|
Post by Masterbard Alyster Darkharp on Apr 8, 2008 12:19:11 GMT -5
The Bard Darkharp Real Name: Alyster Lang, a.k.a Alyster Darkharp, a.k.a The Bard Darkharp, Masterbard Alyster Darkharp Height: 3 Feet 2 Inches Weight: 40 lbs Eyes: Dark Brown Hair: Black with grey streaks Race: Lightfoot Halfling Age: 46 (Born 1341 DR) Place of Birth: The Village of Shallybrook, Realm of Cormyr Cormyrian Citizen Place of residence: The House of Harp & Dragon This male halfling stands a little below average height, around 3 foot 2 inches tall. He appears to be a fit individual in his middle years, with liberal gray streaks in his ebony black hair. Of his face, all that can typically be seen are his glittering brown eyes, the rest is covered by a thespians form fitting mask, and resting on his head above those eyes is a wide brimmed black hat. His clothing is usually gray and black, with gold or silver pins and cuff-links, always well tailored and usually radiating magic of various types for those capable of detecting it. His breeches and cloak are exceptional in quality, appearing to be of drow make; they bear faint embroidered impressions of spiderwebs when in the right light, his gloves bear matching embroidery. Pinned on the upper left breast of his coat are a number of polished metal pins; one is the seal of the Alizarin Academy, a red dragon clutching a black harp in it's claws, another is a a finely wrought golden medal marked with the heraldric emblem of Cormyr. Another is a silver holy symbol, the blank scroll of Oghma, and the last is a darkwood badge bearing a greathelm that forms a sort of skull and crossbones with two large swords. A variety of magical rings, quite mismatched in appearance are worn over the tops of inky black gloves. When dressed for travel or battle he wears a shirt of tightly fitting, soot stained mithril, along with bracers and greaves made from the scales of some large black lizard. Wrapped around his slender waist is a belt which houses various weapons and other useful items in what look to be custom tooled leather sheaths and baldrics. On his left hip is a very finely made lantanese pistol fashioned from adamantine. Across on his left side is a similar pistol, but bearing the green tinge of mithril; it lies nestled among various wands and other small magical trinkets; careful observers might notice the intricate faces of two imps, one smiling and one frowning, are engraved on the butts of the grips of the pair of pistols. Small magical pouches occupy the spaces closer to his center, one is of the type that arcanists store spell components in. A small quiver of darts hangs along with the other affects. Against his side on a tooled leather strap is a beautifully crafted elven harp that appears well cared for, but definitely an instrument that has seen significant use and travel. He also carries a finely carved scepter of bone, it appears to be twisted and blackened by fire, and houses a glowing red gem in it's top. The entire ensemble of gear, clothing and personal affects has the feel of some strange rogue nobility. This bard does not seem to be a typical minstrel who performs in ale houses, but instead holds some bearing of importance about himself. The mask seems to be a very natural part of his clothing, along with a scarf of black spider-silk which stays wrapped snugly about his slender neck and is neatly knotted at the place where his cloak fastens in the front, the impression is that he is wearing a high, black collar. An amulet is centered above the black silk bearing a large green, open eye.
