TheBlackThorneRose

A snarky fantasy Bard storyblog!

[theblackthornerose]

Necromancer Rave.

The guards of the city had to bang loudly on the heavy wooden door to be heard within. Loud thumping noises and people's voices raised in song could be heard from within.

All of this had started after that damn Necromancer had arrived in town. He had arrived with a damnable bard and together they had started tavern-hoping across the city.

When they ran out of taverns to hop, they rented out the entire second-floor of a local inn and began holding their own private party.

The guards were called after beer and bones began raining down from above, pelting the other residents of the inn and disturbing the peace.

The two malcontents had fled and taken refuge in a nearby abandoned home. Alerted to their whereabouts, the guards now had the place surrounded and were ready to catch and jail both the Bard and the Necromancer for Disruptions in a Public Space, Trespassing, Aggravated Alcoholic Intake and the Assault on several wenches at the inn.

The door actually opened up from within and multicolored lights spilled forth. Deep, bass music washed across the guards and a large, very large and heavy-set skeleton stepped through the doorway to face the guard.

"Do you have it?" the skeletal giant asked.

The guards had to crane their necks to look up at it.

"Have what?" the captain of the guard asked somewhat feebly.

"I've got it right here!" came a sudden and unexpected voice from behind.

The guards all turned around suddenly to see a young lad in the dress of a courier come running up from behind. He had a smile on his youthful face and a crate full of beer.

The boy ran nimbly in-between the stunned guards and exchanged the beer with the very large skeleton in return for gold coin.

As the boy made off, the skeleton gave the guards a once-over before closing the door on them. The music inside never stopped.

[theblackthornerose]

The Corrupt Sheriff

Duncan was the evil sheriff of the local province. He was a fat, squat man in dark leather and had the pelt of a dark-grey wolf draped over his shoulders. He hadn't killed the animal himself, he had, in fact, purchased it from a foreign trader with his family's money.

Some people might say Duncan was a burden on his people. He instituted steep taxes and was known to deal with political rivals in the most underhanded of ways.

Which is why that morning had proven to be so infuriating for Duncan. A nuisance of a bard had come into town had been strutting about the place, making a ruckus.

Duncan didn't like it. Entertainment led to distraction, distraction led to a lack of work being done.

So Duncan had sent his guards to harangue the bard and drive him out of town.

They had succeeded, in a fashion, but only after the bard and a few of his friends had roughed them up in kind.

Duncan had sent out a hunting party to retrieve the bard and his buddies, and bring them back to the town for trial and punishment. In addition to being the sheriff, Duncan was also the head judge as well.

They hadn't returned yet, which wasn't too unusual since the night was still young. But Duncan was eager to see the bard publicly humiliated for what he had done.

Just as the thought occurred to him, a sudden flurry of urgent knocks came to the sheriff's front door.

Moving his considerable girth up from a sitting position, Duncan waddled over to where the wooden door that formed the entrance of his not-so-humble abode was.

Upon flinging the door open to see who was there, he was immediately assaulted with a foul stench, a vivid, acrid smell of bovine excrement and smoke.

A burning cloth bag, clearly filled with cow dung, was burning away quickly on his doorstep. The flames, embers and cloying, black smoke only helped to spread the pungent stench that radiated outward from the inflamed dung heap.

Sheriff Duncan quickly covered his nose and mouth and fell back, retching and dry heaving as he did so.

Somewhere out in the darkness, a gaggle of giggles broke out in the darkness oft he city's alleyways.

[theblackthornerose]

Ceiling Trout

Blackthorne dodged the melee attack from the undead skeletal warrior in pitted, rusted metal armor. The creature swung again, and again, Blackthorne swept himself under its overly-committed attack.

Flipping around with his blade out, Blackthorne knocked the greyish figure's long-dead bony arm off, its amputated limb falling to the ground with a calcium clatter.

A swift kick knocked the creature back, causing it to shatter against the hard floor.

Nearby, Maiven, a local Elf mercenary, and a beauty among her people, pulled one of her crystal-tipped arrows out of two more undead before sauntering over. She dusted off her silken gloves before giving Blackthorne an inquisitive look.

"You look a bit taken back?"

"I'm hungry," Blackthorne responded.

"Have some trout." Maiven said with a knowing smile playing at the corner of her curvy lips.

An eyebrow arched on Blackthorne's face.

"Trout? We're two levels under the surface and surrounded by a Necromancer's tomb guard. Where am I going to go fishing?"

