The Halfling Thespian

[brian333]

In the market of The Docks a young halfling woman acts out skits from The Plays of the Bard of Waterdeep, using large crates as her stage. She has no staff or stage crew, no supporting cast members, no costumes. She has a passion for her parts, which are mostly centered on the soliloquy of one or another of the famous Bard's plays. In the heat of a summer afternoon, when sun and sweat sent most scurrying for shade and even laborers struggled to keep commerce moving, she placed her wide-brimmed hat on the ground, mounted a crate, and began:

Think not for a moment that you can shirk this most horrid of duties. You swore an oath. Is your vow a vapor, a gust of wind blowing hard in that moment of passion, only to be forgotten in the storm which follows?

Yes, many winds have blown us. Our sails are tattered. Our proud flags fly in strings, now. We are children no more.

Age: cruelest of mortal chains, binds us to our duty where once we were free to run. And yet in youth we bound those first links of our chains to ourselves by our own choice, by our own hand. The deed was not done to us: we chose it.

And now to you my chain, my vow, binds me. I would leave you to this half-life, this horrid abomination, if it meant that even half of what we were could be again. Even one dram, yes: that those eyes which now are flat, bereft of passion, could see me.

As once they did.

*She holds a hand over her face and sobs.*

But you are gone. Only the shell remains, and the twisted, dark memories of what you were. A foul spirit animating what remains of he whom I loved.

Begone, foul spirit! Release Tessaray; return to the dark pit in which you were forged! I have this final gift for you, beloved!

*She draws a wooden stake and mallet from the pleats of her skirts, holds them out, and strikes the stake with her mallet. Red liquid sprays out at the gathering. (It is wine.)*

*She drops the implements as she screams in anguish, dropping to her knees with her hands hiding her face. She sobs three times then lowers her hands to her lap.*

So it is done. My vow complete: 'till death do us part. And now, too late, I wonder: would it have been so bad? To exist, as my beloved existed, trapped within a shell of death, slave to a dark spirit? At least we could have been together.

No? No. My heart lies. It tells me what I want to hear. But Tessaray is now free, to go his way. And I am still bound by the chains of mortality. Death is my release, now. The chains are too heavy.

*She draws a dagger from the folds of her skirts.*

Death, sweet death. The breaker of chains, the final completion of all vows. Even knowing that to take my own life would forever bar me from reuniting with my one true love, I would at least put this pain to an end: shatter this chain.

*She places the dagger's tip against her sternum with both hands on the grip.*

Tessaray, Tessaray!

*She sobs again.*

The chains still bind me. Other vows call me to duty. And in the end, I cannot do this, this horrid act.

So, Age, you have your way. Take from me my beauty, my vitality, my passion. In time you will have my wit as well, and I shall be a crone, with nothing but memories: jumbled, half forgotten memories. I shall remember sweet Tessaray, on that day in summer when the rain fell as the sun shone, and I shall say, "You have a halo about you, like an angel."

[brian333]

Ooc: this thread is open to RP posts, if anyone wishes.

[brian333]

As the workday draws to a close and the summer sun lowers toward a hazy Western sky, the halfling drops her wide-brimmed hat on the ground and climbs up onto a large crate. She surveys the crowd before she begins.

Reynald, I have a letter for my father. No, listen, it is for you as well. I will read it:

*She draws a parchment scroll from her sleeve and unrolls it *

"Father,

"I will be gone before you read this. Please do not hate me for the way I am leaving; I am a coward who cannot face the father I love and see the disappointment, the heartbreak, that I will cause.

"But I cannot stay. Too much has happened that leaves my heart broken. I cannot heal here. Time away may allow me the space, the opportunity, I need.

"Father, I have learned that there is a part of life I do not know. You shared it with my mother, your wife. I now know I want that too.

"I will not be gone forever. When I return I hope to be a different person. But I will always love you; believe me when I say that can never change."

*She rolls the scroll and holds it out as if offering it to another.*

This is for Father. And for you, Reynald. I know that you and I have been promised to each other since we were children. Our fathers' dream, to unite two merchant houses.

*The scroll vanishes into her sleeve.*

But our marriage would have been convenient. Comfortable. Practical. Love, yes, for I do love you, Reynald. The love of a sister to her brother. Between us there is no mystery, no excitement, no passion.

We never shared the infatuation such as Bryce felt: the willingness to surrender all and risk everything for love.

