A man sweeps into the tavern as if though brought in by the breeze, his cloak catching on a stool which he untangles with a flourish, as if it were planned.
He inhales the smoky atmosphere, and releases it with a sigh as he takes in the sight of the tavern-goers.
"Ahh.. The aroma of roast meat, brown ale, and a cavalcade of drunken dogs. Truly, the perfume of potential!"
A grin creeps across his face as he saunters towards the bar, deftly swiping an ale left foolishly unattended by its owner.
"Good evening, dutiful drinkers, weary wanderers, and suspicious brooders of silent corners!" he exclaims loudly, waving out a hand across the room for dramatic effect.
"You are in luck. For I am Perceval Bellifontaine du Coeur, Minstrel of the Melodious, Romantic Rogue of Renown, and Chronicler of Questionable Decisions!" He says, gesturing to himself.
"Tonight, my good people.. Tonight you shall not simply hear a tale, Nay! You shall experience one!"
He takes a swig from the mug, who's owner is now searching for, bewildered at it's disappearance.
"Now then, lend me your ears and get those drinks in! I promise only mild exaggerations, minimal property damage and maximum charm!"
The man stomps his way onto a table at the head of the room, it's inhabitants quickly reaching protect their drinks.
He clears his throat dramatically and begins to sign with a smooth and loud voice that quickly overpowers the buzzing conversations.
O...
Tales speak of a mountain high,
with pointy peaks that kiss the sky.
Locals spoke of a demon within,
Of claws and flame.. And leathery skin.
But I, brave bard, with charm so sweet,
Once walked up with frozen feet.
To prove my worth, I called with grin,
"Unholy beast.. Letma in!"
"Letma enter, Letma in!"
"Letma see the sights within!"
"Letma climb peaks of yore,
"And prove this man is not a bore!"
His singing takes on a deeper tone
The demon did wake, from behind the lock,
With a roar so fierce, it shook the rock.
Out it burst, and breathed out flame..
I cried aloud at the beast of fame!
The tempo rises, sung with a softer, fearful twinge.
"Letma live, Letma flee!"
"Listen now, Letma plea!"
"I know a place I'd rather be!"
"Drinking ale, far from thee!"
His singing returns to a deeper, booming tone
The beast did try with all her might,
To burn to ash, this bards plight.
But clever feet and abundant grace,
Soon helped me leave that wretched place!
So raise your mugs, ye clever lot,
Who know which quests are best forgot.
To warmth, to song, to staying dry,
And letting sleeping demons lie!
He raises his mug in toast and promptly chugs what ale remains.
The crowd's reaction is a mix of boisterous, drunken cheers and quiet indifference from the less-amused parties.
"And thus, dear friends, I remain unbeaten by beast, brew, or boredom!"
Perceval sweeps into a low, dramatic bow with one hand over his heart, the other extended with the empty mug dropping to floor.
"You have been a most generous and inviting audience, and should you find your hearts moved, spirits lifted or your coin purses overflowing, a.. humble tip would save this poor, unfortunate bard from resorting to honest work."
Perceval gestures to his upturned hat, now conveniently placed on the edge of the bar as he hops from the table.
"Perhaps I shall have more tales to tell, should my efforts be rewarded!"
He slides onto a stool at the bar, ordering a drink using the tips from his hat, wearing a pleased grin across his face.
Enter Stage Right ((Open RP))
Moderator: Gamemasters
Re: Enter Stage Right ((Open RP))
The woman with the cheeky face and black curls sat in a corner with a glass of cider.
She looked up in surprise when the self-proclaimed bard entered the tavern.
Then she listened to the gibberish and the song with her head tilted to one side.
The person sitting next to her nudged her. “Hey Cy...” I know you haven't sung in a long time, but don't you want to give that guy a run for his money?”
A smile flitted across the black-haired woman's lips and she rose with grace and elegance.
She held the lute in her hand, positioning herself so that everyone could hear her. Even the drunks began to clap and cheer on the pretty woman.
She just smiled, but gave the man at the bar a daring gaze.
A crystal-clear voice rose in the room and everyone fell silent
Rattle, rattle rattle
look who stands there near the kettle ?
