Prelude: A tale...a tale...
"At times, to break the monotony, the Gods would feast; At times, to break the monotony, the Gods would fast;"
This refrain is etched in Maglor's mind, as runes etched in the face of an ancient wall. It is from a book, a strange tale of madness and immortality, of an alien but familiar race, and of significance, or rather, its lack. Its meaning (by which I mean this particular refrain) is all too obvious, it would seem. But is that true?
Maglor muses briefly, stroking his chin. Then, he shrugs.
Perhaps. And perhaps Maglor doth stray too deeply into the analytical. It has been known to happen. But, enough! Time for a tale...
In such times as the Blighting Famine that swept through the land of King Reyes, great warrior-king, much loved by his people (had he not delivered them many victories? Were they not strangers to defeat?), men may become strangers to themselves. Such times lend an air of madness to the world, as if the Gods, in their insufferable boredom, have chose to become reacquainted with cruelty.
Many recognize such times, and know with a certainty that is rooted in the very core of the earth, that in time the Gods will again grow bored, relent from wickedness, and perhaps even know again generosity and love for those in the world. But such knowledge does not grant immunity to the madness of the times. Indeed, not! Those who know do yearn for the metamorphosis. It torments them, unceasingly. Thus, in these times of spirtual torture, the most sane often appear the most irrational. But again, Maglor strays...blame it on the drink.
Maglor straightens, clears his throat.
In the time of the Blighting Famine, in the realm of King Reyes, there lay a small fishing village, Hirem's Quay, it was called, on the banks of the river Ebron, but a short way from the sea. The people there were poor, such is the plight of most good folk, and pious, and loved Ulmo, God of Waters. They were a gentle people, living off the bounty of their God's realm.
But the Blighting Famine, so named for the mottled blight that afflicted the corn and wheat the villagers scratched from the soil, exacted a terrible toll on Hirem's Quay. No crops were reaped in those years, and livestock dwindled and grew scrawny. And the people's plight was worsened by a scarcity of food fishes that occurred at that time, as well. Indeed! As the Famine grew worse each year, many among the villagers came to fear that Ulmo had forsaken them, and Old Cleon, the village priest, grew sad at the dwindling numbers that came to his sermons, sensing that they had lost faith. As time went by, Cleon beseeched his God, ever more urgently, for a respite and pardon for whatever unknown sin his people, whom he loved dearly, had committed.
But his prayers seemed cast to the winds. For, in the third year of the Famine, a plague swept through the land, taking a terrible toll. All children in the village under the age of ten years fell victim to its ravages and left the village barren. Not a single child was born to the village in the months, and then years to follow.
Maglor's head droops, nearly to his chest. His eyes are closed. For a long moment, he sits thusly, his hand, loosely holding a wine goblet, resting in his lap. Suddenly, as if jolting awake, he shakes his head, and sits upright.
For three years, it was thus. Not a single woman in the village was able to conceive a child, the fish were as infrequent visitors in the waters around Hirem's Quay, and scarcely enough grain was reaped in the autumn to feed the villagers through the winter. It was a bleak time.
So, when news that the Keening Witch, Magda, elvish minstrel beyond compare, with her band of traveling troubadours, was to come to the village to perform, the people's grief was lessened somewhat. In truth, few among them leant much credence to the fanciful tales of bounties bestowed in the wake of Magda's troupe. But revelry itself would be a much welcomed diversion from the toil of mere existence.
What Fate may await? ye ask,
How might Maglor,
Clever-tongued smiler,
Charmer, lover, ever-mindful for the needy,
Defend himself 'gainst the charges laid before him?
Rascal, he is called!
Rapscallion!
Are these, then, to be the words noble Vico will etch upon my headstone when I do defy him?
For, defy him, I will!
There will be no marriage of Maglor and beautiful Belindra.
She is lovely and wonderful
And most deserving of happiness;
But, if that be true for Belindra,
Why is it not also true for Maglor?
For Maglor cannot be happy in matrimony;
And Maglor will not live unhappy;
Rather, Vico, raise your sword,
And let Maglor's heart,
So often his ruler,
Be cut from his chest!
Let this noble bard,
Who hath done naught but fight evil
With ever an ear turned toward the downtrodden,
Since the day the wind swept him
To these evil shores,
Merest chattel—
Let him die by the sword
Rather than die the lingering death
Of a caged bird;
Pol, ever far ahead of the group, leans against a tree, scanning alertly for any enemny that would seek to approach the party, thinking on Maglor's words about his fate.
She cannot bring herself to feel woe at the bard's plight, but neither has she been so amused by it as she has let others think she is. Maglor has after all professed to love her, and want her, but—how real or true can that be? she wonders.
Aye Pol watches this all play itself with a much keener interst than she has let on. She has watched how he has treated Berlinda—nicely since the night he slept with her, has he since had a kind or gentle word for the girl? Nay. And while the bard may not adore her, tis obvious she is smitten, and she, who had never given of herself to another man, gave her all to the sweet talking bard. Only to be quickly and callously cast aside, by Maglor's.