Nor have we experienced the steadfast love even in the face of betrayal, such as was felt by Ocella, who was willing to die or kill for his love.

Not even the patient suffering of Amy for a lover who was blind to what she offered.

You and I, we love each other, but are we in love? Will your heart break when I am gone? Will you kill or die should I find love with another? Will you wait for me knowing that you wait in vain?

Do not answer; I see your eyes. I know you too well, Reynald.

Do not hesitate. When I am gone, marry. I look forward to seeing your children when I return. Don't worry about the business; Father loves you like a son. He will sell to you, when the time comes. Offer to maintain a stipend for me as part of the deal and he will merge with your father. In time you will be the wealthiest merchant on The Sword Coast.

As for me, I will go on one of my father's ships, to Waterdeep, perhaps. I shall be Dezzy the tavern wench, or Dee the merchant's clerk, or Mona the healer's nurse. I will serve, and I will seek opportunity.

Opportunity to find infatuation. Passion. Love. I may never find a better friend, a better brother. But I hope, both for myself, and for you, that we can find romance.

Comfortable love is for the old; let us seek reckless, dangerous love while we are still young enough to weather the storms.

I leave you now, but I shall always keep you in my heart, Reynald. Love of my youth. Brother, friend, most trusted advisor. So many things you are to me. Never forget that I love you.

Farewell.

[brian333]

The halfling female wears a shortsword belted over her green and yellow skirts on this hot summer evening. She places her broad-brimmed hat on the ground, climbs onto a large crate, and begins:

Summoned, I have come.

But I ask, who are you, Warmlanders, to summon me, Queen Hypatia of the Blue Bear clan?

You cross the mountains with your great Warmland beasts towing houses on wheels, leading vast armies of steel-shirt warriors into our homelands. You say you have grievance with us, and would resolve it peacefully, if we but submit to your threat of war.

Let us examine your grievances:

You say that our warriors attack your hunters in the spruce forests of the Northern mountain slopes. I ask by what right do your hunters tresspass in our forests? They come in hordes and drive away the game there which feeds and clothes our children in the dark winter. Without a thought to breeding in the next season what was taken in this one, without respect for our traditions and law, with no concern for the welfare of our childrens' futures, your hunters skin game and throw good meat on the ground so your fine ladies and gentlemen can have hats. Would you do nothing if our warriors crossed the mountains and burned your fields of green plants?

You say that we attack Warmland travellers on our roads; that we kill and loot those who come to trade. I ask you, who invited your traders to our lands? I also remind you of our villages attacked by your 'traders', our elders murdered and our young taken away to slavery in your fighting pits or your work-houses, or to even worse fates. Should our warriors peacefully submit to enslavement? Should they thank the Warmlanders for their generous gift of shackles and their merciful ending of the suffering of our sickly and aged? Would you welcome our warriors into your land knowing that they will kill your parents, haul your children away in chains, then return again in the next season claiming their only desire is to trade cheap steel for pretty rocks?

You claim that you send envoys of peace, and are answered with war. I ask, when have you ever sent an envoy of peace? To do such would require that you acknowledge our sovereignty over these lands upon which we have lived since the world was forged. But you do not do this.

Instead, your envoys demand that we submit to the pillaging of your warriors, to the depredations of our lands, to the enslavement of our people, to starvation and death by cold, to eradication as a people. You demand that we become a servant class within your culture and forget that we ever were a robust, proud, honorable, free people.

Would you allow us to do this to you? Will you submit to a life in service to our people? To fight and die for our entertainment? Will you grant us authority to determine who among you lives, and who dies? Will you submit your children to us to use in whatever fashion we would? Will you tolerate us going among your herds and flocks killing your food for talismans of fashion?

Which of these 'grievances' you hold against us would you tolerate if we were to cross the mountains into your lands?

Yet here you are, demanding this and that, as if this land was yours to rule. You demand that I surrender my warriors to you. You say that you will not leave without my mark on your parchment, and my sword.

If I do this, you say, then I shall have peace. The peace of slavery? The peace of death? What you demand is not peace.

And so I shall not give you my mark upon your parchment.

*She draws her sword*

Instead, I shall give you the swords and spears of the Blue Bear clan!

*She thrusts her sword forward, as if stabbing.*

Your steel-shirts may win the day, but none of you here shall live to see it. The Clan of the Blue Bear shall become as ghosts in the trees, and for as long as Warmlanders cross The Spine Of The World, they shall find us ready for war!

