Bardic Exploration

[bardic-exploration]

Catfolk, the true hardship.

[bardic-exploration]

Some of the materials found in the world of Umbra.

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In the deep dark bowels of glowfish city live the siren outcasts, those few who are trapped between sea and land. They give me the impression of a proud people, even though they’re looked down upon by everyone they meet. None of them were willing to tell me why they were exiled.

Without the context of a night time ambush, Sirens turn out to be rather beautiful, with delicate, smooth skin in hues that range from deep reddish purple, over light blues into the blueish greens. Every colour is unique, but familial ties are still recognizable by patterns on the skin and face, and their crests.

I call them crests because they resemble nothing a human would have on his head. Tentacles that embrace the face, quills that spike out, leaves that overlap, seaweed that falls over their backs like locks of hair, all of which might appear like hair at a passing glance, but couldn’t be anything further.

So far, none of them had tails, only weebed fingers and fins portruding from their arms and legs.

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The ratfarmers that saved me agreed to take me to Glowfish City, which is a huge relief. Of course, they still had to go along their route, which gives me ample chance to earn my stay. The domesticated rats are very curious creature, and more than once did I have to save some personal belonging from being abducted. Thankfully, a cracker was usually enough to distract them.

I’m still often thinking about the night of the attack. I first saw the blue men circling the ships, but didn’t tell anyone, thinking it was just some dolphins or large fish. Maybe more people would’ve survived if I did.

When the first of them jumped on deck, surprised silence was quickly replaced with battle screams. Things quickly escalated when a storm brew right above us, and lightning struck our mast.

I believe that Ryme showed mercy on me. Maybe he has even bigger things in store for me. I pray that I’ll be ready when I have to face them.

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The more time I spend in this small seaside village of Cebrock, the more stories I hear of the Sirens. Especially the older folk who stay at home have many a tale to tell, and most of them have to do with the sea and their fish-like inhabitants.

It is hard for me to form a coherent picture in my head as I’ve never seen one myself, but from what I’m told, some are humanoid, with arms and legs and a head, though some have a fishtail from the waist down.

They fight with spears and a deep distaste for all that is not of the sea. They also often speak of a queen of theirs, who is also a goddess, wielding a spear with seven tips.

This is all I could extract from the stories so far. Tomorrow, I was promised to leave with the Fteran trader who is bound for Glowfish City, where I hope to learn more.

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Today I found a red pebble at the beach. I thought it looked very smooth at first, shiny as it was, but when I picked it up and rubbed it against my palm, I noticed just how rough it felt. When asking one of the fishermen, he said it was a piece of coral, a rare find for someone just taking a stroll. He told me to keep it, as it was said to attract love. I’m not sure if I’m ready to surrender my lovelife to a small pebble just yet.

Upon further research, I found out that coral comes from the bottom at the sea, and is usually heavily guarded by the Sirens. It grows over time, and apparently they make jewellery with it. In very rare cases a high-ranking warrior was seen with a coral-tipped spear. I believe I can do some more digging on the nature of said spear, but for now, this will have to suffice.

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Only few have seen the highly evasive moth people. While elves may be low in number, they at least don’t go out of their way to go unnoticed. At least, some of them don’t. Moth people however use magic and stealth, as well as their nocturnal nature to do their business without a mortal ever suspecting they were ever there.

I’ve seen one once, during a clear night, with the full moon illuminating a glittering silhouette. I thought about investigating further before the creature disappeared in a cloud of moth dust. Still, I was able to remember a few features I could make out in the darkness, notably large eyes that didn’t seem all that insectoid, and a scary design on the wings that reminded me of a gigantic skull.

They say earning the trust of a moth person earns you the right to wear their threads. Elves often wear cloaks made from their spun moonlight, and while the cloth made from it is soft, it’s also extremely resistant and warming as the thickest of furs, yet, the Elves wearing them never seemed to sweat.

Then again, I’ve never seen an Elf sweat, cloak or no cloak. I should look into that.

