For The Song

Little love for a face like that.

Cedreid al Trabedene chuckled grimly as he eyed himself in the reflection of a dirty puddle. Each ripple from the rain accentuated the wrinkles on his face, making the old bard look more than a little bit like the ugly bridge troll he had run into during his journey towards the capital city of Tethys. A few quick words had tricked the beast into thinking that he had already paid the outrageous toll of a thousand gold pieces, and a fast-paced song from the mandolin hanging across Cedreid's back earned him a swig from the troll's disgusting barrel of moonshine.

He had woken the next morning in the middle of the forest, wearing nothing but the addled bridge-keeper's loincloth like a loose ball gown. After retrieving his own clothes from a nearby branch, he had set off to complete the final leg of his journey. Inside his bag lay an extra shirt, a set of blankets, and a rusty helmet whose lip curved into a sharp edge, with metal sheets in the back flaring out like the ears of a dragon. Cedreid held the armor tenderly for a moment, as if it were like to shatter in his hands, before returning it to his bag and donning his travelling garb.

Master Abelard always decried Cedreid's poor grasp of formal attire and etiquette, but the old bard did at least understand that a leather jerkin and leggings were far more appropriate attire for formal balls than a monster's undergarments. Indeed, the Festival of Eight, hosted in the city's palace, attracted bards and minstrels from around the world to prove their worth as the land's best performers, and none dressed so shabbily would be granted admission to a back alley brothel, let alone the royal court.

Nature had poured her ire down upon him over the course of the journey, storms, hail, and wild animals threatening him at every turn. But Cedreid was no stranger to rain and cold. Each droplet met his skin in a friendly embrace, though one just a touch too tight for comfort. Fields of grass stretched out as far as he could see in any direction from the road, stalks thrashing passionately between sheets of water. It was dark, but the moon still favored him with her bemused smile. So long as Cedreid kept her laughing, his shadow would linger in every footfall, keeping a careful hold and a constant watch after him.

Thus for the moon's sake would a man jest, and laugh, and sing. To cast away the shadows.

And like any lady, the moon wouldn't like a gentlemen who smelled like a troll's dirty laundry. Until he could find a bath, Cedreid would need to stay upwind of anyone too important.

The guards on duty at the city gates hardly took notice of the grim performer. Indeed, his once bright green cloak had been darkened to mottled browns and faded grays, catching darkness and fog between every stitch, hiding him in their embrace.

With no trouble, Cedreid was on his way, moving from street to street. Banners swung high across the length of the city of Tethys, eight distinct patterns and colors, each a symbol of one Aspect of the Great One, the most high, that which bound all men, that which set them free. He passed a trio of minstrels, whose clean attire marked them as players of a patron, their sigil a leaf on a yellow background.

"Ho, stranger!" one called out raucously. "That's a fine lute you have there!"

The old bard eyed the gaudy performer with some disapproval. Despite the shiny lacquer applied over the stranger's instrument, clear signs of wear were visible along the strings. One or two songs more, and they would break, signs of an amateur. He almost ripped the tool from the other man's hands to repair it himself, but restrained the urge. Abelard had always counseled that his insistence on reprimanding incompetence tended to win him more enemies than friends.

"Mine is a mandolin," he corrected gently. "Yours is a lute."

"What's the difference?"

Cedreid sighed. "Fewer strings."