The Plucky Paws Guild Issue #5
Emlynn Jones
Stunned silence was the response to Melodus Wyndsong’s bold declaration. Only Brother Fulce remained unfazed.
Theo held his glass frozen midway to his mouth, “Well,” he began, shaking off the surprise. “I must admit that was not what I thought you were going to say! I thought it had to do with the Bleakmarsh, but slay the dark mage himself? It’s bold, I’ll give you that!”
“It’s madness!” Sylvan cried out. “Even to enter the darklands of Umbryl Fen is death! How could we possibly…I mean to slay him, we’d have to first survive that swamp!”
“I must agree with our thief,” Reginald recovered. “If even half the whispers of the dark necromancer are true, it would be certain death. I would risk much to end such an evil blight upon our fair land, but certain death?”
Melodus just smiled and winked at Fulce. “My good Brother Riverwalker, would you please explain to our stalwart companions why I have not taken leave of my senses?”
“Gladly,” the priest nodded to the bard, standing from his seat. “Ewena the Shepherdess sent me a vision, she has commanded me to stop the dark evil that has held sway over Umbryl Fen for far too long. In a dream, she revealed to me the location of a relic that will counter the dark enchanter’s immortal protections. With this relic, he can be slain, I know it.”
“And you have this 'relic' then?” Sylvan asked, her voice laden with skepticism.
“Not yet, but together we can retrieve it!” the priest declared with fervor.
“And where is this item?” the large warrior asked from the other side of the table. “Not in the swamps, I hope.”
“No,” Brother Fulce replied. “It was taken by the revered priestess Seralya Silverhoof after the Undeath Wars.”
“That was over 500 years ago!” Theo cried out in surprise. Melodus had known that would intrigue the studious wizard.
“Yes,” agreed the priest. “And legend said she took it with her on her last great pilgrimage to the Great Eyrie to be blessed by the Golden Eagle, Aurevaris One-Wing. But alas, her entire party disappeared en route to the holy eagle’s nest, lost to the annals of time.”
“And you know what happened to them?” Sylvan asked, still unsure whether to believe the priest’s claims. “Through this vision of yours?”
“Yes! Midway up the perilous path of the great mountain Taloncrag lies a cave. It is there in this cave that we will find the relic. I have seen it.”
“And what became of the priestess?” Reginald asked, intrigued. “What foul threat ended her quest and made her seek refuge in a cave?”
“The Vultures of Carrion Veil,” the cleric answered without hesitation.
“Ah, yes!” Theo, now fully engaged, proclaimed. “Yes! They were particularly active after the Undead Wars. The noble eagles lost many of their knights in the battle, and for a century afterward, the foul vultures rose up, expanding their domain into the eagle lands. They were laid low by the union of the forest folk in the year 1645, if I remember correctly.”
“You do indeed, “ Fulce confirmed. “The priestess and her companions were ambushed. Wounded, they moved into the caves where the foul carrion eaters laid a siege for 3 months. Alas, all perished. And their ultimate fate and resting place was lost to the Great Forest.”
“Okay,” Reginald said, nodding as he saw the plan coming together. “The mountain Taloncrag is not the safest place in the world, but it is not so dangerous as the foul marshes. We could venture there and find if this relic truly exists.”
“It does,” the priest’s eyes aglow with faith.
“Fine,” Sylvan conceded. “But even if we find this relic-”
“We will,” the young cleric interrupted.
Sylvan waved him off, “Even IF we find the relic. Even IF with the relic we can slay the foul newt. Even then! How do we enter the swamps? Have you forgotten that disease and death await all forest folk who enter that fell place?”
“Ah!” It was the minstrel's turn now, and the priest sat back down, gesturing to Melodus to take the lead. “I already have a solution for that!”
“And what would that be?” the thief asked.
“Well, my talented rogue, if you had listened to my song better, you would know already. Perhaps your ears are not as nimble as your fingers?” Melodus winked.
“Leave off, Melodus!” Reginald called out. “You’re clearly enjoying this, but speak plainly, good raccoon. How do we overcome the foul marsh?”