Maiven laughed as she took her bow and aimed for the rocky ceiling overhead. She let loose with an arrow which flew upwards and smacked hard against the granite.

Bits of rocky chips flew apart as a depression in the ceiling above was revealed to be a hole that had been covered over somehow. From within came a bushel... full of fish?

Blackthorne's face couldn't have contorted itself any further with confusion as he caught the basket. Within it where several trout, seemingly freshly caught from a cool, country stream.

"What?..." was all he could manage.

"Weird, I know" Maiven said, "don't know why or who put them there. Another adventurer showed it to me years ago."

Blackthorne raised a trout in his gloved hand and examined it in the dim light. "These look to be fresh?"

"I heard of a place, far away, where you can go into castles and find chicken hidden in the walls?" Maiven said.

Blackthorne snorted, "Do they hide seasoning in the walls too?"

[theblackthornerose]

The Old Soldier

Blackthorne slowed his pace as he approached the lone figure on the roadway. He was apart from the rest of his party, having gone on an early morning quest solo, but had found a roadway companion as he passed through a dark and forlorn stretch of forest road.

The lone figure opposite him was of a man in a thick green cloak, his leggings thick with mud (and what looked like blood). The man's face was scratched and dirty and his expression spoke of anguish and a deep, deep sense of loss.

"Defeated, defeated," the man said as he passed Blackthorne.

Blackthorne regarded him curiously but continued on.

Only later would mention it during the evening break at a nearby inn. Locals would marvel over this and ask questions about his 'sighting.' They quickly explained that the old man was the ghost of a soldier who had fought in a local baron war.

"His name is lost to us, but he is seen every few years. An old soldier who fought on the losing side. He laments that defeat to this day."

[theblackthornerose]

Fog Shrouded

The fog was so thick that you could barely see your sword hand before you, so obscure was the environment. The castle they had been searching for was surely just up ahead, but it could be a league away for all the good it would do them to find it.

How were they even supposed to get inside?

This was the 'Barrow Kingdom,' as the locals called it, originally a township of above-average size, it had been abandoned and fallen into disrepair centuries ago. At some point in the past, a thick fog moved in and never left.

The whole area was now a vast swamp, Black could feel his feet sink up to three inches in the mud with every step and he was fairly certain he was still on the path. Ferns, swamp water, the stink of the mud and the constant slither of various creatures in the water all around him kept Black on constant alerts.

Whatever had happened to the township was a mystery. No one alive today really knew what doom had befallen them, although Black was fairly certain it had something to do with a war because he kept running across crumbling battlements and ruined forts.

Whatever had happened here had been some kind of mass conflict?

[theblackthornerose]

Riding Giant Chickens ;-)

The sun was beating down on the verdant landscape below as Blackthorne and his two companions made their way up the hillside. It was a particularly lonely stretch of road, one that had led down from the more mountainous area where the Luminary shrine had been.

Blackthorne and his troupe were slowly making their way towards a local, minor city, turning from the mountains onto a much more worn-down path. This was a major trading route and one often used by travelers from foreign lands, places and cultures far removed from the Nine Kingdoms.

As they made their way towards the towering city in the far distance, a sudden disturbance caught Blackthorne's attention. A strange dust cloud was erupting its way up the path in the opposite direction and Blackthorne was a little taken aback to see it was being made by a trio of strange men riding what appeared to be - for lack of a better term - giant yellow chickens!?

They were tall, stalwart looking men, each of them an adventurer in their own right. But they had strange, impractically broad and elongated broadswords strapped to their backsides. Blackthorne marveled how they were even able to move about or wield such cumbersome weapons?

And they had strange helmets on, too? Or so Blackthorne thought until they got closer and he realized those weren't helmets but their own hair... massively gelled up and frost-tipped to perfection.

The men on their giant chickens wen't running by as Blackthorne's troupe stepped off the path momentarily to avoid getting caught in the dust storm from the avian ride's thunderous footfalls.

"Who in the Nine Kindgoms were those guys?" Selene asked, momentarily forgetting her ladylike manners.

"Foreigners," Ulric stated matter-of-factly.

"What strange land must they hail from?" Selene continued.

"I don't know, but I want that hair gel," Blackthorne said as they continued on their slow march down the road again.

[theblackthornerose]

A Rose In The Shrine Pt. IV

The bandits hadn't been hard to find. Like most bandits, they had tried to place their camp in a wayside area, one little frequented by people and unlikely to be considered by the authorities. Of course, the irony was that it was that very same predictable thinking that narrowed down the places to search for them.

