The Great Bard Returns!

By: Sylvance Posted on: April 29, 2012

The Great Bard Returns!

(an historical fiction, by Sylvance DeFleur)

Strange, that I, even I, the most famed and esteemed Bard (bar One) should need to open these humble musings by introducing myself. Yet this is no stranger than the tale itself, so I shall not dally. I am Kyriacos of Cyrene, the Quill of Shadows; you have read much of my work, rest assured, neighbour, but it was a queer form of pride-called-humility that caused me to pen all my previous writings under pseudonyms. As a Grook of many centuries I have seen the world change many times. I was there when the Guilds were pulled low before the raising of the Great Houses. I was there before mortals learned to fish, and still there when fools goaded Lord Sartan until the full freedom of mortal shouting was revoked. I was even there when the arrival of the Vertani showed the best and worst of us.

Yes, neighbour, I was always there, yet in the shade. Unseen; the better to record history.

I watched on as Ralph wooed Lord Scarlatti with His own esoteric musics, and I quietly took my place within the then-new Bards Guild. For a time, all was peace and art. Freshlings flocked to our halls in droves; no celebratory party was complete without a Bardic presence and a closing Chorale to lift the spirits; no hunting party left Cyrene without an Anthem ringing true and the unsurpassed threat of the Funeral Mass to deter Cain and Proficy. Yes, all was peace and art.

And then She came.

Love and Beauty? Rather, name Her the Goddess of Falsehood and Infatuation. Like a rabbit hypnotised by the scintillating rhythms of a snake, Scarlatti fell head-over-heels for Lady Selene. I shall make no complaint as to the effect on His work; what sonnets and sextants and dances and ditties did He weave for Her! Pieces and songs and plays that made us cheer and weep until our hearts might have burst. And His searing inspiration was contagious. We wrote our fingers cramped, sung ourselves hoarse and danced holes in the floor of the Academie of Fine Arts. It was a good time for us, but as with a delectable wine with a sour after taste, this was to be no lasting joy.

When Selene accepted my Lord's proposal of marriage, Sapience trembled with delight. If my humble hypotheses are correct, about the relationship between the Garden and our modest mortal plane, many a bastard was sired that night. Whatever the case, records show that there has never been a year with so many mortals petitioning to be wed, nor one in which those pieces submitted to the Bardic were so heavily focused on aesthetics - the very fusion of art and beauty. Forgive my musings, neighbour; the singular fact is that They were now locked in engagement.

And then Selene fell ill. The Great Bard became saddened and, in my humble opinion, the focus of His art changed. Once, He had created to create, and when He fell in love, He had created to please - take Caer Witrin for example. But now He was creating to escape; He was running from His pain rather than running towards His Art. We felt the change, but subtly, neighbour. Soon the stirring ballads of Sapience were pushed aside by songs of hearts rent and bleeding, of lost love and unrequited affection. It was no less beautiful and no less productive, so we barely noticed, but the signs were there. And I missed them. I, even I, who stood in history's shadow to better espy it truly - even I did not expect what happened next. Please, neighbour, forgive me.

Selene's priests say that She could not have all Her love focused on any one person. Perhaps I believe them. Maybe I do not. But tell me this, neighbour, could the Goddess not have foreseen this transpiring? I will not accept that She did not. Rather, She chose love over judgment, and we would all soon pay the price. For, truly, what choice did Scarlatti have, ensorcelled as He was by Her, but to turn His glorious back on us and depart Achaea?

And so, leave us He did.

We were struck low by His absence, a rudderless ship in storm-swept seas, and I watched from the shadows as the Guild stumbled from one folly to the next. At one point the leadership managed to lock horns with Cyrene so uncouthly that the City threatened to smash down the doors of our Guildhall and remove all of our totems, before casting us out one and all. Do I blame the Guild for behaving so churlishly? No, I blame Selene for taking our Leader.

And so it was that I, even I - the Quill of Shadows - cut ties with Ty Beirdd and stepped deeper into the shadows and watched in silence. Unseen, the better to record history.

Time tolled on without mercy. Years and decades passed. Still, I was there, an age later, when Nurazar rose, a thrilling testament to the power and creative masteries of Lords Twilight and Phaestus. Men wise and foolish marvelled at its birth, then began to bemoan its effects with equal vigour. Arms and armour became heavier as metals slowly transformed to lead, and even the sun itself was threatened, yet I tell you, neighbour, that neither of these things was the impetus for the events to come. Forgive me for stating an uncomfortable truth for you, but my unique viewpoint has taught me this: it is greed that best motivates mortals, not fear, nor love. It was the bankers were the hardest hit by the Great Transmutation, who watched their gleaming hoarded futures turning lacklustre and losing promise, their troves increasingly as heavy as their hearts. It was the bankers that rallied the Alchemists of Cauda Pavonis, and at the very moment that these powerful sages joined the lobby for destruction, it was decided. Within two years, Nurazar had risen and been destroyed. I simply watched and recorded these things.

