cause her more pain.

In the end, the decision was taken away from him.  She’d left a message at the tavern that she wanted him to visit her again before his departure.  He went to her.

He found her sitting at her small writing table.  A small candle had been lit, and Raine stared into the heart of the flame like an oracle gleaning images of the future.  She turned at the sound of the door closing behind him.

“I’m glad you came,” she said softly.  “You’re leaving tomorrow morning?”

He nodded dumbly.

“There’s something I want you to have.”  She stood and walked over to her bed, where a large wrapped bundle lay on top of the covers.  She reached out and lightly touched the canvas-covered object.  “I want you to have this.  I want you to take it with you when you go.”

“What is it?”

She nodded toward the bundle.  “Open it.”

Blackthorn stepped forward, then reached out toward the top of the bundle, where the corners of the canvas had been tied together.  A few moments of tugging, and the wrap came undone.

It was a piece of armor; more precisely: it was a breastplate.  But it was not just any breastplate.  Blackthorn knew armor, and the armor he saw then was nothing short of a masterpiece.  A masterpiece that shined more brightly than silver.  A masterpiece that was lying on top of a wool mattress, and hardly pressed down on it at all…

“This is mithril,” he said in astonishment.

Raine nodded.  “It was my father’s.  And his before him.”  She reached out and pointed, drawing his attention to a dragon insignia in the center of the piece.  Around the great beast was a delicate script.  “Quioshi,” she explained.  “I have no idea what it says.  My father always thought it was our family motto, though.  Back in a time when we were the kind of family to have a motto.”

“Raine, I can’t accept this.  It’s an heirloom.  It’s your heirloom.”

The woman shook her head.  “I can’t have children.  You know that.  If I keep this, eventually it will be stolen, or sold, or forgotten.  No, I want—I want you to have it.  To wear it.  The letter said the old man wants you for a quest, and there is no shortage of danger in this world.  Take it.  Wear it.”  She paused for a long moment, but she did not cry.  Raine was not a woman for crying.  She whispered softly.  “Please.”

A protest came unbidden to Blackthorn’s lips.  It was too precious.  It was too valuable.  A breastplate such as this might be worth thousands upon thousands of gold pieces.  She should keep it.  She might need it herself one day.  He opened his mouth to speak, but was stopped by the intense look in her emerald eyes.

Suddenly, he understood.

She loved him, and she was losing him.  She would never see him again, but at least she would see him safe.

Wordlessly, he reached out and took her in his arms.

                              *          *          *          *          *

   Blackthorn left for Tarngeld the next day.  As he rode out of town, he pondered what the old man might want with him.  Save the world?  Blackthorn was no great warrior, and he doubted there were many threats to humanity out there which could be sung to death.  He knew a smidgeon of the Grand Harmony…enough to cast the occasional spell here and there, but nothing that other musicians couldn’t do as well, some of them much better.

_Ah, well.  I suppose I’ll learn when I get there._

   Blackthorn took hold of the reins and rode hard toward the future, trying his best not to think about the past.


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