Oh - it is the undead Lord
claiming he is still adored
But just look at his sorry figure
his snaffle-bit will fall out soon if triggered
so throw a stone at his boney ass
he might search then in the grass
for his meager set of teeth
but they did fall just underneath
Valherian, his dumbie minion
has for sure his own opinion
urge the lord to just sit down
HE will search for what fell down
The lord sits down with a low rattle
just aside the heated kettle
but - oh my- his set of teeth
they are now just underneath
biting in his boney ass
before they crack like broken glass
Rage befalls the Undead one
screaming loud, so the Minion run
but as dumb like a empty nut
he falls over the kettle - and know what ?
The heated water pours all out
boiling water hurts no doubt
Both are crying now in pain
this will happen if no brain !
Heroes sneaking at the couple
can't just barely hold a chuckle
then they strike with brutal force
slaying both and stay the course ...
(( Speaking: ))
And here is the morality of this ---
do not sit on your own teeth
The audience rose, clapped, and shouted for an encore, but the woman shook her wild curls briefly, then bowed, and strangely, a sad expression crossed her face.
With her lute on her back, she left the tavern and disappeared into the night.
She looked up in surprise when the self-proclaimed bard entered the tavern.
Then she listened to the gibberish and the song with her head tilted to one side.
The person sitting next to her nudged her. “Hey Cy...” I know you haven't sung in a long time, but don't you want to give that guy a run for his money?”
A smile flitted across the black-haired woman's lips and she rose with grace and elegance.
She held the lute in her hand, positioning herself so that everyone could hear her. Even the drunks began to clap and cheer on the pretty woman.
She just smiled, but gave the man at the bar a daring gaze.
A crystal-clear voice rose in the room and everyone fell silent
Rattle, rattle rattle
look who stands there near the kettle ?
Oh - it is the undead Lord
claiming he is still adored
But just look at his sorry figure
his snaffle-bit will fall out soon if triggered
so throw a stone at his boney ass
he might search then in the grass
for his meager set of teeth
but they did fall just underneath
Valherian, his dumbie minion
has for sure his own opinion
urge the lord to just sit down
HE will search for what fell down
The lord sits down with a low rattle
just aside the heated kettle
but - oh my- his set of teeth
they are now just underneath
biting in his boney ass
before they crack like broken glass
Rage befalls the Undead one
screaming loud, so the Minion run
but as dumb like a empty nut
he falls over the kettle - and know what ?
The heated water pours all out
boiling water hurts no doubt
Both are crying now in pain
this will happen if no brain !
Heroes sneaking at the couple
can't just barely hold a chuckle
then they strike with brutal force
slaying both and stay the course ...
(( Speaking: ))
And here is the morality of this ---
do not sit on your own teeth
The audience rose, clapped, and shouted for an encore, but the woman shook her wild curls briefly, then bowed, and strangely, a sad expression crossed her face.
With her lute on her back, she left the tavern and disappeared into the night.
-
Nala Thorhild
- Posts: 38
- Joined: Sun Dec 15, 2024 1:09 am
Re: Enter Stage Right ((Open RP))
Sleep hadn’t escaped her—she had simply let it go.
She rose in silence, careful not to stir the slumbering vixen beside her. Gwen slept with a hand curled near her cheek, mouth slightly open, maroon hair spilled across the pillow like crushed berries on linen. She would rise early, as always, to tend the crops, the kitchens, or the still-darker paths of the wild. Nala had lost count of how many times one of them had slipped out first—no explanation needed. It was their way.
Tonight, it was her turn.
She stepped into the hush of the desert dark, the stillness folding over her shoulders like a shawl. There was no destination—only the restlessness in her limbs and the old call to feel the world move again, both outside and in. Her hood went up, her feet moved forward, and the night—quiet and bruised with stars—took her.
She spoke to a few people along the way, half-listening. Familiar faces, half-familiar names. None of it mattered. Not until the music found her.
It floated on the breeze before she reached the door—threaded through the streets like smoke. A few notes, no more. But she knew what followed when notes like that called out to people.
Some tavern. Didn’t matter which. They were all the same in that hour between good drink and bad decisions. What mattered was the pull. The sound.
So she went in.
The heat inside hugged her like breath off coals, crowded bodies packed in close around tables lit by amber and guttering flame. A bard was holding court—Perceval, she realized as her eyes adjusted.