After only two days of tracking, Blackthorne and his companions had them. The bandits had setup within a narrow defile between two steep mountain peaks, far above a lonely stretch of a field that crept all the way to the base of the mountainside. With long, angular boulder fields to either side, this allowed the bandits a tight little space from which they had a ready and natural lookout for on comers. And, if assaulted, could quickly and efficiently barricade themselves in for a long siege.

Unfortunately, the option to barricade yourself in only works if you realize that what you see coming is an enemy.

When one of the men returned from the nearest village with food and goods purchased from the common purse of the bandits, he had nothing on him!

When the other bandits came about him and began to demand their food, the man flashed a smile and took a bow...

Only to rear up again as another man entirely!

Before them stood a mid-sized man of olive complexion and with a dark brown hair that blew in the stiff breeze between the peaks. He was garbed in rich, colorful clothing.

"A play, m'lords?" the stranger said as the men unsheathed their implements of death, "would you prefer a sonnet or blank verse?"

As the bandits drew inward, preparing to stab him to death, it was then that balls of fire erupted among them-

-------------

The Academy of Magic was supreme in all the land for its mastery of the arcane arts. All save one, or so claimed one of its rival schools, the Bardic College. The mages of the Academy were skilled in all forms of arcane art save Illusion, a discipline of magic whose masters tended to bear the title of graduation from the Bardic College.

Senele mentioned this as she sidled up to Blackthorne after dispatching the last of the Bandits.

"A simple ploy," she said in jest, twirling a small ball of flame, no bigger than what you might get off of a match stick, across her index and forefinger.

"The way of the Bard is a complex one," Blackthorne said, "but it doesn't mean we have to make everything too complicated."

"You mean you're sleeping around and getting drunk while playing in taverns to early in the morning?"

"Yes."

[theblackthornerose]

A Rose In The Shrine Pt. III

"We know not where the bandits are hiding," the vicar said, a warm cup of freshly brewed tea clasped in his hand as he watched his three guests finish their supper.

Blackthorne, having earned a free meal from the temple vicar for his performance, sat opposite the venerable old man. They had discussed the shrine, its people, the local history and news, and Blackthorne had patiently sat and listened with politeness while he ate.

Blackthorne's two friends had also proven to be boon companions, a beautiful woman with blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. She had introduced herself as Senele Quatrain.

Ulric Von Damsheur sat on the other side of the bard, a rather pugnacious man with a grizzled face. Despite his rough exterior, the man composed himself with expert civility, leading the vicar to believe that he had been trained in the arts of etiquette.

A curious trio, to be sure, but far from abnormal at a wayside shrine to one of the Illuminaries.

However, the vicar had pushed his luck. During the meal, he had mentioned the presence of a group of bandits. These were just the standard cut throats that could be found the land over, hiding in the depths of the woods from the long arm of the law.

This particular band had had the audacity to waylay visitors to the shrine. And worse! Two of their number had scrambled over the exterior walls during the night and made off with some of the shrines proceeds!

The bard, Blackthorne, was clearly not a typical bard. Such men and women who graduated with title from the Bardic College usually chose one of two paths of employment, either as a town minstrel or the personal bard to a powerful lord or guildmaster.

The Blackthorne Rose was clearly a man accustomed to the road. His clothes, while bright and colofrul, were made of rougher material and clearly meant for the hardiness of traveling. The dust and wear on them confirmed this. His two companions displayed similar features.

This was a band of adventurers.

"Are you, per chance, members of the Adventurer's Guild?" the vicar asked.

"No," Ulric had replied, "we come from Avon de Pris."

"Ah," the vicar said, that made sense. The Adventurer's Guild had never gained acceptance in Avon de Pris. It existed in the outlying kingdoms, but had been rejected, for mysterious and murky reasons, within the smaller republic of de Pris.

"I ask only because the bandits have proven to be quite troublesome to our shrine here... and have made off with some of our own money."

"Oh really?" Blackthorne had said, "Well, that is a pity... stealing money from a shrine to one of the Illuminaries. What's a bard to do?"

The vicar smiled, "I merely bring up the subject because... you and your companions appear to be cut from a rough cloth."

"We are travelers," the lady Senele had said, "but, yes, we do make our living by way of odd jobs here and there."

This brought a smile to the vicars face. "I'm afraid I'm not as affluent as one of the vicars from the major temples in the cities or manor houses... but I do have some money stowed up-"

"How much did the bandits take?" Blackthorne asked.

"Almost a week's worth of shrine offerings."