[brian333]

in the lamplight of a muggy summer evening the halfling woman steps through the crowd to a large shipping crate. She has a black scarf over her shoulders as she places her hat on the ground and climbs onto the crate.

That this day would come, I always knew. In my head. But I, ever the fool, trusted. And how was my trust repaid?

Quiet! Here they come, to the appointed place, at the appointed time. I shall cast my spell, so they cannot see me!

*She holds up the black scarf and with her hands on the corners she drops the rolled up silk. It forms a translucent veil through which her shape, but not her features, can be seen in the streetlamps.*

Augustina! She is no prettier than I. And none too bright! She looks back! Can she see me? No, she gives in to her guilt! It is her conscience which pursues her. At least she has that decency. That dignity.

And here comes Torland. See his sly smile? His wicked leer as he spies his lover? He is the tomcat, come to play with his latest toy! He embraces her!

I cannot look!

I must. I must know! I shall not hide from the truth!

She kisses so earnestly. As once I did. Was there deception on his face then, as it is plainly written now?

I could tell her. Would she believe? Or would she see me as the unrequited lover he has no doubt described to her?

It is not jealousy I feel for you, my dear, but pity. We could be friends, you and I, if you only knew.

The truth. Ah, Truth, you unforgivable bastard! You are not the companion I was promised! Would that I could, in ignorance, believe The Lie! But you, my companion, care nothing about my heart! No illusions or pleasant fancies for you! Truth is absolute.

As absolute as my broken heart.

Ah, Torland! The price you shall pay. The cost you will endure. Will you deem the price for your betrayals too small?

It is not revenge I seek. I want Justice! I want him to be punished for what he has done.

Perhaps not Justice, for to suffer equally for your crime against me would leave dozens of injuries unavenged. Vengeance! Yes, vengeance! Cold, measured, vengeance, to pay for a lifetime of crimes, a lifetime of injuries, such as mine. He thought he would use me then discard me. Trade me for another, as he did before, when he told me...

When he lied to me!

As now he lies to another! There is no love in his heart, only sickness. An insatiable hunger for worship, which he can only get by deceiving the innocent.

He shall pay. Yes, even vengeance is not enough. My heart craves his own pain, as he inflicted it upon me! My heart yearns to expose him for the liar he is. To take from him even the pretense of dignity!

I will break him!

Now I go, to prepare for what is to come. I almost pity you, Torland. Almost. But you shall receive in full measure that which you have so freely given: false promises, deceptions, lies!

*The held-up end of the shawl falls, and she is gone. (The observant will notice she jumped down behind the crate.)

[brian333]

As the mid-morning crowd settles down for morning tea amid the bustle of trade in the Docks, a halfling woman wearing a green and yellow blouse and brown pantaloons places her wide-brimmed hat on the ground before she climbs onto a large crate.

*She appears to have her hands bound together behind her back.*

Rebel you call me, and you pelt me with dross! But I remind you, ere I die, that it is for the country of my birth that I die. To be a rebel I would have had to abandon the nation and people for whom I fought so well for so long.

What do I care for your catcalls, sir? You, yes, you, who so quickly fawned at the feet of these usurpers! You betrayed your king when he called you to the defense of your country, for what? Gold? Comfort? You gave in to those who caused violence so they would give you security! How do you like your peace now? The Peace of enslavement! The security of poverty without hope of improvement! The safety of hoping they despoil your neighbor instead of you!

They owe you nothing for your betrayal, and they hold you in contempt for your cowardice. They have no need of chains to bind you because you have bound yourselves with ties stronger than iron: you have bound yourselves with chains of fear, and you will never find the courage to break them.

Go ahead, spit upon me. For here I stand, chained in body but free in spirit. I am the best part of you, that you cannot find in yourselves. I am the courage you never had, the honor you failed to show, the faith you pledged and betrayed.

So now I go to die. To die for the country you betrayed. Because to live in the shame you have wrought is more than my heart can stand. I loved my king, I loved my country. I stood by them as long as I was able.

Call me rebel; I kept my faith. Throw your dross; there are no stains upon my honor. Spit on me, for I am the image to which you once aspired.

And when your new masters silence you, remember that I called in vain for you to speak out. When you look on the filth on your hands, remember that I called upon you to stand like warriors rather than crawl like pigs! And when, at last, you realize that hope has fled, remember that life without honor is a far worse fate than I have chosen.

