“Now I’ve got you!” This was a curious outburst as, sitting across from him was an empty bench, but it made no difference. With a quick motion he moved his Queen piece into position and proclaimed with all the sagaciousness of a great war leader on the field of battle. “I do believe that is checkmate my friend.” Again, an empty bench in front of him, he seemed to be playing against a phantom in his mind.
With this, he arose from his seat and reaching for his bottle, bowed to the vacant bench and took another drink of his delicious stout and began to make his way toward a large crate. Slowly opening the crate, he reached in and pulled out a small bag which held his most prized items, a set of 4 instruments; a drum, a standing harp a lute and a tambourine that had a long red ribbon attached to it. He never really understood what the ribbon was for, these were second hand instruments, bought in an auction many moons ago, but all the instruments served their purpose well. The drum was a particular favorite of his but he understood the essence of music making and while he could bang out a cacophonous deluge of irritating songs that one would only play for the worst of his enemies, he could also pluck the finest subtle tunes that one might here coming from their local tavern when a travelling minstrel would come to town, though those days were far and in between nowadays, seems that was from a bygone time. His mind belonged to those times, he was quite possibly antediluvian by the standards of his peers, but no matter, he did what he always knew how to do, he played music and played it well, that was good enough for him.
Placing his prized bag of instruments in his bag, he mumbled to himself; “Now where are those pesky herbs at?” Of course, he was referring to strange smelling herbs that the mages and alchemist use. He of course used them in his limited way, he could never hope to master the art of Magery, but could manage a few of the basic spells. “Ahh, there you are you little buggers.” He reached for a small pouch, opened it slightly and immediately could tell by the awful stench that creeped out that he had found what he was looking for. These, he placed alongside his bag of instruments. “Only a few more things to find.” He said to himself. Slowly reaching for his bottle, now half empty, he took another drink and walked toward a weapon’s rack that was across the room from where he had been standing. surveying the limited array of weapons he had, he reached for a heavy maul, a smooth ball at one end, this was indeed a weapon for crushing through an opponents bones. It was a slight yellow color, crafted from the purest ingots of lunar, it was nothing special by other’s standards but to him, it had significance as it was crafted by a dear friend, Akir-Amen Jaheed, a curious fellow of dark skinned complexion, with one look you would imagine he was from Nujel’m like the Mozhan family, however he never spoke of his past to Callum and Callum never asked. This finely crafted maul had seen action on many fields of battle, though not the mightiest or most famous of warriors on the field of battle, Callum could hold his own when the time came, this was his trusted weapon, he loved the crackle that the maul would emit when he successfully landed a direct hit on his opponent, to him, this was a gift of the gods whose names have now been lost to antiquity. The gods whose names were once sung and praised in pubs and ancient temples long before the current religions were created and governed as he saw it by men who sat behind their veil of secrecy, capricious men whose only aim was to spread pernicious lies and sought to reduce those who did not wish to ally themselves into perpetual beggary and vagabondage. Though never truly outspoken about the anti religious ferver he felt for those who blindly followed the new “gods”, he knew what was right and what was wrong, he knew that in this chaotic time that the religions held much more power than they should have, as these thoughts of hatred to the so called “orders”, he said as if he was confronting the panel of four head priests; “You have sat too long for any good you have done lately, begone with you and your so called “Orders” of faith.”. After this dramatic, almost poetic outburst which was wasted on the empty benches that sat in the first floor of the Mozhan home in Nujel’m, he slung over his shoulder the maul he had been holding, which he had another of the Vaux family fashion a makeshift shoulder strap for him for this very purpose. Cederic was a fine tailor, when approached about fashioning this strap Cederic set to it and hastily fashioned the strap from “scraps” he said, but Callum knew better, though his eyes and hands were untrained in the art of tailoring, Callum knew that despite the humbled use of the word “scraps” that Cederic never used scraps of any sort, not because he was below that but because he had too much love and respect for his craft.