She’d met him once. A new face then, still teasing his charms, all charisma and no teeth. But now?
He was sharper. Still gaudy, still too polished—but the flourishes had gained weight. Not a heavy voice, no—but well-aimed. He sang like someone trying to carve himself into memory by sheer will. And the crowd adored him for it.
She didn’t.
He wasn’t dangerous—not yet. But he flirted with danger, and in time, that could prove worse. Especially now.
The song reached its second refrain when her body stiffened beneath the folds of her cloak.
Letma.
There it was.
His voice wrapped around the name like a lover’s vow. Not in reverence—in spectacle. A painted myth, dramatized for drunken wonder, told like a bedtime story passed down around foreign hearths.
Her thoughts slowed. The noise of the tavern dulled beneath it.
He’s not from here. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.
Letma wasn’t legend. Not to her. Letma was the taste of rust in her mouth and decades of silence buried beneath ash and sand. Letma was a wound on the map—one that still bled in places no one looked. Letma was the way her hands trembled whenever she tried to write about its horrors, the way her breath caught at certain names.
If Perceval was singing of Letma, then the stories had traveled.
And if the stories had traveled, perhaps its influence had come along for the ride.
That was what chilled her.
The crowd erupted in applause, but Nala was already watching the second figure on the small, makeshift stage. A woman. Tall. Dark curls catching the firelight. Lips painted in some stubborn hue that refused to fade, even under smoke.
Cy-
Nala had an inkling who she was.
Her voice didn’t rise—it sliced. Smooth, deliberate. A knife drawn across velvet. Every word she spoke landed with intent, like she wanted the room to remember her long after she’d gone. She didn’t need to shout to hold attention. She wore mystery like perfume—thick, deliberate.
Nala watched, unmoving.
There was a sharp grace in the way Cynthia turned her hand, in how she drew out a note. And in that moment, an old memory caught Nala off guard:
Gwen would mock this so well.
Not cruelly—never that. But with uncanny precision, slipping into the woman’s rhythm and posture like putting on someone else’s skin. They’d done it since their first frostbound season together—pretending to be scribes or ladies or characters in borrowed memories. Gwen was always too good at it. Nala used to tease her about taking up a stage career, just to see her roll her eyes and—without warning—turn charm into kisses.
She blinked the thought away with a quiet breath.
Not now.
The crowd roared again, swallowed by wine and wonder. But Nala stood apart, her presence quiet as a blade in the dark.
Letma had crossed the borders of Illarion.
That alone was reason enough to stay. To listen.
To fall into old habits—a quiet wolf, when she needed to be.
She hadn’t forgotten. She’d stepped into the light, learned to guard the day. But she loved the night—the stillness, the space to watch. She couldn’t ignore a threat. Or the instincts that rose in her bones when something was wrong.
The land of hope and magic had never felt more alive, more vibrant. But all that buzzing could stir both honeybees and hornets.
Nala was always ready, despite her easy smile and giving heart.
And when danger whispered from familiar shadows, the wolf in her answered.
Choose your songs and sides carefully…
She rose in silence, careful not to stir the slumbering vixen beside her. Gwen slept with a hand curled near her cheek, mouth slightly open, maroon hair spilled across the pillow like crushed berries on linen. She would rise early, as always, to tend the crops, the kitchens, or the still-darker paths of the wild. Nala had lost count of how many times one of them had slipped out first—no explanation needed. It was their way.
Tonight, it was her turn.
She stepped into the hush of the desert dark, the stillness folding over her shoulders like a shawl. There was no destination—only the restlessness in her limbs and the old call to feel the world move again, both outside and in. Her hood went up, her feet moved forward, and the night—quiet and bruised with stars—took her.
She spoke to a few people along the way, half-listening. Familiar faces, half-familiar names. None of it mattered. Not until the music found her.
It floated on the breeze before she reached the door—threaded through the streets like smoke. A few notes, no more. But she knew what followed when notes like that called out to people.
Some tavern. Didn’t matter which. They were all the same in that hour between good drink and bad decisions. What mattered was the pull. The sound.
So she went in.
The heat inside hugged her like breath off coals, crowded bodies packed in close around tables lit by amber and guttering flame. A bard was holding court—Perceval, she realized as her eyes adjusted.
