Description
Upon the ivory complexioned skin of this forest elf you notice the berry
purple lips, moist with the last sip of alcohol and gently twisting to
spew verse and praises at regular intervals. Set on a face whose features
are soothing to the weary eye, the sound the emerges from them heightens
the clam of your nerves and lulls you into relaxation. The almond shaped
and ash colored eyes of this male are deeply set in their sockets and
carry a glazed, lost look even when they are staring directly at you.
The starry-eyed male is dressed in a mixture of forest greens and cured
hides of dull, plain colors that mask his gangling figure and allow him
the appearance of well-fed traveller, though a gust of wind now and then
clearly gives way for you to notice that he is not as plump as he may
seem to appear due to his clothing. Along his waist, a peculiar belt made
of five masks, each with a different expression, is fastened tightly.
A traveller's backpack clings to his back and the scent of fresh berries
and brain-numbing firebreather make it quite obvious as to what it might
contain. The scent of alcohol coupled with the harp clutched loosely
in his right hand...make obvious of the the fact that this forest elf is
most likely to learn the minstrel's guild arts. The sheen of dirt on his
belongings and his unkempt brown hair and virgin beard reek of the fact
that he is young and yet at the same time he is well travelled.
Taking a closer look at him, you notice that...
Role
The Prologue
Added Mon Feb 19 00:15:05 2007 at level 1:
The merry band of minstrels sang in their brightest pitch...for the occasion
was grand...grandeloquent if I might say so. But to the awe of the guests
and by the pride of the forest elves...leading the troupe of sings was a
frail child...Frajalar, of the Vlai'Allionthallas family of Royal courtesans
and the King listened in silence as the gifted child lead the pack that sang
with glee upon his birthday. The singing ceased to a roar of applause and
innumerous mumurmers about the talent of the little one was followed by the
feasting.
Smiles and wine acoompanied the guests and the host alike but the nervous
itch engulfed Frajalar, who though was happy where he was...longer for more.
Fralajar was born with unnaturally curved feet, a sign the wood-elves thought
to be that of a wandering traveller and though his family tried to conceal
the superstition from the child and the nobles (least they realize that he
was to leave them in search of lore of the lands) but the child has instinct
that was not to be subdued.
While the drunken laughter echoed and whistled through the air, the lad
quickly sneaked to the side and made his way to his shack. A few moments later
it was assumed that he had left, for good, tricking the guards by telling them
that he was venturing into the woods to find some fresh flowers to gift to
the king...his footsteps were traced when his parent realized that he was
amiss and their fading trail ended in the plains north of the city of Voralion.
He missed the annoucement by the King who had bestowed upon his the title
of The Royal Court Singer, he missed it for something he had thought to be
much better...for something he had set out afoot to find and enliven...
The Gist: The Five Masks of the Minstrel.
Added Mon Feb 19 00:48:13 2007 at level 1:
Was the life of minstrels reduced to that of petty immitations?
Was the voice of men capable of no more than limiting themselves?
Was there not more to achieve by pitch than to learn to sing of fiends in
immitations of fearstriking demon-tones or playing healer to warriors who
swung their sword on trees and torsos alike...?
Upon his travels Frajalar fashioned five masks that spelled and spilled out
his aims and roles, for the life of a minstrel was not just that one one who
sang to please his master and cheer his mates...
The first mask: The Chronicler - The chronicler was one who kept tab of the
events that passed and made note of the changes that affected society.
It was his account of events and tales that he listed with his quill and
duely captured in ink on paper that would grant inspiration to generations of
priests and poets, warriors and warlocks. The tales they could draw stength
from of legends they could look up to. The mistakes of history that should
never be repeated, the changes in politics that changed the face of society.
The second mask: The Satirist - A harp might not be the sharpest instrument
for revolution and change, but it was perhaps the brightest. The minstrel
knew that he could not charge into battle to commander honor and respect, to
demand courage and strength or even bring parity or fairness to battles that
deserve. Yet he had the power of verse, verse that with caustic humor would
make people laugh and have way throught their chuckling realize that their
chortling was aimed at their own sordid deeds...laughter that would soon
turn into self-introspection, self-introspection that would lead to self
discovery...To a point when each man would do...what he must.
The third mask: The Traveller - The choricler cannot exist until the traveller
is born. For to know what passes the traveller must tresspass into spaces
ere unchartered and unknown. He must bribe. He must nudge. He must prod. He
must pry. He must sniff about for information and keep an eye out as he walks
through dark tunnels to know... To know all that is meant to be unknown.
A harp by the warmth of fire, singing sweet songs of legends, cannot exist
until the fingers that wield that harp have been fists that have fought along
side those legends. For all tale heard and passed on always lose their charm
and are nothing but immitations of immitations of the truth...
The fourth mask: The Entertainer - Few have the gift of a voice that can
create both dread and cheer, like that of a Minstrel. It is his to bring
pleasure to the weary and the sick. It is his to lighten up the fire with
his strumming and add panache to a sip of ale with his song and verse.
His song can move the audience to tears, for catharsis sometimes is much
better than laughter, and his song and make others roll with laughter, we
know that there is no better medicine than that. It is said that the best
way to feel good about oneself is to make others feel good...well said.
The fifth and final mask: The Poet - The mask of the Poet is the irony and
the paradox of the Minstrel's life. To achieve his feats as a chorlicler, a
satirist, an entertainer and the traveller...he is required to indulge in
verse and tale...that stem from the fith mask of being a poet. Ye