Taking a few steps to the right of the weapon’s rack, he began rummaging through another crate, this time he was looking for some armor that another good friend of his has made, Percival the tailor, based out of Vesper had crafted him some bone armor made from the bones of dragons. As he began to remember all his friends who had come and gone, tears of mirth filled his eyes as memories of what he perceived to be the golden days of his life began to flood his mind. “Now I’ve found you” he exclaimed as he picked up another small bag, this one colored a horrible pink as it was crafted from the hides of those pesky lizardman warlocks. He slowly opened it and began to put the armor on, this was a tricky task for any one person let alone someone who had been drinking even a little bit of the reddish drink. Once he had placed his prized armor on, he looked toward the long staircase that led up to the workshops of the Mozhan family, the scribe of the family, with her dark, obsidian colored hair and eyes had been instrumental in him learning magic, she had put together the spellbook he had used since he took up magic. Setareh, the strange one in the Mozhan family had always been able to craft the finest of jewelry when needed as well as other trinkets and things he used. He hated going upstairs however, the upper level of the house had a foul stench from Farjad’s little alchemy lab, this was where Farjad would sit for hours mixing potions and creating vile poisons for use by the shadiest of characters, Callum had little use for Farjad’s craft, he thought it pure trickery that one could craft wonderful potions to bring life and restoration to some and turn around and craft vile poisons whose only purpose in it’s short repugnant life was to destroy and unleash pain and suffering on those who might be unlucky enough to experience it’s rapacious appetite to consume life. Taking another drink of his nearly empty bottle, he slowly began climbing the immense staircase to the floor above with a foul stench slowly beginning to fill his nostrils he reached the top and located yet another crate, slowly opening it, this one creaked with age, he found a bundle of pages which in past times he scrawled poems and other verse, these he slowly placed on the desk next to him, Soraya’s little inscription desk that had been finely crafted together with counters and a small chair. Taking his attention away from the neatly stacked papers, he began to dig through the crate, searching for his leather bound spellbook that Soraya had bound together so long ago. “Where’d I put you?” he mumbled as he finished off the last of his red colored liquid. After some further searching, he finally found it, opened it and saw the inscription Soraya had placed on the inside cover; “To a dear friend of the Mozhan family, you’ve been there in great times of need and in times of good cheer. May this book serve you as well as your friendship has served myself and my family.” The melancholic tears began to fill his eyes, he thought of the Mozhan family as an extension of his own, a family he had not seen in what seemed to be an eternity. His family had been reduced to beggars by those who controlled life inside the walls of Britain, their only relief came when a great plague brought by the Cult had wiped them out, Callum himself only managed to escape because he took shelter in Lord British’s Conservatory of Music located in the north part of Britain. He placed the prized book in his pack, next to his bag of instruments and continued looking through the crate. Within a few seconds he found the next item he was looking for, a curious creation from one of the great tinkers, an obsidian ostard, the makers mark which was normally found just under the ride foot of the little statue had long worn off. It’s name was always a mystery to Callum, he had received it after a fateful trek into one of the many interconnecting cave systems, he had lost his horse and one of his troupe was kind enough to lend him the ostard whose name was Crime, though the name of his magnanimous troupe member had long faded from his memory, the gesture still brought back feelings of cheer that he had amassed good friends around him. With a quick tap to the statues head, he summoned his trusty ostard and asked it to stay.
His task was nearly done, with only a couple more items to gather he would leave the Mozhan house, indeed Nujel’m probably forever. Not forgetting the papers he had placed on Soraya’s desk, he quickly found a strange contraption that Setareh, Soraya’s sister, had crafted. Soraya had always called it a “clop-clop” for the sound it made as it pierced holes in the fibrous paper. Slowly aligning the “clop-clop” to make two holes evenly spread, Callum pushed down on the contraption and pierced the paper with one and then two holes. Callum then opened a small chest sitting on Soraya’s desk and pulled out a crimson colored silken ribbon and gently fed it through both holes to make a makeshift binding, these papers, scribbled with verse and poetry from days long gone by, he planned to leave with Soraya for later publication should she see fit. Removing the pen from an inkwell that sat at the far corner of the desk, he penned a small note to Soraya stating; “Should you see fit to publish these in a bound book, you have my blessing. I have deeply enjoyed the company of yourself and your siblings and owe much to the Mozhan’s longanimous kindness which has continuously been shown to this old balladeer. Alas it is time for me to take my leave, I have encumbered you and your family far too long. It is time for this old minstrel to travel the pubs and taverns that dot these and stranger lands.”
After gently placing the freshly written note between the first and second page of his ribbon bound poetry, Callum beckoned his ostard, Crime, to follow him. Slowly, he and his two legged friend made their way down the staircase. The repulsive stench from Farjad’s many potions and reagents slowly faded and was replaced with the smell of the oaken furniture that was recently crafted to furnish the house he had called home for such a short time. As he made his way toward the door, he stopped at the bench that was empty during his chess game he had previously won. As he looked down, he chortled then murmured; “Damn, looks like it wasn’t the end after all.” With this, he conceded defeat to his other self by tipping the king piece on it’s side. As he reached the door he removed the keys from his pack and unlocked the door, opened it and quickly locked it again. Asking his ostard to stand in next to the door to keep it propped up, he walked over to the nearest counter and placed his keyring on it with a note just underneath it. Crossing the threshold for the last time, he climbed on the back of the ostard and made his way to the docks.
Note found under the set of keys wrote:To my friends, the Mozhans and their cousins the Tegyrs,
I wish to extend my gratitude for your hospitality and kindness throughout the time I have known you. One day, perhaps we shall meet again, who knows what the fates have in store. From the earliest memories I have of knowing the Mozhan family when we met in the now long forgotten guild, the Wolf Pack, your family has been nothing but helpful and patient, enduring my faults, my music practices and other mishaps I caused. The Tegyrs despite Cyrus’ pious life has been nothing but an inspiration to what one can achieve through hard work and good fellowship amongst friends, as for Heydar’s undecided way of life, I only hope he does not follow in his brother’s footsteps to join one of the Orders that have been nothing but interrupt the way of life for those who do not wish to put their life and faith in the hands of those charlatans who call themselves the High Priests of the gods. I fear my hopes and wishes for his life’s calling might fall upon deaf ears but perhaps, with any hope, he will have a change of heart. The lands need more good men who do not blindly follow.
As for where I am going, I will make my way through every tavern and pub that will have me, spreading tales and stories that I had Soraya research from the libraries in Jhelom and Britain. Stories and tales that the old minstrels used to tell when the taverns were full of good cheer and fellowship. Those days are long past, but I’d like to venture forth and share the old stories with those who do not know of their existence, along the way I will probably pen more ballads for new tales I hear concerning daring and dashing exploits of people unknown.
Deepest gratitude,
Callum O’Lyre, the now travelling minstrel