She’d met him once. A new face then, still teasing his charms, all charisma and no teeth. But now?
He was sharper. Still gaudy, still too polished—but the flourishes had gained weight. Not a heavy voice, no—but well-aimed. He sang like someone trying to carve himself into memory by sheer will. And the crowd adored him for it.
She didn’t.
He wasn’t dangerous—not yet. But he flirted with danger, and in time, that could prove worse. Especially now.
The song reached its second refrain when her body stiffened beneath the folds of her cloak.
Letma.
There it was.
His voice wrapped around the name like a lover’s vow. Not in reverence—in spectacle. A painted myth, dramatized for drunken wonder, told like a bedtime story passed down around foreign hearths.
Her thoughts slowed. The noise of the tavern dulled beneath it.
He’s not from here. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.
Letma wasn’t legend. Not to her. Letma was the taste of rust in her mouth and decades of silence buried beneath ash and sand. Letma was a wound on the map—one that still bled in places no one looked. Letma was the way her hands trembled whenever she tried to write about its horrors, the way her breath caught at certain names.
If Perceval was singing of Letma, then the stories had traveled.
And if the stories had traveled, perhaps its influence had come along for the ride.
That was what chilled her.
The crowd erupted in applause, but Nala was already watching the second figure on the small, makeshift stage. A woman. Tall. Dark curls catching the firelight. Lips painted in some stubborn hue that refused to fade, even under smoke.
Cy-
Nala had an inkling who she was.
Her voice didn’t rise—it sliced. Smooth, deliberate. A knife drawn across velvet. Every word she spoke landed with intent, like she wanted the room to remember her long after she’d gone. She didn’t need to shout to hold attention. She wore mystery like perfume—thick, deliberate.
Nala watched, unmoving.
There was a sharp grace in the way Cynthia turned her hand, in how she drew out a note. And in that moment, an old memory caught Nala off guard:
Gwen would mock this so well.
Not cruelly—never that. But with uncanny precision, slipping into the woman’s rhythm and posture like putting on someone else’s skin. They’d done it since their first frostbound season together—pretending to be scribes or ladies or characters in borrowed memories. Gwen was always too good at it. Nala used to tease her about taking up a stage career, just to see her roll her eyes and—without warning—turn charm into kisses.
She blinked the thought away with a quiet breath.
Not now.
The crowd roared again, swallowed by wine and wonder. But Nala stood apart, her presence quiet as a blade in the dark.
Letma had crossed the borders of Illarion.
That alone was reason enough to stay. To listen.
To fall into old habits—a quiet wolf, when she needed to be.
She hadn’t forgotten. She’d stepped into the light, learned to guard the day. But she loved the night—the stillness, the space to watch. She couldn’t ignore a threat. Or the instincts that rose in her bones when something was wrong.
The land of hope and magic had never felt more alive, more vibrant. But all that buzzing could stir both honeybees and hornets.
Nala was always ready, despite her easy smile and giving heart.
And when danger whispered from familiar shadows, the wolf in her answered.
Choose your songs and sides carefully…
Geliefert
In a secluded spot, a scarred old elf bows respectfully to a man with a striking appearance - crimson hair against white clothes - before beginning to read to the crowd in croaked voice:
The bargain struck, a chilling breeze,
One soul redeemed, on bended knees.
A price demanded, steep and dire,
To quench the flames of dark desire.
Two minds alight, with reason's gleam,
Must dim their fires, surrender dream.
Sentient sparks, about to fade,
A sacrifice ruthlessly made.
Four tremors deep, the earth's lament,
As ancient powers give consent.
Quakes of sorrow, quakes of dread,
Marking the bargain, sealed and read.
Then three embark, a fateful stride,
Across the border, where shadows hide.
To realms of torment, burn and bleed,
In demon fire, a living creed.
They cross the line, no turning back,
Their earthly comfort now laid slack.
For in the embers, they must dwell,
A sacrifice for one saved soul in hell.
So balance shifts, the scales align,
One rises up, while others pine.
A soul reborn, bought at the cost,
Of lives consumed, forever lost.
I have no legs, yet I overcome distances. I consist of individual, irreversible units that are interdependent. Although seemingly simple, my complexity lies in the complex interplay of my components, a chain reaction of progress in which a single misstep can destroy the entire structure. My goal is defined, yet my path is paved only through careful execution.
