Post by xatov on Oct 2, 2006 1:44:42 GMT -5
The inn was crowded that night at the Eastvale Logging Camp. A hard day’s labor made the beer taste that much frostier, the fruits that much sweeter and the meats that much more mouth watering. Here, now, wenches did their pirouette lithely through crowds of half-stupored miners and woodsmen enjoying the spoils of their days.
On many an occasion, the local watering hole was gracious enough to entertain these patrons with a selection of the finest bards available to the local watering hole at the Eastvale Logging Camp. And these bards would come and stay and play and make the whole of the camp merry and rested and ready for a new day of hard labors and uninterruptible struggles with local kobolds and thugs. And for those hours, late at night, these people were no longer miners and woodsmen, but adventurers from far away lands fighting evils and rescuing maidens from ogre magi and horrors much worse. And after such tales, the people were happy to go back to their lives. This is how it went at the Eastvale Logging Camp, and it was life.
Such was the atmosphere tonight at the Eastvale Logging Camp. The small stage nestled in the corner of the inn held upon it a tall night elf, clad in white robes, holding nothing but a small piccolo in his massive hands. Night elves were not known for their tales of raucous humor, but spun tales so melodic, so haunting, that often were the times that the sounds of sobs reverberated throughout the gathered crowd, yet almost never did the crowds dissipate, but stayed and grew stronger in the grief being portrayed to them.
Such was the story this night elf had planned for this evening, for this story was spun from the camp itself, telling the tale of its greatest tragedy, it most heartbreaking occurrence, one that has no conceivable ending known to the gathered masses. Slowly, the elf places the piccolo to his lips, and all the murmur abruptly ends. All the gathering hushed and listened to the haunting melody that streamed forth from depths of what seemed their very souls.
Then, suddenly, it was gone. Silence gripped the tavern like a graveyard; no one moved or spoke or breathed.
The night elf moved the piccolo down to his lap at the stool and smiled at the captivated audience.
“And thus begins the tale of Simon, friend to all.”
Tell, my muse, the tragic tale woven in the hearts of sinister gods
Of Simon and his family, and how that fateful day
Evil swept into the land of Eastvale
And took from the world a life most promising
That the Light itself would be proud and
Replaced it with dark and decay.
Start in that burned down cottage nestled deep within Elwynn,
With that little body lying amongst the rubble, his blue eyes
grew dim with the feeling of betrayal fresh on his mind.
And who, but his own father, could lay down such a horrible
Betrayal? Tell it thus, and tell it true.
That father was Simon, husband of Halen, who by but a simple
Twist of fate would have lived all his years as such.
The elf pulled the piccolo from its resting and nestled it to his mouth, blowing softly on the fragile wooden trinket. Tears had begun to streak the faces of the people in the crowd, for these were Simon’s friends, who knew all too well the tragedy, remembered the beauty of Halen and the passion of Simon; there were godfathers and nannies to Simon’s children.
Then, as if it were never there, the music stopped. The night elf’s singing voice replaced the void that it left.
He, who had been lost, stepped toward the door
With barely a glance for what lay on the floor
The Light that had blessed him had been driven away
As he stepped over the boy he had murdered that day
Oh, the children may cry and the men hang their heads
When first they had heard of this deed
Oh, the women they weep when they survey the dead
No motive, rhyme, reason or need.
The verse broke off as the bard returned to his flute.
On many an occasion, the local watering hole was gracious enough to entertain these patrons with a selection of the finest bards available to the local watering hole at the Eastvale Logging Camp. And these bards would come and stay and play and make the whole of the camp merry and rested and ready for a new day of hard labors and uninterruptible struggles with local kobolds and thugs. And for those hours, late at night, these people were no longer miners and woodsmen, but adventurers from far away lands fighting evils and rescuing maidens from ogre magi and horrors much worse. And after such tales, the people were happy to go back to their lives. This is how it went at the Eastvale Logging Camp, and it was life.
Such was the atmosphere tonight at the Eastvale Logging Camp. The small stage nestled in the corner of the inn held upon it a tall night elf, clad in white robes, holding nothing but a small piccolo in his massive hands. Night elves were not known for their tales of raucous humor, but spun tales so melodic, so haunting, that often were the times that the sounds of sobs reverberated throughout the gathered crowd, yet almost never did the crowds dissipate, but stayed and grew stronger in the grief being portrayed to them.
Such was the story this night elf had planned for this evening, for this story was spun from the camp itself, telling the tale of its greatest tragedy, it most heartbreaking occurrence, one that has no conceivable ending known to the gathered masses. Slowly, the elf places the piccolo to his lips, and all the murmur abruptly ends. All the gathering hushed and listened to the haunting melody that streamed forth from depths of what seemed their very souls.
Then, suddenly, it was gone. Silence gripped the tavern like a graveyard; no one moved or spoke or breathed.
The night elf moved the piccolo down to his lap at the stool and smiled at the captivated audience.
“And thus begins the tale of Simon, friend to all.”
Tell, my muse, the tragic tale woven in the hearts of sinister gods
Of Simon and his family, and how that fateful day
Evil swept into the land of Eastvale
And took from the world a life most promising
That the Light itself would be proud and
Replaced it with dark and decay.
Start in that burned down cottage nestled deep within Elwynn,
With that little body lying amongst the rubble, his blue eyes
grew dim with the feeling of betrayal fresh on his mind.
And who, but his own father, could lay down such a horrible
Betrayal? Tell it thus, and tell it true.
That father was Simon, husband of Halen, who by but a simple
Twist of fate would have lived all his years as such.
The elf pulled the piccolo from its resting and nestled it to his mouth, blowing softly on the fragile wooden trinket. Tears had begun to streak the faces of the people in the crowd, for these were Simon’s friends, who knew all too well the tragedy, remembered the beauty of Halen and the passion of Simon; there were godfathers and nannies to Simon’s children.
Then, as if it were never there, the music stopped. The night elf’s singing voice replaced the void that it left.
He, who had been lost, stepped toward the door
With barely a glance for what lay on the floor
The Light that had blessed him had been driven away
As he stepped over the boy he had murdered that day
Oh, the children may cry and the men hang their heads
When first they had heard of this deed
Oh, the women they weep when they survey the dead
No motive, rhyme, reason or need.
The verse broke off as the bard returned to his flute.