Sarshel - The Crowning Glory

[Copper Dragon]

While recently the Kingfisher has earned itself a new resident musician the Crowning Glory has been known to harbour two for some time, and still does. The two performers' tale goes back to an autumn night where the position of Marcellus, the Harp of Cimbar came to be "threatened" by some accounts; by a pale elven maiden, they say. Their rivalling melody turned into a duet, a shared performance that was capitalised upon by the innkeeper and an industrious businessman. More than that, the pair are said to have practiced and performed at the Helthan Theatre also since that fateful eve.

The two songmasters are of very different, if perhaps equally exotic, origins. The energetic Marcellus bears a southern complexion and upbeat taste for bawdy songs while the pale maiden is often as distant in her gaze as her visage is unearthly; she does not belong to this world and she seems not to be here in her thoughts, most of the time. The pair combine to a dynamic duo that knows variety and a wide range of expertise and repertoire.

The representative of the Fair Folk, dubbed Dove, chooses ballads and songs that are soothing, sweet, or sorrowful. Her voice conjured pleasing music, or sometimes her harp did with no vocals; never has she talked with on-lookers or answered questions with plain prose. It was only now, months after that first performance that she addresses the inn's patrons with quiet words...

"So little is said of Elves in Impiltur; so rare and elusive are they. Naught of this is surprising; no Elven realm has stood on this soil, and while this landscape known as Impiltur has a wilderness that is rich and breathtaking, it was never ours to wander, and never ours to elevate. Many lands my people have tread and built upon, but Impiltur was not one of them.

"And yet, Sarshel is a name some of our oldest remember and utter with solemn gratitude.

"Sarshel of Elethlim is the name we have known him by; a human king, a warrior, a man of faith. At a time when the earth bled, when the trees wept, when the armies of Elf, Dwarf, Man and the Small Brave Peoples tasted ash and defeat within our realm, Sarshel Elethlim and his knights came with thundering hooves and singing steel. With them came the sword of Dornavver," the elf maiden's voice fell silent in brief, her big sapphire eyes looking deep into others'. Then dreamily, in afterthought she muses, "Aye, the sword of Demonsbane."

"Unto this day we hold memory of the King of this Forgotten Kingdom; a Crusader of the Forgotten Crusade. We have poems, songs, artworks of those that have aided us and ours, and those who have risked as much as he to save our Jewel of the Forest; to save the Greatest City That Ever Was, and Ever Will Be.

"Few are those that can claim to have looked upon Sarshel Elethlim and are still among us to tell of it - but there are a few, and they are among the Elven people."

The ghostly-white elven maiden's smile was gentle and yet hollow; heartbreaking in its sadness to onlookers.

"Great is my regret indeed, that no chance was given to your king of today to achieve such renown. Deep, are my condolences to your people. Although all Men's life seems so fleeting, so swiftly passed, through Elven eyes... this life ended too soon. May his memory in your hearts see the end of days, as Sarshel Elethlim's might in the Elves of the City of Song."



OOC: While this thread would have been started up regardless of the current setting events, it made far more sense to adjust it to the circumstances of the present. Dhovainithil's anecdote makes reference to this post. This thread aims to bring into focus the performances and performers of the Crowning Glory Inn, and whatever else you think could fit here to share with the rest of us.

[Tailos]

For near enough a full month, the Harp of Cimbar has played fewer performances in the Crowning Glory than his usual sets. Rumours abound, no doubt, the truth is simple enough. The change in weather and his penchant for maintaining his customary fashion of Chessenta has left the bard feeling the lingering effects of a mild chest infection. While his instrumental pieces have never been central to his stage, they have indeed taken on more of his set list until his illness subsides. Doubling the medicinal dosage of the tavernmaster's own prescription of beer hasn't seemed to have had the curative effect that Marcellus was hoping. As it stands, Marcellus remains with mild cough and recent advice has him drinking copious amounts of honeyed tea under direction of a particularly notable healer.

The recent illness may have taken its' toll upon the Harp of Cimbar, nonetheless, and with the recent news of the Kingfisher's new resident bard - a new bard in town, he notes with delight! - the number of his performances have slowly begun to increase. He now plays at least five nights in seven at the Crowning Glory. The time spent in his recovery has hardly been wasted: in his small collection of books and journals, slowly being built up in his room, Marcellus has managed to draft another eight songs loosely based upon historical figures in Chessentan lore as well as a light adaptation of one of the more noted plays still working the theatrical circuit back home into verse. The competition for the status of the most lauded bard in the city may be heating up!

Time has passed and with it, change comes. The climate warms slowly and, though snow still adorns the city, it is said the rivers run just that little faster with the icemelt. But unlike the songs of the Dawnlord, not all new springs start with revival and renewal. The passing of the young king quickly reached his ears, both by unofficial means (gossip and common talk) and official proclamation. And though Marcellus held no official status as Impilturan - indeed, neither did he seek it - the bard was receptive of the change in atmosphere within the city and amended his work appropriately. While he held no moving anecdotes or funeral speeches for the death of the king, his music was notably different from his usual fare: fewer were the rowdy tavern ditties or the bawdy songs, greater were the older songs of Impilturan heritage, of glories long past, and of songs supporting the monarchy. He did not change into the typical blacks of the mourners as, to his mind, he'd lost no loved one unlike the Impilturans.

[Obsidian Sea]

It is not only over Sarshel that the snow falls, but perhaps the inhabitants of Sarshel are lucky to have the melodies of Marcellus Heldeion and Dhovainithil to bide with them as cold continues well into Tarsakh. So thinks Aryen Caladras from afar, as a fateful night of solemnity conspires to bring back a memory of The Crowning Glory Inn to him. He dwells upon the fate of the Moon Elf, Dhovainithil, who disappeared into the tunnels with the third expedition party of Hróin, the Wizard. It seemed like only moments before his separation from the party that he had discovered that she was of The Dalelands, and it had been a strange new reality to him. How different he and she seemed. But he had heard of settlements to the south and east across The Dalelands where Elves were a more prevalent presence, contrary to the quiet and indistinct life of a village such as Tethyamarvale. Meantime, a strange rhythm of the wintry wind recalled one of the melodies played by Marcellus Heldeion upon his harp.

Aryen hears the rustle of the leaves, and notes the returning presence of Fenrir to his side. He kneels close to the forest floor, far removed from the warmth of The Crowning Glory Inn, but not, at least, from the memory of it. When last he was in the tavern he cannot remember: the Ranger has little patience for the city, and the burdens of his life take him further away from it than ever, and deeper into the dark heart of the wilderness. Still, there were many hours spent there in the company of friends and adventurers. Many with whom he has spilled blood perhaps still go there, and he thinks for a time upon them all, and hopes for their continued safety though he no longer shares the familiar space of the inn with them as he once did.

The cold is biting. On these particularly cruel nights, he would be forced to seek indoor shelter: to risk illness by acting otherwise would be foolish, and fools were quick to fall out here far from the city's lights. But for as long as he holds his current position, and the wind makes a rhythmic path through the pine leaves above, he can remember the melody of Marcellus Heldeion's song, and for now that is enough to stave off the numbing chill of night.

So he holds his position, remembering warmer nights spend at The Crowning Glory Inn, and watching the cabin within The Silverwoods that was once so easy for him to call his home. And he waits. And he waits.