Has he ever even attempted to say, "I am sorry", to either Vico, or more importantly, to the girl. Has he ever once thought to have a tender talk with her, to gently hold her hands and brush away the tears from her cheeks as he compasionately and gently explained to her, tis not in him to settle down. To make such remarks to her on her specialness and explain he is for now an adventuer and can nae settle down at this point, to give someone such as herself the stable home and husband that she so richly deserves? To make clear that the fault is in him, not her. Or to approach Vico, contriet and truly apologetic for what was done to his daughter becaues mayhap he was drunk and randy and did not at all give any thought at all for who he was bedding or the consequences of that? And to perhaps say to Vico how much he has learned of the grief and the pain he has caused all round from one thoughtless night of seeking only to serve his own needs. To say to Vico that from this he has learned at least to think first of the other person as well.
Pol has heard Mag trying to justify what he did, she has heard Maglor say a lot of things in this— but not that he was sorry, not to the girl or her father, or ... to anyone actually.
Shifting her stance against the tree, Pol frowns, and can't help but think, tis how he would treat me in the end also, and once done, as lightly tossed aside as this young girl—all nicely explained away in Maglor's mind as he moves to yet the next lady, the next conquest, not won with swords, but with pretty words, leaving their hearts to bleed when he moved on with nere' a back word glance, or thought, or even I am sorry, but tis time to move on.
Mag is an anamoly ot Pol. He goes around helping the down trodded, giving his money away, thinking to do good where ere' he goes. And as long as the cause is abstract-well he does. But why she wonders can he not see the grevious wounds he inflicts on the ladies around him. *Shakes her head and sighs* Why cannot he see that he hurts an damages by his words and his actions each such lady, as surely as if he had plunged a dagger straight away into their hearts? *Shruging* she sets off through the shadows and the trees to scout the peremeter of the camp.
Well the morning had certainly gotten off to a roring start as I emerged into the too bright sunlight, a bit hung over and bleary eyed, to find every guard Vico had hunting for Maglor. Already Spag and Mag were well away from town and fell on me,Vren and TA to deal with Vico as best they might. Knowing I had Vren's pipe I wasunable to meet his gaze for but a second. Soon after their talk with Vico, the others joined Spag and Maglor and set off looking into the missing ship business. As often as I could slip away far ahead of the group, I would also guiltily use the pipe that was Vren's . While on one such jaunt, the group ran across a cleric that had been sent out by the very girl Mag had treated so shabbily. The dear girl being worried that the "merry band" was without a healer. *She shook her head and sighed wondering what it was with clerics. Where as Grish had often been brusq this one was kind and gently spoken, but the end result the same—preacher boys both of them. Still in all I felt, here was one less to have to defend herself furiously against.
With that the group came to some cliffs and the only answer was to climb down a rope to see if a way lay there for them. I was the most agile and with the best ability to steath, went first. And to everyone's surprise, there was a cave entrance. Some lacking the same gifts of landing on their feet in the cave landed in the water instead. I had been hitting the pipe heavily and had to make repeated attempts to pull TA and some of the others out of the brink before they drowned. Feeling bad about what I had done in taking Vren's pipe, I was able to give it back to him on the quiet during one of our stops. But not before getting his promise to let me also use it. I will say I was scared of letting go it,and scared to trust Vern will keep his word. But in the end the guilt won out.
As we trecked through the cave, the opposition was some sort of fish type humanoid who could indeed inflict a lot of damage. And was in the fight that both Maglor and Zeal died.
Maglor was returned to the land of the living but... Zeal was lost to them forever, never to be returned to the living. It was in all this fighting that the group thought we recognized someone from Esirup, his identity fairly certain. Also a strange note was found stressing the importance against having Esirup succeed. Meandering our way through the cave, we at last came to a passing strange inn—one might say the perfect inn—and a lute of some sort. And Mag—putting that strange instrument in a chair, somehow opened up another part of the inn—and—and——and
Being one to ever leap into the advance, I went through to the next area while the others stood around talking, and my mouth fell open, there was a city! First the cave,then the inn, now a city!! How the hell was that?
My mind already addled from smoking to much of the weed,( I wanted to get as much of it in before I gave it back to Vren) ceased to work at all well from the time we entered that strange inn, and the further on we walke the more unravelled I became.
But twas the last entry that shattered my mind, all sense of reality gone—I...well...I stepped from a brick city into a field of grass and a few simple buildings...I ... I ...I stepped back into Esirup...and the last sane thing my mind registered was ...Vico...asking if I had seen Maglor, just as he had done that morning when we had left.
At this Pol's mind snapped completely and she started screaming and shaking so badly she could scarce stay upright *she started howling at the top of her voice like some badly wounded animal, and shouting VICO, VICO, VICO !!!!
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