|
|
|
Post by Masterbard Alyster Darkharp on Aug 10, 2008 15:53:23 GMT -5
The Inn of the Golden Maiden, Hamlet of Shallybrook, Cormyr 1341 DR The Year of the Gate It was a fierce storm, one of Talos's own children, driving every hin in Shallybrook beneath a roof for shelter. Such a dreary night had it's perks though, the rain was good for the crops, and it brought a flock of the local townsfolk to the local Inn and Tavern for some merriment. This was a good thing for those employed there, and it was a good thing for young Tristram Lang, one of a few local minstrels. This time of year most people were far too busy to worry about songs and tales, but nights like tonight were an exception; the storm dashed all hopes of working by moonlight and made a chance for some recreation. "Heard yer' wifes pretty far along now Lang, going to be a father any day now. Your first one too ain't it?" One of the members of the minstrel's audience, a stout old farmer called Willam was puffing a pipe and nursing a mug of proudfoot. The minstrel gave a slightly nervous smile, "Aye, Willam. Anytime now it's gonna happen, and I think it could take a thousand years and I'd still not be ready!" Some of the audience clapped politely in happiness at the announcement, and some of the menfolk chuckled at Tristram, the parents among them knowing the anxiety he must be facing. It was common knowledge around town that his wife Marriam was well overdue according to the clergy at the Burrow of the Nurturing Maiden. He was here tonight, rather than at home with her so that he could make a few golden lions to help pay for the baby when it came. Willam took a gulp from his tankard and puffed his pipe then asked, "Ya' hopin' for a son or a daughter?" Tristram shrugged and struck a chord on his small lute, "I'm not for carin so long as Marriam comes through it safe and the child is well." The old farmer and a half dozen others all nodded their approval at his words. The young minstrel's eye was caught by a stranger sitting in the corner, a human woman dressed in a fine gown, even if slightly muddy and damp from his travels tonight. The stranger had arrived on horseback and met privately with the Sherrif earlier, just as the storm brewed up. She must be someone important since the innkeep was allowing her to stay free, at least thats what some folk had whispered. The village was on Cormyrian soil, but they saw few enough humans lately. The small folk kept to themselves and the humans rarely bothered to come to Shallybrook, aside from the patrols of Dragoneers. The stranger was giving Tristram an appraising look, bright blue eyes that seemed to pierce flesh and bone gazed at him, then the comely woman’s serious expression parted in a genuine smile and she spoke up from across the room. "That was an excellent performance young bard, and congratulations on your upcoming fatherhood. Tis' a thing to be celebrated." Tristram smiled back, "Thank you my..my Lady?, I don't believe I caught your name." The human woman stood gracefully and pushed her chair back some, "You may address me as Lady Bluthba. High Herald of the Red Dragon Office," she bowed slightly at the waist and her black cloak swished open, presenting all with a view of what some would consider a scandalously cut, silk gown, it’s front embroidered with a rampant red wyrm in a strange thread that shone in the firelight like reddish cloth of gold. At her hip was a scepter in a leather loop, it's ornate headpiece carved into the snarling visage of a dragon, and at odds with her gown was a longsword that looked to be more than a decoration. The womans face was hawkish but noble and attractive, and her short cropped hair was inky black to contrast with the pearly white teeth she was showing. The patrons all turned at this announcement, and a sudden silence fell over the room. Everyone had at least heard of the Heralds, and the high heralds were the most famous among them. A spattering of whispers erupted throughout the room soon enough though, and Tristram spoke up, "An honor to meet you Lady Bluthba," The mistrel returned the bow with enthusiasm. "What brings a lady such as yerself to this tiny village tonight, if it's not askin' too much?" The herald smiled again, "I was passing through on business, towards Suzail when the storm determined that I should stay here." The exchange was cut off abruptly though by a loud clap of thunder, and by the door of the Inn flying open to bang against the wall, which caused an equally loud boom. A young girl, Tristram's neice, Bella flew across the threshold and exclaimed excitedly, "It's time, it's time! The babys comin', get yerself to tha' house Tristram!" The room became suddenly busy as people dashed out of the way of pale faced minstrel who strode quickly towards the door. Some of the patrons noted with intrest that the short haired human woman had never retaken her own seat. She had walked out the door into the storm, her tankard and her dinner both forgotten on the table. In the street outside Tristram and Bella splashed through puddles as they ran, "Tha' midwifes already there, I got her first," Bella cried out over the wind and rain as they headed quickly towards the small Lang household, one of the wagons behind the Inn. The herald walked slowly behind, navigating around the puddles to save her fine black boots and silver spurs from the worste of the mud. Three hours later. It was an honor to have a Herald present at a child's birth, so the Langs were honored. The tiny newborn boy was cradled against the breast of his mother, Marriam, her face radiant, but her eyes tired from the ordeal. He was small for a child carried for such a long term, and his skin was pale. Thick dark hair covered his head already, and his eyes were like to be as dark as his mother and father's when he finally opened them. Lady Bluthba stepped over to the bedside and laid a hand on Tristram's shoulder, "It was fate that brought me here tonight young minstrel, I've held the post of Red Dragon Herald for many years and this is the first birth I have chanced to be present for. I usually travel on through weather, my work is important." Tristram looked down at his wife and child, then back to the herald with a nervous grin, "Aye, and to be sure we're honored that you decided to come over and do us the honor!" The herald studied Tristram and Marriam briefly, "Have you talked about names for the child yet?" Tristram replied immediately, "We talked some about it, but decided it would be best to wait until the child," he paused, "Until -he- was born." The herald nodded and spoke again, "Sometimes we heralds are asked to, or we offer to name a child. It's said that a child named in this manner is destined to do something great, or become famous in some way," she stated it simply, nothing forceful about the words. Tristram smiled brightly, but didn't agree to this immediately, instead looking to Marriam. His wife nodded and gave her own tired smile, passing the babe into Tristram's waiting arms. The minstrel cradled him and examined his tiny fingers, "He's got bards hands, but he didn't cry too loud. Maybe he'll just be a player..and not a singer." The herald shrugged and replied, "Perhaps he just hasn't got a reason to sing yet?" At these words the child's eyes flickered open and lingered on the herald, dark and glittering in the light of the single oil lamp in the room. The child and herald stared at each other for a long moment, as if silently communicating some private thoughts to one another, and the human reached down and took the dragon headed scepter from her sash. She briefly touched it to the child's tiny brow, and at this the dark eyes closed again. She spoke simply, as if conveying the newborn's own wishes, "His name is Alyster."