Blackthorne ran his olive-skinned hand through his dark hair as he thought the situation over. "You provide us with lodging for another day or two, let us find and take care of these bandits, and we'll split whatever we recover from them with you."

"That is an acceptable offer," the vicar said.

[theblackthornerose]

Senele Quatrain

From the moment of her birth, Senele Quatrian had lived a privileged life.

A scion of not one but two ancient bloodlines of renowned practitioners of the arcane arts, Senele was born to wield magic with grace and expertise. And she grew up surrounded by those who already did so.

A dutiful (some might say cloying) mother who fawned over her beautiful protege of a daughter, Senele also had aunts, uncles and older siblings to look up to to see the ideal that her family pushed for in life.

When she finally came of age, there was no question where her future would lay. She was schooled by her own family long before attending the College of Magic in Avon de Pris. There, she quickly drew the attention of her teachers and peers for her singular dedication and almost inhuman levels of dispassion towards anything not related to her studies.

In practically all things Senele was a model student. So it came as quite a surprise when she fell in love with a Bard she had run into during one of the many festivals.

The Bard was her own age, handsome, with an olive-skinned complexion that reflected the light of the sun just right. The Bard in question had used his sweet music and wiles to whisk Senele off her feet and take her along for a quick 'dive' into de Pris' seedier side.

After several hours of rampant partying, drinking and general frolicking about, a strange change had overcome Senele...

Senele Quatrain, the driven daughter of a fiercely dedicated family of witches and warlocks, suddenly found herself having with deal with something totally unexpected.

Levity and happiness...

[theblackthornerose]

A Rose In The Shrine Pt. II

It was called the 'Dance of Leandra' and it was a challenge to be undertaken by all the Bards that visited her shrine.

The vicars had never invented it nor asked for it to become a tradition among the people, but when you have a shrine to one of the Illuminaries, and the Bards start showing up, eventually something like this is going to happen.

The idea behind it was simple; every Bard who considered themselves worthy of their vocation were expected to walk the path of Leandra. The stone courtyard that made up the front pavilion of the shrine had some darker, crimson bricks laid into them that carved an elegant pathway up and around the entrance of the shrine itself.

Any Bard who entered the shrine was free to attempt the Dance. He would take his place and stand at the starting point of the path. He would wait until other visitors of the shrine had noticed him (this wasn't hard, as Bards almost universally are flamboyant dressers and quickly noticed).

When enough attention was upon them, the Bard in question would begin.

This new Bard was going in hard, and keeping up the beat. His feet danced across the courtyard stones, his melodic voice keeping up a beat. His string instrument chimed with the flutter of his dexterous fingers.

Gecklin found himself tapping his fingers to the beat. Others in the courtyard were doing the same. This was an accomplishment in itself, as the shrine daily received new visiting Bards and so the people were quite used to skilled entertainment. If this Bard had managed to capture and keep these people's attention, that said something about his skill.

Back and forth the Bard crossed the crimson path of stonework in front of the sacred shrine. Time and again he carried on his tune, his harmony matched by the visual splendor of Leandra's domicile.

Gecklin was surprised when the Bard made his tenth, then fifteenth, and finally twenty-fifth circuit of the crimson path. His face was flush with sweat, his breathing labored, yet he carried on. Again his stringed instrument chimed and thrummed.

The vicar himself, a squat older man with two, beady little eyes, had come to stand in the doorway of the shrine. One of the sacred insense burners still hung from his grasp, wisps of sacred smoke drifting off from it.

Thirtieth pass, thirty-fifth, Gecklin could see the man was beginning to struggle now. His face was turning red and beads ran down his face and neck. Yet, still he did not stop.

Gecklin and everyone else stopped to watch the man as, finally, he completed his fortieth pass. His face dripping with exhaustion, the Bard stopped his music and bent backwards, taking a deep breath.

Exaltation and applause greeted him as everyone in the shrine clapped in admiration. The Bard's face lit up in a smile again and he bowed theatrically, thanking the people for their attention and good graces.

[theblackthornerose]

A Rose In The Shrine Pt. I

Gecklin was a young boy who spent half his time working for his father in the stables of the shrine and the other half in studies under the tutelage of the town vicar. He was a young lad who still liked to sneak away from either the stables or the vicar in order to play "knights and highwaymen" with the other boys in woods around their town. But today, it just didn't seem to be Gecklin's day.

Not only had the Vicar foisted upon them more homework than usual that morning but the shrine had seen more visitors thanks to an approaching holiday for the goddess.

