Part 18 Making the Connect (or Danja Ghida divines our Hero) =Danja=

(Co-written by Blaze, http://lessthan141.blogspot.com/ )

I finish my song and make eye contact once again with Leo Stormguard, and realizes that he could move in and out of just about anywhere and no one would ever realize he was a hero.  Put him in a pig pen, and call him Ham.  Someone would ask him the price of bacon.

“Buy you a beer?”  I shrug to indicate a back room, behind the bar, where Bards and sometimes gamblers go.  Leo Stormguard does know that anything can be a trap.  I wonder if he knows that some things are NOT a trap.  “It’s a back room for privacy, yours not mine.  I mean...  You really don’t want everyone in this place buying you a round, or do you?”

I don’t even get a grunt as he makes a small nod.  It makes me wonder if I want to be alone in a back room with someone who is already annoyed with me.  Nah, no one kills a bard on their first meeting, not even Stormguard, right?  I mean right?  (Hey, you!  You better not be scrolling down to click aggressive, I have my eye on you!)

Several of the bars denizens try to catch my eye, or close with me before the door to the back room is safely shut.  They have no idea why I would be going into the back room with Mr. Non-Descript.  Not one other person in the place is actually worthy of my second glance, even as an audience, I doubt they have enough thought process intact to appreciate the skills involved in my craft.  Most of them are pickled.  Few even have crunch.

“Beer?”  I ask.  There is the pitcher I had waiting, and two mugs.  Clean ones.

Now he stirs, enough from whatever deep thoughts keep his tongue still and nods that he will accept a beer.  He is so chatty, how will I get a word in edgewise?  Perhaps I should be plying him with something distilled... Yet the man speaks!  “How did you know?”

I smile. 

“How do bards always know?”  He puts a stress on the word.  I can sense his discomfort.    “Not even a day...  And it rhymed and everything.”

“That is my job.  Like being a hero is your job.”  The explanation is actually fairly simple, and essentially true.  “We are charged with the accumulation of current events into knowledge.  Knowledge into story and song.”

“I fight for money.  I’m no hero.”  He points out to me.  “This... is just what I do.  My job.  I do my job.”  There is a tiny scowl that starts between his eyebrows on the bridge of his many times broken nose, and it creases his eyes.  “I don’t pick the fight, I am hired.  I don’t pick the cause, the Captain picks the cause.”

To me, all heroism is subjective.  Even the most dire villain thinks he is a hero in his own story.  “You work for the Captain.” I point out.  Because he could work for someone other than the Emerald Dragons, but he wouldn’t.  He wouldn’t do that anymore than ArchDuke Felix would beat a horse, or Bryan Baker of East Brumsford would put sawdust in his challah.  As a Bard, I know these things.

“The Captain does a good job.  He picks the right side, he keeps everyone alive, knows how to deal with the employer--”

“Aren’t you the one who made him Captain?”  He is, I know that.  “If you hadn’t supported his cause, wouldn’t everyone have said he was too young?”

His battle gnarled hands twist like balled roots of the world-tree and he raises them in exasperation crying out, “how do you know that?”

Bards do not explain themselves.  We are not the story.  We are the story bringers.  “Does it matter?  It is true.”  True is important to me.  Not the minutia of truth, which is called honesty.  The large truth.  The small details can be manipulated to make for a better tale.  This is why you leave the details fuzzy...  So that they do not get in the way of the story.  Who cares what Leo Stormguard actually looks like?  Or how old he is?  Nobody will care in a hundred years...  Everyone wants Leo Stormguard to look like their personal hero.  Peter from two streets over, with his golden locks and clear blue eyes, or Ragnar with his dark scowl and quick laugh. 

Peter and Ragnar won’t ever be heros they will only look like they could be.  Leo Stormguard is the Hero, and he looks like no one in particular.  Anyguard, anytown, anyone in armor. 

“What matters is that what you do, and how I tell it will make youngsters grow up to be like you should be.  Better than you actually are... if it is possible to be better than Leo Stormguard.  Is it?”

He is exasperated.  He blurts out, “of course it is!  Just because I am alive doesn’t mean I am undefeated.”

His words, and more his emotion from that one phrase wash over me, and it is like the opening of a book.  The book of  Leo.  Not since he was little has he tasted loss, when he was a small boy, who saw his town overrun and who to save his own life grabbed a sword from the shelf of a smithy, fleeing through thick smoke and thicker screaming to save his own life. 

Heros have their own yardstick reserved for self-measurement.  Never used to measure others.  Leo Stormguard sees weakness in seeking aid from another, even when it is given gladly, and he sees defeat in a single backward step, even if it’s demanded by his leaders.  His weakness in making them call for the fallback, not theirs for ill planning.

This is what makes his battle-hardened spirit lag, to feel that he has not done enough to keep everyone from harm.  Even those who desire the press of battle as much as he does.

Interesting.

“So, Leo, in the tale of which hero have you ever heard only of success?”  Now I place the platter between us.  Good hard cheese and warm soft bread.

Part 17 "Prismatic Bard"

(Co-written by Blaze, http://lessthan141.blogspot.com/ )

I don’t even know the names of most of the colors she is wearing. It is as if some fell creature has eaten an oak tree and a rainbow and puked them up into an outfit. The hooded mantle on the woman ends in dags shaped like oak leaves, and the bells and buttons on the garb are shaped like acorns. Even the folds of her boots are cut into oak leaf shapes. “Who?” I ask the Barkeep.