|
|
Deleted
Deleted Member
Posts: 0
|
Post by Deleted on Jul 13, 2014 20:31:16 GMT -5
Bumping this I finally found it buried in the adventurers registry!
Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk
|
|
Deleted
Deleted Member
Posts: 0
|
Post by Deleted on Sept 16, 2014 15:50:39 GMT -5
These are the actual pages where the verses of Darkharp were written originally. Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk Attachments:
|
|
|
Post by Masterbard Alyster Darkharp on Sept 22, 2023 22:46:20 GMT -5
1344 The Year of Moonfall – Hamlet of Shallybrook, Realm of Cormyr Marriam Lang was concerned. Her son was just a boy. A wee, not yet four years of age. Just a hair above a toddling babe and he was showing leaps of logic and intelligent speech that defied expectation. He remembered everything he heard, and was able to apply terribly accurate reasoning to those things. He was analyzing the statements and somehow deducting meaning based on context and would sometimes respond with deeper questions than a wee aught, often hours or sometimes days after whatever he had heard. He thought a lot, that was certain. He almost never cried. He had started speaking very young, but that in and of its self wasn’t unheard of, but she thought he was special. Did she just think that because he was her son? No. This was strange. He had picked up on his letters very quickly, and she thought that when he was looking through books, that he understood what was written by the way he paused on words and seemed to think about them. The day before her and his father, her husband, Tristram had been chatting about how Matron Merrymar was subtly directing events on the town council and shaping opinions. They had been unaware just how much their very young son understood and how quickly he was now able to puzzle out meaning. His small and calm voice cut eerily into a brief moment of silence, “Mama is it wrong to control what people think that way?”
She hadn’t known quite how to respond and although at that moment she hadn’t been facing her son, Alyster; her husband had seen her shock at the question. He had stepped in to explain as best he could to a child not yet into their fourth year of age. “Son, do you know what influence means?” The child looked down and seemed to think and then he gently shook his head side to side and indicated that he did not. “Influence is when you have the ability to help or convince people to think the way you do. It’s not the same as control, and what the Matron does is influence the council. Influence isn’t wrong in the way that control is, do you understand that?” His son, almost as expected, gently bobbed his head and indicated that he did. Tristram believed that he probably did. Like his wife, he didn’t know how to feel about it either. Was he to begin asking questions tomorrow that he might go the whole of his life unanswered? He didn’t like to think of his son, yet so young, starting down that path. Both of Alyster’s parents were exceptionally talented musicians, and as far as simple village folk went, deep thinkers and known to be sharp witted and well liked. That their child might be exceptional was expected…wasn’t it? Marriam even had a little of the bardic magic and could cast a few spells, and she could speak with great authority on many obscure topics such as songbirds, herbs, and the traditions of their people, the halflings. Alyster might have that gift as well; was that what this was? At this age? His small, but confident voice cut through the silence again as his mother and father shared a silent look with one another. “Sometimes I influence both of you to get what I want, I’m glad to know it isn’t wrong”.The two of them both smiled at one another and turned smiles on their son, the small caravan wagon they called their home, in the lightfoot camp rang with the laughter of love.
