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OLD    FRIENDS

Rivalries and competitions abound in the circle of bards who tell their ancestral history through song and music. Windomar Windsinger was an exception in his class. His taste remediating to sitting down with an abundant supply of port by his tableside and using exquisite manners in handling the pouring of his oddly-shaped glass, the man was in a class his own for "bardic cermony of port drinking". Although, a fairly tall and lithe man, the silver-coloured hair of the human gave way to his age and experience. Days of competing in bardic circles and contests long since gone, Windomar relented to sitting down to a warm meal, his drink and rendering the tales of his family, comrades, heroes and victims who have succumbed to the daily life of Abeir-Toril, and many a tale he had as Windomar reached his 50th peak of life.

He regarded his friend calmly and with deep satisfaction that the old priest was in as quiet a slumber as he remembered from days begone. But a hidden smile played upon his lips as he remembered a day when the portly priest was three-quarters the weight he was now and the reason the priest turned to his cups. Unfolding his leg from the position of rest on the other, Windomar gently placed his daffodil colored glass, embossed with the seal of gold crown, mailed fist and two lighting bolts on the endtable nearest him. Standing and releasing a tired stretch of limbs the bard turned and made his way back his room, the warm meal having settled. Turning around and clearing his throat once, "Abbigale." Clearing his throat once more. "Abbigale." The priest stirring and portly lips forming a merry smile to reply. "I know lad. I caught the inference from yer tale and she's back." Without acknowledgement or further adieu, the bard silently turned the corner and the gentle shut off the door was all that was left to the silent room. Abbigale regarded the silence as confirmation to his thoughts.

Talking to no one in particular, Abbigale began a recitation of a fallen comrade’s canter.

Ne'er so high and ever so low can a man walk a thousand leagues, non-eventful you know. Go straight ahead, one foot in front of the other. Walk into destiny; walk into light, gibberish banter heard through the night. Fireflies dance around in the air, looking like two spider's eyes with a death glare. Oh giant queen of the children below, don't eat me now, save me for later you know. Thy flavor not ripe and my skin too tough, watch out for the woodsman, lest his axe smite you a blow. Shapeshifters, shadow-kings, dracolichs, all of them smell of death lest you walk further from here. Walk further into darkness, the sweet ichors what stink will drink yer life and you’ll have the pleasure of dying tonight. These nightmares will fade and the light will give way, but you stray from yer path and you’ll go right back.

So the moral to my story is that when you travel yerself or with one or more companion, make sure you travel walking one foot in front of the other.

Skylar, the Watch.


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