Goddess Leindra was one of the Iluminaries and was considered a powerful local goddess associated with stone and wood working, particularly the art of carving stone or wood. The shrine dedicated to her had been put into place by the village's ancient founders and had grown over the course of decades into a sizable portion of the town's outer districts.

Indeed, the shrine itself was now a large wooden hut that could fit easily fifty people into it. And it was surrounded by a courtyard full of stone and wood carvings, all done by the grandmasters of the stoneworkers and woodcarvers guilds. There was even an artificial pond fed water from a nearby spring thanks to an intricate system of beautifully engraved metal pipes.

The ground around the shrine was laden with flowers, prayer scrolls and small trinkets dedicated to the goddess. Stoneworkers and woodcarvers far and wide had passed by here and made sure to leave small offerings of their own in tribute to the goddess, usually in the form of old tools left in her honor.

Gecklin was busy feeding the horses of the paying visitors to the shrine when he noticed a cloaked man enter the courtyard, the dust of the road thick on his boots and leggings. He was a man of medium height and build but his green and yellow cloak, edged with feathers and jangling with prayer beads on the edges, immediately set him off as someone unique from typical townsfolk and passing pilgrims.

When the man threw aside his cloak to reveal an emerald tunic with bright red sash, and dark purple leggings, it was obvious he was another of the bards.

The bards were chief among the worshipers of the Illuminaries and their kind were quite frequent in this place.

[theblackthornerose]

Favor Of The Gods

Religion was a living and varied thing, spread out across the Nine Kingdoms in a multi-hued canvas of cultural interpretation and personal taste. Soldiers, gladiators and adventurers prayed to gods like Falkus, the dark god of close quarters combat, or Beruna, the bear-god of strength and might.

Merchants and sailors prayed to a variety of naval deities and demigods of luck and fortune. Kings honored the solar deities (often claiming descent from them in order to give legitimacy to their rule, not that anybody really believed it) and led grand processions paid for with no small amount of tax money through the major roadways of cities as they exhorted their people not to forget Father Sun in the sky above.

Monastics, Paladins and academic-philosophers meditated on and debated about the subject of the Skyfather, the primordial creator of all things and father of all the gods. His consort was Dae, the sacred Earthmother, whose gentle demeanor hid the great well-spring of power within her being.

These were the major deities, the names on the lips of everyone across the Nine Kingdoms and beyond. Local dialect and language barriers changed the pronunciation, but everyone understood the universality of these beings.

However, below these High Gods were a descending menagerie of lesser deities, demigods, mythological monsters and local spirits.

However, there is one last class of deities that requires mentioning here... The Illuminaries.

These are the various gods and goddesses of Art itself, deities of painting, poetry, dance, swordfighting, etc. Some of them crossed over into other area of expertise, but they all shared a base nature founded upon the noble tradition of art itself.

And chief among their adherents was the eccentric rabble of the Bards.

Indeed, traveling Bards made a point to stop by local shrines dedicated to one or more of the Illuminaries. These shrines were often attached to taverns and night-houses, places were Bards congregated naturally under the distant gaze of their patron deities. These were not the empty and forsaken shrines of other less remembered gods but areas along well-trodden roads where life and color could be found.

[theblackthornerose]

Kingdom of Bardonne

The Kingdom of Bardonne is one of the smaller kingdoms that lie west of Avon de Pris. However, they are highly influential as most trade routes between the northern and southern kingdoms must go through them due to the natural terrain of the Nine Kingdoms. Because of that, Bardonne is dominated by rich merchant guilds and banking families.

Chief among them is the House of Thorpe.

[theblackthornerose]

The House of Thorpe

The House of Thorpe is a noble family and one of the most affluent in the kingdom of Bardonne. Rising from obscurity centuries ago to dominate the rich banking system of the western kingdoms, the Thorpes are famous for their political influence, cultural power and their patronage of the arts.

Indeed, few noble families are as tied to the Bardic Colleges as is the House of Thorpe. And more than a few Bards are in the personal employ of various heads of the family.

With all that being said, however, the House of Thorpe hides a terrible secret. The members of House Thorpe were raised in the cultural traditions of their family, striving to be on the edge of new fashions and trends. This has bred in them a strong desire for risk and thrill-seeking.

Normally, this has left members of the House as mere eccentrics, bored, rich nobles playing at being adventurers. However, tales are told of more depraved members of the family, people who descended into narcotics use, extreme lifestyles and, in some cases, outright murder for the simple thrill of it.