|
|
|
Post by Masterbard Alyster Darkharp on Sept 24, 2023 12:36:00 GMT -5
1350 DR The Year of the Morningstar, City of Suzail, Realm of Cormyr Alyster walked with his father through the streets of Suzail, in the Docks Market, near Tronkar’s House of Music and Mirth. He loved that place, but the owner wasn’t especially fond of halfling children handling his wares, and Alyster supposed that he could understand that, he also understood for the first time with sureness, that it was an advantage if you made it one. He also understood that he understood far more about people than they suspected. Tronkar didn’t know that he was any different than any other child, much less hin youngster. The fellow did let him play one of the harps though, under the supervision of his father once; it had been glorious, the instrument was finer than any he had ever touched. The human had acknowledged the skill of the young halfling as well, but it hadn’t been so memorable that he was allowed back inside unattended. Tronkar appeared to be a wise man, for all his youth. Alyster had been to the big city quite a few times now, and his comfort level here was startling for a boy of ten from a small hamlet like ‘Tha Brook’ as the commoners sometimes referred to Shallybrook. He had quickly oriented to the life in a big city though, and on the whole seemed to prefer it. His father had taken up work here in the Capitol of Cormyr, not so far from their home in Shallybrook, yet far enough that sometimes his father, or the whole family would travel to Suzail and stay for several days at a time, rooming in cheap dives near the docks. This time it was just him and his father, mother was at home with Tristan, who was seven years old now. Things had moved this way for awhile now he had observed, more and more he was sent to assist and he supposed, learn from his father. He knew the entire city at this point and often was able to evade notice for extended periods and disappear from the market and wander about the city unattended by any oversight. His father had learned long ago that his young son was very capable and could navigate situations safety on his own to a degree. Tristram was also street-smart. He lived a life between two words, as a halfling from an all halfling village, he came to Suzail as an outsider into a society dominated by humans. The market at the Suzail docks was a wild place, even among the sprawling civilization of Suzail, it was where order seemed to fizzle out around the edges as it approached the treacherous waters of the Lake of Dragons. Shanties, stalls, lean-tos and simple carpets all served as merchants stalls here. There was a myriad of small structures which ranged the entire spectrum from ‘well built’ to ‘tent made of discarded bedsheets’, and they all formed a maze of marvels that any ten-year-old would have been more than excited to discover. Alyster thrived there. He got to know people, and they got to know him. The little halfling boy with the dark hair who could sing like a bird when the dockside minstrels, a motley collection of down on their luck sailors and drunks (his father had said that about them) strummed their ramshackle instruments. His father might not like them but he did. He felt their music was real, not imagined. They sang about pirates and dragon turtles and sea elves! They made room for the little boy who spoke with the authority and certainty of a man grown, and although it amused them, much like many with whom Alyster had crossed paths in his as of though yet, short life, they just weren’t sure what to think of this boy. His father had allowed him some freedom of movement about the docks while he was working his stall peddling vegetables, meat, or whatever he had procured that could be resold. Alyster worked the market. He panhandled, selling directions for a copper thumb to those arriving off ships and boats without an idea of where in the city to go. He turned those copper thumbs over betting on dog fights in the nearby alleyways, and some days it worked out, and others it didn’t. His father had told him that life was like that, and that he had to learn to recognize when Tymora and the Trickster had helped enough. He thought that those were wise words, and had always carried them with him, although he couldn’t profess that he had always followed his fathers wisdom. He ran with human urchins from the Young Adventurers Home, that was a polite name for an orphanage. He liked it. They weren’t kids no one wanted, they were adventurers and adventurers belonged together. Where he came from, when someone’s parents died or couldn’t care for them, neighbors and relatives simply took them in. The human society was different and there seemed to be many without parents. They made wooden swords of junk and fought in the narrow alleyways, playing heroes and villains. Alyster wasn’t good at fighting, but he was good at choosing a team, and once that was done, he was excellent at using them to great effect to keep himself from having to use his own toy sword. It was easy, he was the smallest boy of them all; and in addition, he was fairly charming when the situation called for it and had been known to fake cowardice and strike a winning blow at a critical time. He influenced the urchins to a small degree, as he was careful to always limit himself. He questioned them about news in the city and about their individual lives. He remembered Old Man Cotman saying once that ‘You could sheer a sheep many times, but skin it only once”. The dockside minstrels began to cut him in on their tips, it wasn’t much but it was coin and he liked the smile that his mother wore when his father proudly relayed exactly how much coin their son had