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nEven the smallest gate leading into Tholscrown is so impressive that I have to stop and lean my head back to study the heavy gate above me. However, my awe is cut short when a guard pushes me, clearing the way for other people to enter the capital.

Thankfully, I don’t have much chance to dwell on the bruise on my shoulder before the bustling streets overwhelm my senses. Along the main path toward the Divine Plaza, hundreds of merchants have built their stalls, one right against the other, all of them trying to gain the attention of the many visitors and pilgrims.

A little blue pouch takes my interest, sporting a sign of Kimia. Of course, the merchant owning the stall wants to sell it to me for a horrendous sum, so I do my best to negotiate him down to a reasonable price. 10 pieces of gold change owner, and I put my newly acquired charm away. If I’m lucky, a priest at the plaza may bless it properly in exchange for one of my poems.

And maybe buy a cream from a Lindhmaid for my shoulder.

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As we reach the overgrown ruins of a forest temple, my guide points to a single black feather on the ground. I lean down to pick it up, but she stops me. “Don’t. It’s Ryme.”

My hand twitches away from the feather as if it was scorching hot. “Surely not Ryme himself... right?” She shakes her head, her cloak of moonshine silk shimmering in the little sunshine the tight canopy allows. “It’s one of his beacons. It would be unwise of a mortal to take it when it already ruined this very temple.”

I study the feather again. It’s a beautifully long tailfeather of a raven, the kind a scribe would fantasize about during late hours when he wished he had pursued his poetic streak. But I know better than to touch one of Ryme’s beacons unprepared. There are already too many cautionary tales of people being corrupted by the divine artefacts. After all, that’s what they were made for.

But maybe. Maybe I can resist the corruption.

[acrid-heartwood]

Dwarven humour is a mystery to me. Maybe it’s simply too dense for me to unpack, and certainly doesn’t bring me any closer to understand the people it exemplifies. Their civilzation has been exactly the same as far as anyone can remember, and I asked a lot of people, elves even. Their castes had always been the same, their crafts have always been the same.

The Dwarf I am travelling with calls himself Durrin Funnyman. Whenever I ask him if that’s his real name, he laughs. He laughs a lot, especially at his own jokes. So far, he refused to tell any Dwarven jokes, he says they don’t translate well. His other jokes aren’t all that funny either, but when he laughs, I can’t help but laugh with him. He just seems so honestly delighted, it’s infectuous.

After a week of travel, I ask him: “Why did you leave your clan and become a bard?”

He asks back: “You know I’m a Miner, right?”

He doesn’t tell anymore jokes that evening, and I feel bad for knowing why.

[acrid-heartwood]

My head breaks through the surface, finally allowing me to spit out the seawater and taking my first real breath of air in minutes. The sky is still dark, filled to the horizon with angry looking clouds. I can’t see my ship anymore, and my ears are filled with the sound of rain. Yet, the sea is calm enough that I don’t immediately get pushed back down under the waves.

Suddenly, I feel something clawing at your arms, you push it away with what little strength you have left. The beast squeaks as it is repelled, and you are only left to wonder what monstrous fish could possibly squeak. But the claw won’t let up, finally grabbing hold around my shoulder and pulling me back.

Resolving to my fate, my head dips into the briny depths, before being pulled up by strong hands. My entire body is ripped out of the clutches of the sea, and as my back lands on hard wooden boards, my eyes open to look into the feline eyes of a Fteran catfolk boy. He unhooks his crook from my shoulder and holds it back into the water, fishing out an oversized rat by its tail.

Fteran ratfarmers, catfolk who travel from ship to ship to buy spoiled food and sell meat. Sailors never pass up a chance to trade with them, eager to get rid of stale, roach-infested biscuits and get some fresh meat on ship. They domesticated shiprats as we did to wild hogs, and today, one of them saved my life.

“Thank you” I bring out between eshausted coughs.

“Don’t worry about it” the boy answers, rolling his r’s. And I don’t, too exhausted to think.