There are persistent rumors that a scion of the family, several generations ago, even went so far as to take up cannibalism in the name of adventuring new fields in the culinary arts. He was exiled from the family's estate and journeyed into the northern kingdoms were he has founded an outlaw band of oddly-sophisticate raiders who dine on human flesh.

Despite this, the House of Thorpe remains one of the most influential families in all the Nine Kingdoms. Their natural talent for logistics and organization makes them a force to be reckoned with in politics and their old money heritage awards them more than a few friends an admirers among the other nobles.

[theblackthornerose]

The Nine Kingdoms

The Nine Kingdoms are the nine greater kingdoms that surround the smaller republic of Avon de Pris. There are the three northern kingdoms, known for their hardy ways and strength of arms; the three western kingdoms which grow fat and rich on their fertile farming lands; and finally the three southern tribes, which hold most of their territory amid the vast jungle forests of the deep south.

These last three are the most mysterious, for they inhabit lands once possessed of a far greater civilization but which remains now only in the form of ruins and archaeological trinkets.

The Three Western Kingdoms

-Bardonne

[theblackthornerose]

Ulric Von Damsheur

Ulric was a man of great heritage but little fortune. Born into a poor noble family that had long held demesne over a wimpy farming valley far up into the mountains, Ulric had been raised as a knight and young nobleman, but was often looked down upon by the more affluent nobles of the Nine Kingdoms.

The first-born son of a once great man, Ulric's father had been badly wounded in a battle long-ago, fighting for the honor of his family, his king and his country against an invasion force from outside the Nine Kingdoms. Often castle-bound, Ulric grew up listening to the tales his father told of the past glories of his family and the values upheld by his honorable ancestors.

However, Ulric grew frustrated and angry at the derision and ridicule he faced from other nobles, particularly those of the rich elites who ruled from walled cities, or those who held estates in the capitals or even in Avon de Pris itself.

Ulric was seen as merely "country nobility," a dirty scion of a forgotten branch of nobility who were little more than puffed-up peasants themselves. Once, a member of a richer family had actually said that to Ulric's face. Ulric had floored the man before he had even finished the sentence. He had been censored and forced to pay a hefty fine for his assault, but Ulric considered it a bargain for the pleasure of putting the man on his backside like that.

Whatever the richer nobles said of him and his family, Ulric was a man of his people. While not able to afford the full suits of gleaming armor or Elven weaponry of other families, Ulric made a point to ride across his ancestral holdings at least once every week.

When beasts or the occasional monster emerged from the primordial forests to devour cattle or chase farmers, it had been Ulric who marshaled the local militia and led them out to confront the problem. Ulric had faced down more than a few deadly foes, he certainly had a set of scars to prove it too.

While he may have been looked down upon by the other nobles, he was beloved of his people, rustic through they may have been.

Of course, in time, there would be another who would look upon Ulric and appreciate him for his talents...

[theblackthornerose]

The Blackthorne Rose

Many years ago a particularly talented student emerged from the Bardic College of Avon de Pris with a title of graduation. No one seems to know what his birth name was, he was raised an orphan in one of the guilds-sponsored orphanages.

However, it didn't take long for his artistic affinity to surface. One day while out in the orphanage's yard, scribbling on a notebook he had purchased with his weekly allowance, he was surprised when a tall, handsome man in colorful robes approached.

The man said he was a representative from the Bardic College, a recruiter who had heard of the young boy's budding talents. After looking over the boy's notebook, the recruiter was sure the orphan had a place in the Bardic curriculum.

The boy proved to be a real pain in the (*censored*), but this was okay because the Bardic College practically thrived on attitude and this character trait only meant the young boy would fit in better. Many years later, when the boy had become a young man, he would emerge from the Bardic College with his new name, the Blackthorne Rose.

And more than a few teachers of the college were glad to see him go.

The Blackthorne Rose had foregone offers of employment for local lords and ladies, working as a court minstrel, or serving in one of the mighty guilds as a mere scrivener and concessional entertainer. There were several potential avenues of livelihood for a graduate of the Bardic College, but 'Black' (as his friends knew him) desired one thing alone; to walk the dangerous path of an adventuring bard, like the legends of old, those bards whose marble statues lined the hallways of the Bardic College itself.

This was a dangerous option to take, for while bards were trained in basic defenses and mastery of Illusion, that hardly made them a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield alone. And the world was full of dangers and horrors of all stripes and sizes.

So, with his rich black hair and suave skin, Black set out first to make some friends before he began his career as a novice adventurer...