wrangled out of the humans in Suzail. It was a game to him -and- his father he realized. They got what they could get and they competed with themselves every day. He realized somewhere along the way that his father was teaching him in the only way that he knew how, he was showing him, and more importantly, allowing him to experience the world of humans and the world of halflings as two places, one of which his role was uncertain in. Sometimes Tristram stole over and watched from a short distance as the dockside minstrels made their discordant songs, and his son sang shanties from half a dozen far off ports, stomping his feet and charming the crowds. That memory of his is something else. Now and then the boy would accept a stray instrument from one of the fellows and strum along as he sang, never a thought of tuning or the number of intact strings the instrument had. Tristram allowed that what the boy did was magic, or someday would be. Alyster appreciated the styles of the various transient performers who passed through the docks, but most of all he enjoyed the laments and dirges and songs of the victorious and heroic dead. Not just those though but also the tributes to simple friends passed on, women once loved, mothers and fathers and sons and daughters. He liked that these roguish and tattooed men who carried with them instruments from a hundred cities and cultures, and seemed to be part of some social contract to pass on these stories and songs and their knowledge of the world and it’s people. He wanted to be one of them, he thought that was his destiny. His father was a dabbler in many trades at which he could garner extra income, but he stopped short of cutting purses. Not all halflings could say that, but father said there was a distinction at that intersection of roads. One of his trades was music, and he played for coins by night in the dimly lit taprooms, some of which were so low on the proverbial ladder of comerce that the lacked even proper names. All of which smelled like the port, bad. It was in one of these places, one that did have a name, if a crude one. The merchants shingle near the door had a sign which declared it “Bloody Bill’s”, and it was a place that Alyster had watched his father play in before. The most common customers were sailors and dock hands, but now and then a city guard or even a dragoneer drank with the dregs and slummed it. His father of course wasn’t the only one who played for coins here though, tonight an old greybeard human dressed in what could only be described as a beggars rags was sharing the stage. His father had alluded to a familiarity of the man that went back past this time, but hadn’t been willing to answer many questions. The man was good though and that was clear, with a beautiful voice which had excellent range. He was also a skilled performer upon the harp and lute, and these skills seemed largely at odds with his clothing. He seemed to be a classically trained musician, even at this age Alyster was advanced in the knowledge of music and as his own mother had taught him the lute and the harp, he saw the signs of proper teaching, no alternate chord formations one might see in self-taught musicians. Alyster watched as both his father, who was strumming a lute, and this human which his father had referred to as “Bastian” who plucked at a lap-harp filled the small room with music that seemed to be a cut above the clientel. The music that they made felt full and sophisticated, even if it was sad. Alyster realized that it was the human who was enhancing the song through some…magic. He had felt mother do this but it was nothing like this. The song inspired Alyster and spoke to him and burned into his young mind. He was seated in what could only loosely be termed as backstage in such an establishment: hunched and watching from among a few instrument cases at the rear of the very small raised planks that served as a performance venue. Before he knew what had happened, he was singing. The dockside style of music was informal and various singers and players as happened to be present joined in somewhere, and he had let the song get into his head and it all just happened. Not quietly behind the music but standing and professing his interpretation of this lament that Bastion performed and his father supported with his lute. It’s music crafted by the old mans hand to provoke what it had provoked, a dirge. Alyster and his father both seemed a little shocked when his voice rose up in song and words spilled forth as if by rote which he had never sung or practiced before. “When I’m gone, leave my bones by the window. Let the light carry me. When my bodys old and wont hold me. Let the light carry me.
This moon above us all is almost gone. Let the light carry me. When this feeling that I’ve always known is gone. Let the light warm me.
When I’m old and this world don’t want me. Let the light carry me. When it all turns to dirt don’t warn me. Let the light warm me.
This moon above us all is almost gone. Let the light carry me. When this feeling that I've always known is gone. Let the light warm me. Let the light warm me! And if no one noticed when we fall, let the light hold me. And if no one knows where we fall, let the light warm me.”Art was borne that was not tangible and lived in that moment alone, under the guiding inspiration of this grey bearded old beggar; although he too almost seemed to hesitate when he heard the childs voice join into the song, but his hands knew the way even in a moment of distraction and the moment survived intact as the Beggar Bard, Bastion Levenhill and Alyster Darkharp truly met, although it would be many years before the boy would take on that name for himself.
|
|