[Erlenprinz]

A short-statured man dressed in dusty, once brightly colored traveling clothes pauses as he crosses the square. He observes the performance for a moment, and mutters to himself:

Likely talent, but unsophisticated. All the same, this may be the place to be...

[brian333]

An afternoon rain drives away the sweltering heat of the day, replacing it with a cooler, but very humid, dusk. As the lamplighters refill and light the few streetlamps in the marketplace of The Docks a halfling wearing a green and yellow gown lays her broad-brimmed hat on the ground then climbs onto a large crate.

*She moves her hands as if counting coins.*

There is one for Alric, one for Tina, one for Jox, and one for me. One for Alric, one for Tina, one for Jox, and one for me. One for Alric, one for Tina...

But why should Tina get an equal share? What did she contribute to our venture? Did she fight, like Jox? Did she risk life and limb springing traps or climbing cliffs like Alric? Or even mastermind the enterprise, calculate the difficulty, and devise a plan to get away with the loot?

She came as the price for Jox to participate, and her 'services', such as they were, were for his benefit. Should she not then seek her pay from him? She healed his wounds, after all, and not any I sustained. Her share, then, should be split between us instead, and if she deserves anything, let Jox pay the bill from his share.

One for Alric, one for Jox, and one for me. That is a more fair division. Or is it? What did Alric do that was not preceded by hours of complaint? No, I had to coax and cajole, bribe and threaten to get anything from him. And he stole! A ring, coins, those ivory placards. Has he not already taken his share? I should not give him even a copper if he chooses to keep his treasures.

But how can I explain this to Jox? The poor dumb brute can barely understand anything more complex than eating or fighting. If I try to tell him why I cannot justify paying his friends, he will become upset. I would not want to hurt him, or perhaps kill, defending myself from his ignorant loyalty.

And besides, there isn't all that much here. A few weeks of debauchery and they would be penniless again. The best thing for them, when you consider everything involved, is to keep it for myself. Yes, be gone tonight, and when they wake it will be, for them, as if I had never entered their lives.

So it will be. For their own good I withhold their shares. Besides, It was my idea. I did most of the work. I took the risks. I deserve the rewards.

*She motions as if scraping coins into a sack, then hefts the invisible sack of invisible coins over her shoulder, then walks off the back side of the crate.*

[brian333]

The halfling woman dressed in green and yellow lays her hat on the ground and climbs onto a large crate in the bright noontime glare as chill North winds cool the docks. She wraps her head and shoulders in a black shawl, bends and hunches her back into an uncanny resemblance to the posture of an old crone, and takes a few wobbly steps to the edge of the crate.

My son. My child.

A mother should not have to bury her children: she buries a piece of herself. Yet my grief is shared, so many times by so many mothers. Babes get sick, children have accidents, famine and plague. War.

But this? That my son died only for the coins in his pocket? Has life so little value? Has a mother's grief so little meaning?

I would wish death upon the animal who did this! But no, for even he has a mother. I would not wish my grief, my helplessness, my aching emptiness, on anyone. I only wish that she hears my words when I say, "What kind of mother raised a child who could do this?"

It is the ill of poverty, I am told. Hunger and desperation killed my son, not the man. Lack of education, lack of opportunity, lack, lack, lack! Rubbish!

A man believed he could take a life with no consequence. His mother failed him, for I taught my son that his misdeeds, even unseen, have consequences. I scrubbed floors and washed clothes and sent my son to apprentice. I taught him to create his opportunities through work and merit!

She taught hers, what? To take from others what he wanted? Did she teach him anything? Did she, like a wild animal, birth her whelp and leave him to learn only what the jungle teaches? A city which embraces such values cannot long stand before it becomes a jungle. Civilization cannot survive it.

That my son is dead and his murderer is pitied is the cruelest blow. It is not his fault, he is the victim. But what of my son? What is he?

What of my grief? What am I?

[brian333]

The halfling in the green and yellow dress lays her hat on the ground then climbs onto a large crate.

Aye, we're poor. Dirt-poor. A rented house with a roof that leaks, ten acres better suited to growing rocks than crops, and some rags are all we have. And one more thing: hope.

But hope demands we work for her. Hope without labor is fantasy. Labor without hope is drudgery. But when you have hope you have something to work towards.