“Danja Ghinda.” He replies, “Bard.” He says it like this: Don-ya Gin-da.

Danja Ghinda stands and looks around the tables of men drinking and laughs at their blank expressions. She hops from one table to the next until she is on the bar, and hunkers down in front of me, eye to eye. Her eyes and hair are dark. She smiles all her teeth at me and she has an enormous amount of even white teeth. I don’t recall seeing anyone with whiter teeth. With more courage than I have seen in many a warrior she meets my gaze and then of all things her thickly lashed eyes wink at me.

She stands once more, bringing the harp to bear and plucking out a lively tune. I watch her feet tap and her voice rings out clear, silencing the din.

“Stormguard seeking charms
Ran into Anton’s open Arms
What he wanted was no hug
But a weapon he could lug!” 

Her grin is aimed at me.  Maybe so I won’t kill her later?

“Mighty men earn mighty foes
Stormguard has them, he knows
Always to be on his toes.
                                   
Elf  he made a mighty pel
Like a daemon out of hell
When he orders it to fight
It will battle any knight!

Mighty men earn mighty foes
Stormguard has them, he knows
Always to be on his toes.

Hefting Axe and hafted mace
Stormguard swung about the place
Pelman’s spell it went awry
Are those smithies gonna die?

Mighty men earn mighty foes
Stormguard has them, he knows
Always to be on his toes.

May have been some other day,
But Stormguard stood in the way
Of daemon bound to deal death...
(Our boy won’t even lose his breath.)

Mighty men earn mighty foes
Stormguard has them, he knows
Always to be on his toes.

Save us! Save us!  Cried the Elf
Then went on to wet himself.
Pel came forward weapons flashed
Maces pounded, swords they slashed.

Mighty men earn mighty foes
Stormguard has them, he knows
Always to be on his toes.

All around the smithies cowered
But not Stormguard, he glowered,
He glared, he raised his sword
He diced that Pel into chip board!

Mighty men earn mighty foes
Stormguard has them, he knows
Always to be on his toes.

Probably saved the whole damn town
Stormguard’s earned his vast renown
Big, he is, and yes, he’s really fleet
Bad men see him and cross the street!

Mighty men earn mighty foes
Stormguard has them, he knows
Always to be on his toes.

Killed the daemon in the pel
Then paid his bill so legends tell
Settled on a fair amount
and that’s the end of this recount!”

Part 16 “Fullest Extent of the Law”

I head in, and Dartac tells me that they can drop everything else and get my armor ready tomorrow, before noon. After that the shield should take almost no time at all. He seems to want me satisfied and out of the smithy in a hurry. Almost pulling me out by the hand, he leaves me with, “It's bad luck for a warrior to see his armor under the hammer, unless the hammer is his.”

While it is hopefully an unnecessary measure, my next stop is the guardhouse. If that cloaked man was serious there might be some trouble before tomorrow, and I'd rather have them know than not know. While I can probably take ruffians like him, and this belt Norrin gave me should keep them from getting me in my sleep, it would be hard to explain to the authorities. If I have one of my blackouts it would be even harder.

The nearest watchman directs me to the guardhouse, and I make it without issue. The building is actually rather impressive, most cities I've been in don't make their guardhouses this defensible. It's probably built to serve as a defensive bastion for any who can't make it into the inner walls quickly after a breach in the outer walls.

A man about my age sits just inside the doors behind a very sturdy looking wooden desk. He looks me up and down, “I'm sorry, sir, we aren't taking on any more watchmen at this time.”

“Not here for work, I'm here to report some trouble.”

He opens a drawer pulls a paper out of it. Taking a pen he starts writing, “Name, occupation and current residence?”

“Leo, mercenary, no residence.”

“Are you a citizen?”

“No.”

“So, what is the trouble?”

I recount the events of yesterday and today involving the ruffians and the cloaked fellow and his threat. All throughout he takes notes. He seems somewhat relieved when I let him know I'll only be staying here for one night.

“If you were from around here, I'd tell you that you were crazy for sticking around for some armor. Judging by the location of that attack, I'd say you've drawn the ire of the Brothers of the Coin. They will probably try to kill you tonight if they can, especially since you're a nobody around here. I'd offer to let you stay in a cell just for safe keeping, but, quite honestly, part of the reason we haven't driven them out yet is because they've got so many watchmen paid off. The best I can do for you is make sure one of the men I trust is patrolling near the tavern you're staying at. I can also give you some advice, get a room without a window if you can, and if you can't I'd suggest not sleeping. As a non-citizen, while you are allowed to defend yourself, if you kill an attacker, and you look like the sort that can, you will need significant proof that they intended to kill you, or you will be arrested, and as I already said, I don't trust you to be safe in a cell if those bastards are after you.”

Well then, that's useful, guess I'll have to try and hold back if I can. Better than nothing, I guess. I let him know that I'm staying at the Brass Bearings Tavern, and leave. I spend the afternoon placing food orders to be picked up tomorrow. I return to the tavern just in time for dinner being served in the common room. I can smell the cooking and the ale as I enter. The innkeeper makes sure I have a seat at the bar and asks me again if I have any war stories to tell.

Just as I'm about to start, a woman in brightly colored traveling garb, who had previously been sitting at a table in the center of the room playing a small harp, rises from her chair and stands on the table. She inquires in a loud voice overtaking the dull roar of people talking over dinner, “How many of you have heard about the commotion over at Anton's Smithy yesterday?”

Oh no...