Stand tall amidst a sea of sand,
a mirage of progress, built by hand.
The ancient heart beats strong beneath the sun,
but whispers of lost kingdoms, lost battles,
are engraved in its stones, a silent plea
for the water's mercy, which was never meant for it.
Flow and bend silently,
cross once, new paths are found.
To your left or right, it does not stay,
it leads you onward, far and wide.
Look ahead, hesitate not, and tremble not.
Many enter, few leave immediately. It is ringed in red, but no flowers grow, only pain. Jubilation erupts, but joy is rare, for only one can endure.
Born of competition, fed by the clang of steel. The name is tinged with crimson, but no blood can hide on it.
Toward the fiery kiss of the sun at midday, it has no voice, yet it speaks of journeys past and future. It has no legs, yet it stretches endlessly, sometimes branching, sometimes converging. It offers no reward, but those who follow its lead often find their destination. It is born of intention, yet shaped by the weight of countless wheels.
Born of two opposing forces, a liminal space, a whispered boundary where sunburned sands reluctantly give way to emerald shadow. The heart beats to the rhythm of drought and flood, a symphony of extremes played out on a stage of shifting dunes and tough roots. Defiant spears of trees pierce the sky, where the wind carries tales of scorching heat and hidden springs. Find it where their influences mingle, yet neither fully prevails.
Devouring offerings, fed by flames, near crashing waves, as salt breezes whisper devotion within its walls.
I have no legs, yet I overcome distances. I consist of individual, irreversible units that are interdependent. Although seemingly simple, my complexity lies in the complex interplay of my components, a chain reaction of progress in which a single misstep can destroy the entire structure. My goal is defined, yet my path is paved only through careful execution.
It has no wings, yet it glides with the breeze.
It dances effortlessly on the waves.
Its path is invisible, but maps guide it.
The stars are its compass at day's end.
In every mist it stands so faithfully, its beam a friend to all who see. Its strength lies not in sound or power, but in a beacon, clear and bright.
It silently points the way,
to icy lands where cold reigns.
On every map, it leads the line,
a silent guide, both bold and subtle.
It is deep, yet it does not fall.
I keep what is precious, but not for all.
Its walls are of stone, its mouth is wide,
but never will it venture forth.
Every day it rises, yet it never sleeps.
Its golden path through the deep.
If you followed him where he led you,
you would walk on waves at sunlit speed.
Step by step, the festival of shimmer – you chase the light, you navigate a path that is constantly changing, its surface ever-ephemeral. Treading it requires perfect balance, not of the body, but of timing and foresight. The slightest misstep will cause you to stumble.
The bargain struck, a chilling breeze,
One soul redeemed, on bended knees.
A price demanded, steep and dire,
To quench the flames of dark desire.
Two minds alight, with reason's gleam,
Must dim their fires, surrender dream.
Sentient sparks, about to fade,
A sacrifice ruthlessly made.
Four tremors deep, the earth's lament,
As ancient powers give consent.
Quakes of sorrow, quakes of dread,
Marking the bargain, sealed and read.
Then three embark, a fateful stride,
Across the border, where shadows hide.
To realms of torment, burn and bleed,
In demon fire, a living creed.
They cross the line, no turning back,
Their earthly comfort now laid slack.
For in the embers, they must dwell,
A sacrifice for one saved soul in hell.
So balance shifts, the scales align,
One rises up, while others pine.
A soul reborn, bought at the cost,
Of lives consumed, forever lost.
I have no legs, yet I overcome distances. I consist of individual, irreversible units that are interdependent. Although seemingly simple, my complexity lies in the complex interplay of my components, a chain reaction of progress in which a single misstep can destroy the entire structure. My goal is defined, yet my path is paved only through careful execution.
Stand tall amidst a sea of sand,
a mirage of progress, built by hand.
The ancient heart beats strong beneath the sun,
but whispers of lost kingdoms, lost battles,
are engraved in its stones, a silent plea
for the water's mercy, which was never meant for it.
Flow and bend silently,
cross once, new paths are found.
To your left or right, it does not stay,
it leads you onward, far and wide.
Look ahead, hesitate not, and tremble not.
