Dryad Eyes, part 5
Check out 'Sense of Duty' on my friend kingofheart's LJ, as it ties into what I'm doing here. It would take place sometime between Parts 4 and 5 of this story. :)
Thanik was enjoying himself.
Barely a day had passed since the mercenaries he had hired to 'deal with' a certain dryad problem had returned to him, not with her head, but something far more valuable. One word, it seemed, was all that it would take to topple a king. It had taken a bit of time for Haron, Bawo and himself to adjust to the idea, but within a matter of hours, they had decided upon a new, more drastic course of action. As Haron himself had said, with some finality, people deserved to know exactly what they were following. If that knowledge meant that a change in leadership was due, so be it.
The rest of the night, Thanik had spent grooming his unruly hair and unkempt beard. It was not hard for him to adopt a new, more fashionable look. Nor was it particularly difficult for him to remember to change his speech patterns, or to adjust his gait. In better times, he had been a playwright and an actor. The Queen, shortly before her death, had praised him as the best that Camelot had to offer. Then had come her death, the fall of the city, and the loss of both his arm and his livelihood. Had it not been for his friendship with Haron, who found a great deal of use for his excellent mind, he would have ended his own in the wake of all of that destruction.
He did not take time to sleep. At sunrise, he had gone out and into the city, seeking his new persona's wardrobe. Armed with a pouch full of gold that Haron had appropriated for him, he had had plenty of options to work with.
At dusk, he arrived at the very same tavern the girl had left the night before. Clad in a long, hooded, emerald green robe, he presented himself as a storyteller and sat down to drink while he waited for the tavern to fill up. Soon enough, it was, that the owner of the establishment had asked him to share his craft with the other patrons. Thanik had risen, tall and imposing, and fixed each man in the room with a cold, hard stare. When silence reigned, he launched into the story of Malor the Usurper, son of the bedeviled dryads and scourge of Camelot. The story he had appropriated, of course, did not put quite so much emphasis on Malor's heritage. It did not seem to bother anyone, as he held their attention with his sometimes-booming, sometimes-hushed, always-captivating voice. It felt good to perform again.
"...sins so great that the Gods themselves, kind and benevolent were they, were finally persuaded to intervene directly on behalf of the good people of Camelot. Rare was this occurrence, and warranted, I assure you. The Usurper was more dangerous than any mere mortal could have guessed. Their decision was to cast him out, to exile him into the ether, from which he should never again return."
He dropped his voice an octave, affecting a more ominous tone. "But I assure you, friends, that Malor can, and will return. There is a little known prophecy that tells of a time when he may be reborn into this mortal coil. A prophecy of truth torn from the lying lips of his own kind by good, devout monks that served the Gods in a Caltherian temple. I urge you, pray to whatever Gods you favor. Ask them, no, beg of them that the second coming of the Usurper does not leave its foul mark upon your life as it did my homeland so many years ago."
His performance earned a standing ovation, and the tavern's owner invited him to enjoy free drinks for the rest of the night. He turned this down, of course. No true professional would ever allow strong drink to weaken their ability when they may still be called upon to perform; that had been his personal maxim for years. Another hour passed as he enjoyed the company of his admirers, turning down several more offers to drink, and he finally announced that he would be taking his leave. This, of course, was met with disappointment, and an invitation to return the next time. He promised to consider it. On his way out the door, he nodded to Bawo, who turned his attention back to the table he was sharing with four other officers.
"You know," Bawo said suddenly. "Thinking about his story. If I remember my history correctly, then it was Malor that first called himself 'the Battle King.' Funny, no?"
At that precise moment, in another tavern in another part of Gateway, Haron raised his mug to another storyteller that had just walked in from the cold. This man, short and bent with age, had been well paid to have never met him before, and to accept a single request from him. Had it not been for his age, and the harsh weather that whipping about the peaks of the mountains around the fortress, the old man might not have agreed. As it was, he was hardly in any position to refuse. The only alternative was to ply his trade, at which he was only passingly good, and hope he was offered a bed for the evening. He was not optimistic enough to consider the possibility that he might make enough coin to buy one.
The story that Haron requested was old and distasteful to him, but he told it anyway. It was that of Ytyrra, the dryad witch. One day, she met an unsuspecting traveler, and beguiled him with her unnatural charms. He returned to the forest again, and again, to gaze upon her great beauty. He left his wife and child to the cold, unforgiving streets so that he might have fewer distractions from his obsession. Finally, he asked Ytyrra to marry him, and she agreed. Then, on her wedding night, she murdered him while in the throes of passion, and fed his soul to the supposed 'dark god' of the dryads.
The wizened storyteller did not believe a word of it. Several years had passed since, but he had seen the dryad settlement in Camelot more than once over the years. Twice, though he had never been a true master of his craft, it had been his honor to tell a story before their Queen, a kind woman whose name, incidentally, was Ytyrra. Often he had wondered, given the supposed longevity of dryads, if a poet, bard, or nobleman whom had had his advances toward her scorned had written the story about her in retaliation.
It would not have surprised him.
When he was done, Haron approached him and handed him another gold piece in addition to the three he had already been given. It was an unexpected kindness. He could have a roof over his head and hot food in his belly for a week on this kind of pay. With that in mind, when the younger man asked him if he would be willing to tell the story again on the next night, he readily agreed.