“Perhaps this calls for a song?” the priest opined. Melodus's smile grew even wider. Sylvan rolled her eyes in exasperation.
“Yes!” cried Theo, “a song!”
He truly was a youth, Sylvan thought.
The bard stood up, clearing his throat, tuning his precious lute. “What say you, good badger?” Melodus called out to the innkeeper, Celdric. “Is it time for a song?”
Celdric nodded with enthusiasm. A good song from Melodus Wyndsong always made for a good night for the Dancing Ferret. Other guests paused their meals, calling with enthusiasm for the bard to sing.
Melodus took a central location in front of the great hearth, proclaiming in his best performance voice, “My good forest folk! Would you hear my latest ballad? The Lay of Harold Dragonscale? You will be the first to hear it, outside of the Deers of the Forest Folk. Shall I sing it for you, my friends?”
Sylvan rolled her eyes again, but the effect on the denizens of the inn was undeniable. They cried out eagerly for the bard to sing.
Melodus began playing his lute, deft fingers plucking and strumming. A dark and mysterious tune sprang forth, mesmerizing the eager listeners. The melody grew more complex, more foreboding, then the famed mystic's golden voice rose above the music, echoing throughout the large common room:
“Darkest was the midnight hour,
The moon a visage fell—
Upon the village of Paundew’s gate
Came the hero Dragonscale.
A curse had gripped the withered land,
A tale too grim to tell—
A sickness wrought by wicked hands
Found the wandering Dragonscale.
Though Death had claimed the townsfolk’s breath,
That rider gaunt and pale,
He would not grant them peace or rest—
So saw young Dragonscale.
At witching hour, the dead would dance,
Awakened by a cursed knell,
A ghastly waltz through ashen streets
Around lone Dragonscale.
The mournful few who still drew breath
Could naught but weep and wail,
And pray for mercy for their kin
To noble Dragonscale.
No sword he bore, nor gleaming shield,
No helm, nor coat of mail—
Yet still he stood, unflinching soul,
Undaunted Dragonscale.
He fought the dead with spell and flame,
And virtue did prevail,
He laid them back in hallowed ground—
Worn, bleeding Dragonscale.
Then to his brew he turned once more,
As cauldron fire did swell,
To seal the breach 'twixt life and death,
So labored Dragonscale.
Though shadowed arts had cursed the land,
He swore he would not fail—
And poured into the final draught
The blood of Dragonscale.
The potion done, the town was saved—
Hope rang from chapel bell,
For evil’s dream could not outmatch
The will of Dragonscale.
A scheme most vile had taken root,
The Warlock Shadowfell—
But all was lost, his dark design,
Thwarted by the Dragonscale.
Though shadows creep and curses cling,
Still good will thus prevail,
And light will rise, undimmed by fear—
As did Harold Dragonscale.”
The last stanza built up to a triumphant level, the final notes ringing out with hope and light. As the notes faded, the creatures of the inn sat in silence, completely enthralled by the bard’s performance. Then all as one, the creatures broke out cheering, cutlery banging their mugs, paws pounding the table in delight. Celdric winced in anticipation of the nicks and cracks to his mugs and knives.
Melodus bowed deeply, his face alight with pleasure. The applause went on for some time before fading. Cries of praise came next, many asserting it was the finest ballad they had ever heard. Others called for Melodus to follow up his performance with his famed rendition of the Ballad of Renold the Rascally. He waved them off as he returned to the table.
“Thank you, my good folk! I will sing more later! For now, I must return to my companions! But thank you! You are all too kind!”
“So?” He asked his friends arriving at the table.
“That was fabulous!” Theo gushed. “So engaging! So captivating! So well sung!”
Melodus nodded in thanks to the young wizard’s praise. “My thanks, young Goldspinner, but that was not quite what I meant. So, does that answer your question?”
Sylvan was the first to answer, “So this Harold Dragonscale can brew us something to counter the swamps. Or so you hope.”
“So I know!” the minstrel boldly declared. “Harold Dragonscale is the greatest alchemist of our age! He defeated the plague of the Dancing Death in Paundew. His potions alone can grant us safe passage in the Bleakmarsh of Umbryl Fen!”