08. The Bard

 

The Bard

Maximilian steps on the stage, opening his arms wide in greeting and tipping his head back with a deep belly laugh.

“Welcome! Welcome, one and all!” he shouts, capturing the attention of everyone gathered and drawing an awed silence from the crowd. 

His eyes scan the folks before him as he tries to get a feel for the demographic he is to play to, but the sun seems determined to shine directly into his eyes, and he is seeing more shape and shadow than anything else. He laughs again and claps his hands together hoping that it is reading as boisterous energy rather than flustered over being late to his own show. 

Maximilian shakes the thought from his head and firms up his smile. The best thing to do, he decides, is to jump right into the performance. Once he is lost in the story, all other things drop away from him. He pulls his lute out of seemingly nowhere and determines that he will keep this retelling on the tamer side, in case there are children he cannot see in the crowd.

He strums a long, deep note on the instrument of illusion.

Mist begins to pour out of the lute’s sound hole, dropping to hover around his ankles before falling like a waterfall off the edge of the root stage and spreading in a fifteen-foot circle with him at the center, encompassing the crowd and half of the street. The mist hangs low to the ground, only up to the ankles of the crowd. 

Maximillian the Magnificent begins his show.

“Let me tell you the tale of how in Embryveil came to be,” he says as he strums a light tune in a major key on his lute, voice taking on a whimsical note. He speaks; he does not sing. “Embryveil was first inhabited by Druids. Though it was not called Embryveil then. The Druids had come to one of the many groves of the great Forest of Solyr to commune with and learn from the forest and the creatures that called it home.” 

The mist around the bard begins to shape itself, stretching up from the ground as though pulled by strings. A miniature collection of pearly gray trees stood waist high at the foot of the stage. 

“They had heard rumors of fireflies appearing in the woods. Not on every warm summer night, but at set times of year or in times of trouble.

“The Druids, always craving a deeper connection with nature itself, were determined to give just as much back to the land as they were given from it. They found that their reverence was met with acceptance, and the forest became home. 

“The Druids learned to live in perfect communion with the lands, thriving not among the trees but with them. They humbly sought to learn from the ancient grove, the lessons of truly living. The elder trees provided for the Druids all of their days, and so they named their new home on the west bank of the Sunmead River the Grove of Elders after the trees themselves.” 

Gray figures rise in the mist amongst the trees. The figures are peoples of every size and shape in Druids’ robes. There are no distinct features, but one can see folks as they sit or walk among the trees. Though there is no sound from the scene, one can feel that there was community here. 

“But these Druids were not the only ones inhabiting the great Forest of Solyr. No, past the eastern shores of the Sunmead, life flourished.” 

The mist begins to ripple outward, away from the Grove of Elders, picking up height and filling out the forest of Solyr and creating a ghostly Sunmead River. On the eastern bank of the river, groups of homes form amongst the trees. And at the end of the forest, a small mountain range began. Miniatures of cities and towns begin to rise as Maximillian calls them out, homes built between the trees of the forest instead of being the very trees themselves. These trees are much smaller than the ones in the Grove of Elders, the opaque images forming no taller than anyone's calf. The forests and towns sprout amongst the onlookers, and the crowd moves in groups creating loose circles around the illusions popping into view. Murmurs of excitement and wonder fill the air, accompanying the light sounds of the lute. Figures move along in these cities and homes much like in the Grove of Elders, but these figures lack the druidic robes.

“However,” Max strums his instrument more strongly and switches to a minor key, his voice taking on a grave tone. “Peace in these lands was not long lived.” The bard’s music becomes haunting as the mist amongst the crowd begins to shift. 

“Villages, towns, and small cities in the foreign region became victims of attacks from the Underdark.”  

The pearly, gray mist begins to take on a darker coloring, starting from the peaks of the mountains, dripping down to the very base before spilling into the edges of the forest. The taint crawls slowly at first, like a sappy ooze.

The onlookers gasp, moving back and away from the corruption.

As the dark color speeds up, moving like ink through water, dark figures form in the advancing mist and ransack everything in their path. The dark figures enter towns represented in the mist, which slowly crumble or are set aflame. Slowly, each town takes on the dark-colored mist as it was corrupted. 

The trees nearest the foot of the mountains lose their leaves and go bare. 

A dragon swoops through the air, black mist shooting like fire from its maw decimating towns and forests below it.  

Hordes of undead skeletons rise from the mist as though it is a graveyard.

There are yelps of fear in the audience and they all begin to shuffle back, away from the onslaught and closer to the manifestation of the Grove of Elders. 

“These non-stop raids drove these hunted people northward, seeking refuge. As they escaped deeper into the forest, the arbor life became bigger and grander. This created more opportunity for them to hide themselves… But creatures of the Underdark were on their heels, continuing to destroy everything in their path.” 

 The mists of the cities drop away and roll into images of droves of gray peoples being stalked by dark mist as they make their way north.

“There was no direction, no destination in mind, only fear and survival.” 

The music becomes frenzied and harried as the light and dark mists play a tense game of hide-and-go-seek. The dark seems to grow in number as the strum of the lute becomes stronger and deeper. The light begins to wink out in handfuls. Within moments, the mist curling around the crowd is black and dark gray and there are only a few points of light, and—

Suddenly, Max’s lute is silent and everything freezes, even the very breath of the audience enthralled by the moment.

After nearly too long, the bard plucks a light, soft note. And then another. And another. And with each note, tiny lights appear in the still scene. Not more figures, just small, hovering dots, bright white in color. They are the only thing with movement, and they make their way to the few remaining gray refugees. They whirl around a small, child-like figure frozen in the moment.

“Some refugees, in their flight from these dangers, notice small lights floating in the forest.” Max continues, his voice as quiet as the notes he plucks from his instrument. He is easily heard in the hush of the crowd. “Knowing nothing else that could help them follow these lights drifting in and out, zigzagging between trees deeper and deeper into the haven of the forest.” 

Spectral fireflies weave between the figures and lead them unerringly through the trees and over the river, toward the heart of the forest and to the Druids lounging unaware in their secluded grove. 

“Fireflies had always been a special feature of this land, venerated by the Druids and their studies. But with the intake of these refugees, they became more than that. A sign of safety and home and rescue. A new hope. The darkness did not cross the river.” 

With a defiant strum, Max’s music swells in triumph and the darkness halts on the opposite side of the river. The peoples of the gray light stand their ground until the darkness is beaten back and returns the way it came. 

“And from this victory, the City of Embryveil was founded!”

The music continues to swell and melts into a song of celebration known well by the citizens of Embryveil, the song of victory that would be heard throughout the streets during the festival. 

The crowd whoops and claps, cheering along with the silent figures in the mist’s illusion. As the song continues, all of the darkened mist completely dissipates from the illusion, and the city adds another grove, and then another, and another until there are thirteen sprawled along both sides of the Sunmead River. Figures dance with joy in the streets with fireflies swimming around their forms. 

The Bard begins to go into the last few chords of the song, ending on a high, hopeful, and lilting note. The mist transitions from its pearl gray to a bright white that is almost blinding before the illusion stills once more in a perfect picture for a single moment. The image pulses with light once, twice, and then the images are falling and until the mist rests at the ankles of the onlookers once more.  

The show is done.

For a moment, there is nothing but silence in the crowd. People are breathlessly staring at the bard. 

And then there is a roaring applause. 

A familiar rush of dopamine suffuses Max’s blood, and with another bawdy laugh he strums his lute and begins another tale.

{Part Nine: Considerations}