Many enter, few leave immediately. It is ringed in red, but no flowers grow, only pain. Jubilation erupts, but joy is rare, for only one can endure.
Born of competition, fed by the clang of steel. The name is tinged with crimson, but no blood can hide on it.
Toward the fiery kiss of the sun at midday, it has no voice, yet it speaks of journeys past and future. It has no legs, yet it stretches endlessly, sometimes branching, sometimes converging. It offers no reward, but those who follow its lead often find their destination. It is born of intention, yet shaped by the weight of countless wheels.
Born of two opposing forces, a liminal space, a whispered boundary where sunburned sands reluctantly give way to emerald shadow. The heart beats to the rhythm of drought and flood, a symphony of extremes played out on a stage of shifting dunes and tough roots. Defiant spears of trees pierce the sky, where the wind carries tales of scorching heat and hidden springs. Find it where their influences mingle, yet neither fully prevails.
Devouring offerings, fed by flames, near crashing waves, as salt breezes whisper devotion within its walls.
I have no legs, yet I overcome distances. I consist of individual, irreversible units that are interdependent. Although seemingly simple, my complexity lies in the complex interplay of my components, a chain reaction of progress in which a single misstep can destroy the entire structure. My goal is defined, yet my path is paved only through careful execution.
It has no wings, yet it glides with the breeze.
It dances effortlessly on the waves.
Its path is invisible, but maps guide it.
The stars are its compass at day's end.
In every mist it stands so faithfully, its beam a friend to all who see. Its strength lies not in sound or power, but in a beacon, clear and bright.
It silently points the way,
to icy lands where cold reigns.
On every map, it leads the line,
a silent guide, both bold and subtle.
It is deep, yet it does not fall.
I keep what is precious, but not for all.
Its walls are of stone, its mouth is wide,
but never will it venture forth.
Every day it rises, yet it never sleeps.
Its golden path through the deep.
If you followed him where he led you,
you would walk on waves at sunlit speed.
Step by step, the festival of shimmer – you chase the light, you navigate a path that is constantly changing, its surface ever-ephemeral. Treading it requires perfect balance, not of the body, but of timing and foresight. The slightest misstep will cause you to stumble.
-
Nala Thorhild
- Posts: 38
- Joined: Sun Dec 15, 2024 1:09 am
Quiet Eyes
She didn’t speak at first. Just watched the elf through narrowed eyes, each verse landing like a stone in still water. Too many ripples.
“No legs, yet it moves. No blood, yet it bleeds. A path, a sacrifice, a name unspoken.”
She folded her arms.
“Too much truth hidden in artifice.”
The air shifted.
Nala let her eyes roam the room—slow, deliberate, detached. She wasn’t looking at anyone. Not directly. But she caught the flickers. A still hand. A muttered word. A drink set down slower than before. Some faces turned inward, as if reflecting on meanings they hadn’t expected to confront. Others leaned forward, eager, hungry.
And then, as naturally as breath, her gaze slid to him.
She didn’t stare. Didn’t linger. Just watched the way shadows moved around Perceval, watched how the room held him, or didn’t. Whether his charm held steady. Whether anything in the verses had struck beneath that polish.
She wasn’t looking for guilt. Only recognition. A thread of awareness. A fracture in the performance, if one was there.
Then she looked away. Let the music carry on.
But she did not stop listening.
“No legs, yet it moves. No blood, yet it bleeds. A path, a sacrifice, a name unspoken.”
She folded her arms.
“Too much truth hidden in artifice.”
The air shifted.
Nala let her eyes roam the room—slow, deliberate, detached. She wasn’t looking at anyone. Not directly. But she caught the flickers. A still hand. A muttered word. A drink set down slower than before. Some faces turned inward, as if reflecting on meanings they hadn’t expected to confront. Others leaned forward, eager, hungry.
And then, as naturally as breath, her gaze slid to him.
She didn’t stare. Didn’t linger. Just watched the way shadows moved around Perceval, watched how the room held him, or didn’t. Whether his charm held steady. Whether anything in the verses had struck beneath that polish.
She wasn’t looking for guilt. Only recognition. A thread of awareness. A fracture in the performance, if one was there.
Then she looked away. Let the music carry on.
But she did not stop listening.