Some who were closer to the proceedings than I may opine that Lord Phaestus' melancholy following the destruction of His creation was deeper than that which my Lord felt when His Love fell ill. I shall forgive such ignorance, for from close up it is easy to lose the wood for all the trees. In Their own ways, each of the Lords grieved beyond mortal understanding, yet the Bard is more subtle in His ways than is the Smith. My Lord expressed His pain as loudly as He could, yet even His mourning was a work of art. Even as we watch a tragedie a-stage and then applaud its craftsmanship, so did we watch Scarlatti weep and called it art. When Phaestus wept, neighbour, you saw destruction, quaking as His creations crumbled and fell, covering your ears against the dread sound of queerly tolling bells that made an Harmonician's Cacophony sound as sweet as a maiden's moans. Please learn this small lesson that I, even I, have oft forgotten: each God lives in His own way and loves in His own way, laughs in His own way and weeps in His own way.

I was there when the mutterings began, as folks spoke of the 'dwarf saboteur' that was never far from the destruction of one of the Smith's works. We mortals see threat before hope, and so none of us - not even I!- connected the dwarf instead with the wondrous creations that rose in the wake of said destruction. Some of you assumed that the dwarf bard was destroying these wonders even as Lord Phaestus raised soothing displays to temper the effects of His melancholy. But I watched with blossoming pride as first a Grook, then a Rajamala, then all Cyrenians together rejoiced in the fine artistic works of Ferenthal, and thus when she suggested a grand concert to lift Phaestus' humour the Heart of the Vashners was with her. I shall not deny that my own quill twitched with such a fine call to arts, but the blessed cool of the shadows kept me hidden, unseen, to watch, to record. But when the concert opened, neighbour, I was there.

Ferenthal appeared some time into the concert and took centre stage, and I simply noted the description of a dwarf, for I, even I, was fooled by her appearance. But the Lord Smith sees beyond such things, and knows His creations more intimately than any merely mortal observer. Thus it was that He stared at her, rapt with fascination that we could not then understand. Thus it was that after a moment and then two, three all told, He asked "What are you?"

For her part, the dwarf bard merely smiled and then, with a sound like chorusing angels, like the first giggle of a child, and a smell like the opening breeze of spring, she produced a spark of divine power and weaved together ephemeral, iridescent strands. We watched with bumps raising on our skin as she crafted a thing of aching beauty - a glowing statue of a jaguar hewn from pure light.

Lord Phaestus grinned, and it was as if a cloud lifted from His soul. Once more we saw the Great Smith in His full glory, His heart hale again. "Such a gift as this," He declared knowingly, "deserves one equally grand in return!"

Around Him, the Main Hall of the Dancing Boar became a workshop, and there could be no question as to Who was the Master Worker. With a voice laden with authority, He dispatched Cyrenians hither and yon across Sapience, to bring materials. We hazarded at what He might be seeking to craft, but our mortal minds could never have imagined the grand design He would soon unveil. Achingly slowly, the items began to arrive: a seashell from the eastern shore; a branch of wood from a specific tree; even a hair from a unicorn! We watched with baited breath as He moved with effortless speed and grace, the epitome of creative endurance, of focus, of passion, and in an impossibly short time He held up the finished work:

A mandolin, more perfect and eloquent than any instrument that had graced Achaean eyes. The crafters amongst us fell to their knees, the artists wept, the lesser folks even gasped in admiration; I swear on my quill, neighbour, that Merindia herself ran in from the gaming room and dropped two decks of cards in astonishment, Cipriano rushed in from the kitchens, apron and all, and Tatalia of the Boar's roulette table was struck fully dumb. Many of us, nay, most, would define that moment as the beginning of a new chapter in our lives. But He was not done with us yet.

Placing a single divine foot upon a nearby stool, Lord Phaestus rested the mandolin upon His knee and plucked a string, bringing forth a perfect note that was richer than a Dragon's hoard. "Would you like Me to play it?" He asked. Never in all of history have so many adventurers simultaneously shouted 'Yes'. Sighing theatrically, the Great Smith looked at His hands and shook His head. "My craftsman's hands are not worthy of an instrument such as this. But there is one Who should play it."

We looked at one another in confusion, and I, even I, with my unique perspective did not grasp His meaning.

"Come forth, Brother!" the Great Smith shouted. "Your return is welcomed!"

A flash of light, a thunderclap, a sound like shattering certainty, and there in all His divine splendour stood Lord Scarlatti, the Great Bard!

Besides me, a Siren fainted dead away, but the rest of us were cheering, rejoicing like drunken sailors who'd discovered a new curse. The sounds of corks popping punctuated the excited shouts across the City channel, and when the woman was revived and relocated her wits, she sang in that delightful tone that those creatures have, whilst the Bard himself accompanied her. For the first time in centuries I was at peace and all was fine and as it should be. Once again, I had witnessed and recorded history.

I left then, not because I wished to, but because I did not. The light was too bright, too exciting - the call to become involved in the world too strong. There will be a time in the future when my quill is truly needed, when the mysteries of the past are in superlative need. But for now, and until that time, my place is in the shade, neighbour. Unseen, unheard. Silent.

Better to record history.

FIN