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Thanik was enjoying himself.
Barely a day had passed since the mercenaries he had hired to 'deal with' a certain dryad problem had returned to him, not with her head, but something far more valuable. One word, it seemed, was all that it would take to topple a king. It had taken a bit of time for Haron, Bawo and himself to adjust to the idea, but within a matter of hours, they had decided upon a new, more drastic course of action. As Haron himself had said, with some finality, people deserved to know exactly what they were following. If that knowledge meant that a change in leadership was due, so be it.
The rest of the night, Thanik had spent grooming his unruly hair and unkempt beard. It was not hard for him to adopt a new, more fashionable look. Nor was it particularly difficult for him to remember to change his speech patterns, or to adjust his gait. In better times, he had been a playwright and an actor. The Queen, shortly before her death, had praised him as the best that Camelot had to offer. Then had come her death, the fall of the city, and the loss of both his arm and his livelihood. Had it not been for his friendship with Haron, who found a great deal of use for his excellent mind, he would have ended his own in the wake of all of that destruction.
He did not take time to sleep. At sunrise, he had gone out and into the city, seeking his new persona's wardrobe. Armed with a pouch full of gold that Haron had appropriated for him, he had had plenty of options to work with.
At dusk, he arrived at the very same tavern the girl had left the night before. Clad in a long, hooded, emerald green robe, he presented himself as a storyteller and sat down to drink while he waited for the tavern to fill up. Soon enough, it was, that the owner of the establishment had asked him to share his craft with the other patrons. Thanik had risen, tall and imposing, and fixed each man in the room with a cold, hard stare. When silence reigned, he launched into the story of Malor the Usurper, son of the bedeviled dryads and scourge of Camelot. The story he had appropriated, of course, did not put quite so much emphasis on Malor's heritage. It did not seem to bother anyone, as he held their attention with his sometimes-booming, sometimes-hushed, always-captivating voice. It felt good to perform again.
"...sins so great that the Gods themselves, kind and benevolent were they, were finally persuaded to intervene directly on behalf of the good people of Camelot. Rare was this occurrence, and warranted, I assure you. The Usurper was more dangerous than any mere mortal could have guessed. Their decision was to cast him out, to exile him into the ether, from which he should never again return."
He dropped his voice an octave, affecting a more ominous tone. "But I assure you, friends, that Malor can, and will return. There is a little known prophecy that tells of a time when he may be reborn into this mortal coil. A prophecy of truth torn from the lying lips of his own kind by good, devout monks that served the Gods in a Caltherian temple. I urge you, pray to whatever Gods you favor. Ask them, no, beg of them that the second coming of the Usurper does not leave its foul mark upon your life as it did my homeland so many years ago."
His performance earned a standing ovation, and the tavern's owner invited him to enjoy free drinks for the rest of the night. He turned this down, of course. No true professional would ever allow strong drink to weaken their ability when they may still be called upon to perform; that had been his personal maxim for years. Another hour passed as he enjoyed the company of his admirers, turning down several more offers to drink, and he finally announced that he would be taking his leave. This, of course, was met with disappointment, and an invitation to return the next time. He promised to consider it. On his way out the door, he nodded to Bawo, who turned his attention back to the table he was sharing with four other officers.
"You know," Bawo said suddenly. "Thinking about his story. If I remember my history correctly, then it was Malor that first called himself 'the Battle King.' Funny, no?"
At that precise moment, in another tavern in another part of Gateway, Haron raised his mug to another storyteller that had just walked in from the cold. This man, short and bent with age, had been well paid to have never met him before, and to accept a single request from him. Had it not been for his age, and the harsh weather that whipping about the peaks of the mountains around the fortress, the old man might not have agreed. As it was, he was hardly in any position to refuse. The only alternative was to ply his trade, at which he was only passingly good, and hope he was offered a bed for the evening. He was not optimistic enough to consider the possibility that he might make enough coin to buy one.
The story that Haron requested was old and distasteful to him, but he told it anyway. It was that of Ytyrra, the dryad witch. One day, she met an unsuspecting traveler, and beguiled him with her unnatural charms. He returned to the forest again, and again, to gaze upon her great beauty. He left his wife and child to the cold, unforgiving streets so that he might have fewer distractions from his obsession. Finally, he asked Ytyrra to marry him, and she agreed. Then, on her wedding night, she murdered him while in the throes of passion, and fed his soul to the supposed 'dark god' of the dryads.
The wizened storyteller did not believe a word of it. Several years had passed since, but he had seen the dryad settlement in Camelot more than once over the years. Twice, though he had never been a true master of his craft, it had been his honor to tell a story before their Queen, a kind woman whose name, incidentally, was Ytyrra. Often he had wondered, given the supposed longevity of dryads, if a poet, bard, or nobleman whom had had his advances toward her scorned had written the story about her in retaliation.
It would not have surprised him.
When he was done, Haron approached him and handed him another gold piece in addition to the three he had already been given. It was an unexpected kindness. He could have a roof over his head and hot food in his belly for a week on this kind of pay. With that in mind, when the younger man asked him if he would be willing to tell the story again on the next night, he readily agreed.
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