But what plans did you have to change, and why? Inquiring minds want to know!
A change of plans The spellsinger, Jerowyn, sat down at a corner table in the Inn of Five Shires. It was still early in the day so the table was available, though the hobbits had already seen his temper and would have vacated the table if they'd been using it. The barmaid, a hobbitette called Sylvia, eyed him cautiously and then ventured across the ancient wooden planks that made up the floor. "Ale," yelled Jerowyn before she was even half-way towards him. "And none of that filtered swill you tried to serve me yesterday! Proper ale, black as a mother's heart and strong as the Red King's warfrick." Sylvia retreated behind the bar, where Tomtom the owner was cowering, and started checking the barrels. "What kind of mother did he have anyway?" she whispered to Tomtom. "And warfrick? Who but soldiers and goblinoids takes warfrick?" "Try the number 7 porter," said Tomtom. "You might have to spoon it out of the barrel though, it's on the thick side." While the hobbits busied themselves with serving him, Jerowyn looked at his lute and frowned. It was a powerful spell-caster but probably overkill for what he needed right now. His hands fluttered up and down his jacket; there was a flute in the special long inside pocket, and a penny-whistle in his side-pocket; there were finger-cymbals in his breast pocket but finally he reached down to a case by his feet and unlaced it to free his travelling harp. It was as long as his forearm and the hobbits, seeing its burnished birchwood catch the light, retreated. Sylvia placed a litre of turgid black liquid on the table and fled to the backroom. Jerowyn plucked two strings on the harp and bright notes pinged through the Inn. As he played, eliciting a mournful tune from the harp he started to sing: soft words about needing to talk to a friend. After a few seconds the air about his table shimmered as though heat were rising from the floor, and then an image appeared in the air of a middle-aged woman with greying hair tied in a pony-tail and a frown on her face. Jerowyn stopped singing, but kept playing; the magic would fade as soon as the music did. "You were going to call tonight," said the woman. She sounded grumpy and congested. She sniffed. "Change of plans," said Jerowyn. "As far as I can tell this whole village will be smoke and ashes before sundown, so I'm packing up and heading out now." "You shouldn't be near the front lines," said the woman, suddenly sounding interested. She leaned forward, her elbows pushing papers in front of her. They disappeared with a clatter that sounded like they'd fallen to the floor. "What's approaching?" "About six hundred cavalry," said Jerowyn. "The banners say Lady McAlvie's regiment, but there are rumours that she's just taking orders from Lady Jane." The woman in the image tapped a fingernail against her front teeth, her eyes deflected upwards as she thought. "Could be," she said at last. "Well, that changes more plans than just these I guess. Fine, clear out and get clear. Call me again tomo-- no, the day after. Get more information first, if you can." "Sure," said Jerowyn. "I'll be able to confirm by then if you need to rub Fiveshires off the map or not as well. Though it's a grotty little place, no great loss if you ask me."
Greg - literally no memory of what inspired this prompt, sorry.
Jerowyn is an interesting character - I can't remember if we've met him before or not. Either way, I very much like the idea of a spellsinger and you certainly made this setting come to life!
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But what plans did you have to change, and why? Inquiring minds want to know!
A change of plans
The spellsinger, Jerowyn, sat down at a corner table in the Inn of Five Shires. It was still early in the day so the table was available, though the hobbits had already seen his temper and would have vacated the table if they'd been using it. The barmaid, a hobbitette called Sylvia, eyed him cautiously and then ventured across the ancient wooden planks that made up the floor.
"Ale," yelled Jerowyn before she was even half-way towards him. "And none of that filtered swill you tried to serve me yesterday! Proper ale, black as a mother's heart and strong as the Red King's warfrick." Sylvia retreated behind the bar, where Tomtom the owner was cowering, and started checking the barrels.
"What kind of mother did he have anyway?" she whispered to Tomtom. "And warfrick? Who but soldiers and goblinoids takes warfrick?"
"Try the number 7 porter," said Tomtom. "You might have to spoon it out of the barrel though, it's on the thick side."
While the hobbits busied themselves with serving him, Jerowyn looked at his lute and frowned. It was a powerful spell-caster but probably overkill for what he needed right now. His hands fluttered up and down his jacket; there was a flute in the special long inside pocket, and a penny-whistle in his side-pocket; there were finger-cymbals in his breast pocket but finally he reached down to a case by his feet and unlaced it to free his travelling harp. It was as long as his forearm and the hobbits, seeing its burnished birchwood catch the light, retreated. Sylvia placed a litre of turgid black liquid on the table and fled to the backroom.
Jerowyn plucked two strings on the harp and bright notes pinged through the Inn. As he played, eliciting a mournful tune from the harp he started to sing: soft words about needing to talk to a friend. After a few seconds the air about his table shimmered as though heat were rising from the floor, and then an image appeared in the air of a middle-aged woman with greying hair tied in a pony-tail and a frown on her face. Jerowyn stopped singing, but kept playing; the magic would fade as soon as the music did.
"You were going to call tonight," said the woman. She sounded grumpy and congested. She sniffed.
"Change of plans," said Jerowyn. "As far as I can tell this whole village will be smoke and ashes before sundown, so I'm packing up and heading out now."
"You shouldn't be near the front lines," said the woman, suddenly sounding interested. She leaned forward, her elbows pushing papers in front of her. They disappeared with a clatter that sounded like they'd fallen to the floor. "What's approaching?"
"About six hundred cavalry," said Jerowyn. "The banners say Lady McAlvie's regiment, but there are rumours that she's just taking orders from Lady Jane."
The woman in the image tapped a fingernail against her front teeth, her eyes deflected upwards as she thought.
"Could be," she said at last. "Well, that changes more plans than just these I guess. Fine, clear out and get clear. Call me again tomo-- no, the day after. Get more information first, if you can."
"Sure," said Jerowyn. "I'll be able to confirm by then if you need to rub Fiveshires off the map or not as well. Though it's a grotty little place, no great loss if you ask me."
Greg - literally no memory of what inspired this prompt, sorry.
Jerowyn is an interesting character - I can't remember if we've met him before or not. Either way, I very much like the idea of a spellsinger and you certainly made this setting come to life!
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