Hope brings disappointment, you say. What value is hope when we can only and always be the crust better folk scrape from their boots before they enter the inn?

But I say, the value in hope is not in comparing ourselves to those for whom some part of life is simple. Better folk are like us. They live, love, die. They can no more stay the hand of their executioner than the poor. They only have more to lose than those of us who have nothing.

The value in hope is not to tease us with what we can never have, but to give purpose to our struggles. Hope turns our struggles to grow a better crop into a fight to give our children a better start than we got. Hope turns our daily toil to survive into a lifelong quest to build a better world. Hope guides us to achieve greatness rather than to exist in unending misery.

One may hope in vain, but he will end in a better place because without hope there is no reason to try. Without hope there is nothing better. Without hope the most humiliating circumstance seems as good as it can get.

Overcome doubt. Overcome pain. Overcome indignity.

Hope.

[brian333]

The docks are busy with laborers hurrying about, trying to keep their hands warm while they sweat beneath heavy winter clothes. The icy North Wind whips mercilessly through the shuttered houses of Suzail, carrying the ripe aroma of many thousands of people living in houses sealed as best they can against the cold winds across the docks and out over the sea. A halfling wearing yellow under a dark green coat carefully climbs onto a large crate, adjusts her scarf, and flips her had onto the ground at the foot of the crate. With cold, dry winds snagging her shining yellow-blond hair and a very few folk to see, she strikes a pose.

There is more to this world, Alcester. I know it. Hideous monsters, beautiful princesses. Distant lands and deep dungeons filled with civilizations unmet. Oceans upon which no ship has sailed and returned to tell of them. Mountains seen by few, and climbed by none. Treasures of dragons and fallen empires waiting to be discovered, and that greatest of treasures that everyone seeks, yet so few find.

Love.

Yes, my dear friend, above all treasures, love. Silly? Romantic nonsense? Alcester, you hold a bag of gold coins, treasure lost in the Downfall. But have you ever held one who knows everything about you, yet loves you anyway?

The quest for love is as worthy as a quest for gold. Or knowledge. Or power, fame, or lost secrets. Certainly I will quest for those things, but I shall along the way seek that most elusive of treasures.

With my share of this gold from Ancient Netheril I shall by a ship. On that ship I shall sail. To the lands of the Djinn, to the spice islands, to the Far East. I shall quesr for many things: gold, power, secrets. But above all, I shall quest for love.

Will you join me?

[brian333]

Relatively warm rains from the South follow the flat, grey skies and cold winds from the North as Winter fights its last battles against the encroachment of Spring. From the docks of Suzail lightning elementals can be seen playing along the peaks of the Storm Horns, many miles to the North.

The blustery winds whip the flagpoles and lanterns, and furled sails pop and sputter. A halfling woman dressed in yellow and green places her wide-brimmed hat on the ground and places a large net-weight inside it to hold it against the winds before climbing onto a large crate.

"No! Stay where you are!" she shouts as she crouches, clutching her cloak tightly against her chest.

"I know you want to stop me," She sobs and stands taller.

"To save me.

"Save me for what? Shame, humiliation, dishonor? That is my portion, now.

"I've been stupid. I believed a flatterer," she sobs. "A LIAR!

"He promised me everything. He said he loved me. I was a FOOL!"

She pauses to cry, then quickly looks to her right as she steps to the left, dangerously close to the crate's edge.

"No! Do not! I don't want to hurt you, Desdemona. My true friend. Not like that heartless schemer Cricket! She pretended to be my friend. She pretends to," she chokes back a sob, "to LOVE Davian!

"Fine, they deserve each other. Two liars, schemers, climbers. Let them use each other. Let them lie to each other. Let them consume each other in their deceit.
"But why did he have to use ME?

"I am daughter to a pensioner-widow. My only dowry is myself. I gave it to him, Desdemona. I thought... I thought..."

She stage-whispers, "I wanted so much to believe. In his lies, I heard what I wanted to hear. I deceived myself."

She resumes her normal voice. "Because he said the words I wanted to hear. Empty promises. I gave it to him, Desdemona. My only dowry. I have nothing to give to another. I am done.

"Tell Mother, oh gods! Mother! Tell her how sorry I am. Tell her what a fool I've been. She did so much, sacrificed..."

She sobs again, but then she appears to relax, her face going from excruciating pain to calm. "Tell her I failed her. At the least she deserves honesty."

She screams an anguished cry as she leaps from the crate.