Twilight of Empires

Garlick Woodsborn smiled to himself as he followed his trio of trainees down the long staircase towards the base of the Spire of Mirabel. Technically, he was supposed to be guarding the rear, but after this afternoon, there wasn't anything above them more dangerous than a few songbirds.

Gar had been asked by guard captain Thorbrand to lead his most promising recruits to the spire, and offer whatever guidance he felt appropriate in their mission to clear out a flock of stirges that had taken up residence on the upper floors. Stirges, bat like creatures with needle sharp beaks, were a moderately dangerous to a man caught unawares, as their saliva somehow prevented wounds from healing. A flock of over a hundred like the one the group had just dealt with, that could leave desiccated corpses littering the countryside in short order.

But now that was no longer a worry. As a senior hunter, adept with the bow and crafty with snares, Gar could have dealt with the flock in about a week, picking them off one by one. It may have been noisy, but these three youths accomplished the task in a single afternoon. Thorbrand was right about their promise.

Just a few steps ahead and below, the Wood Elf Daphand kept the others covered with his bow, eyes alert fro trouble. Cometent with bow and blade, the lad lived up to the commons preconceptions folk had about his kind, even if he looked like a stripling. And while his spirit magic was all but useless in a fight, the lad had the wits to use it wisely ahead of time. “What if we all smelled like rain?” indeed. Stirges only really care about three scents: blood, flesh, and citrus fruit.

Just ahead of the elf, the solid bulk of Hanzo bore the fruit of the exercise: a sack containing the beaks of the Stirges they had fought. The Uruk had a solid grounding in the strange Mandarinate magecraft his family practiced, and was competent enough with what he called “agricultural tools”, like the pair of straight-bladed hand scythes he bore. His spells were subtle, and worked against his foes gradually. For immediate applications of force, the trio depended most on…

“My esteemed grandfather would argue that 'Ox' is not a proper form of elemental branding,” Hanzo said in his soft accented voice.

“Oh?” Freyane responded in mock challenge, raising her rune-engraved mace.

“He was a bit of a traditionalist as I understand it, may he find peace with the ancestors. My grandmother, once I tell her of this trip, is likely to inquire if you can embroider that on a pair of gloves.”

The youthful human examined her weapon for a moment. “I's suggest something with more bracing, like a gauntlet,” she responded. “My big brother tried that once, and was stuck in a sling until Pa could get him into town to see Sister Maria. Freyanne had learned the basics of her grandfather Svall Svallson's rune scribing magic. But where he engraved and imbued sling stones by preference, she had engraved her armor, shield, and mace to accept her power. This made her surprisingly more effective front line fighter than her skill set would suggest, at least until she became exhausted.

The quartet arrived at the ground floor of the spire, and finding no challenges, moved to collect their traveling gear, carefully stashed under the stairs and behind another of Daphand's subtle protections. “Master Woodsborn,” Hanzo began in a deferential tone, “The spire is in excellent condition. Why hasn't it been reclaimed for use?”

Gar paused partway through shouldering his pack, then straightened. “A good question. There are three good reasons. Any guesses?”

“No water,” Daphand offered immediately. “No cistern on the top floor, and the Elves who used to live here took whatever artifacts that ran the fountains and basins with them when they left.”

“Nothing of use around here,” Freyanne adds in a practical tone. We're on a rocky hill, surrounded by a tangled mess of softwood trees that are probably pretty in the spring, but don't have a single yard of straight cordage among then.”

“Well noted. Speaking of which, the butcher will need an escort for his apprentices after harvest. They collect wood for his smokehouse out here. No guesses for the third reason?” The trio looked to one another, then collectively shook their heads. “Right. Well, we're all packed, and we want to leave soon if we're going to get to town before it's too dark. Reason three is why I told none of you to enter the main central chamber.”

Gar gestured at the archway separating the entry area of the spire from the central chamber, extending a full thirty stories to the top. “Daphand, if you would? I promise, no harm will come of it.” The Wood Elf eyed his mentor dubiously, then cautiously stepped through the arch.

Withing the central area, the light dimmed, then brightened in candle flame colors. An unseen orchestra began to play a soothing, waiting sort of melody. And finally, a fifty foot illusion of a gorgeous Elven man in an overstated outfit appeared, and began speaking in an announcer's tone in an archaic form of the Elven tongue. Daphand began translating for the others.

“Welcome, lords and ladies, honored guests all, to the final performance of the Spire of Mirabel players. While we are saddened by the end of our time here, we have chosen to celebrate this night. For your delight and entertainment, we have chosen to perform, in it's entirety,” Daphand's tone begins to rise in startled alarm, “the epic of King Regis the First and the Giant Queen!?!” The young Elf scrambled out of the chamber, though the illusion continued to speak. “The entire thing?” he demanded pleadingly of Garlick.

“Oh, you're familiar with the work?” the older man responded calmly.

“I read it once, and that took a day and a half of my time. And I skimmed the Litany of Out Heritage sections!”

“If it makes you feel better, they only do the High King's lineage here.” Gar chuckled, “And that, trainees, is why no one lives here. Any person enters the performance area, that starts. And goes on for two hole days, including meal breaks and intermissions. no one has found a way to stop it, and some of it is… noisy.”

“I can imagine. Like the coup in the Giant's Palace.”

“Fortunately, we have about half an hour before it starts, so let's get moving, shall we?”

The Gored Boar was comparatively quiet: the minstrel troupe Fuzzy Leggs was between sets, and it was too early in the season for major trade caravans. The quartet was seated at a table to one side, eating supper and reporting to the Mercenaries Guild factor. The expansive gestures involved kept the taproom entertained.

Once the group was paid, and the factor went back into his office, Glynna Swansong, the capritaur singer of the troupe approached. “I couldn't help but overhear, The King and the Giant Queen? When did it start?”

Garlick shrugged, “About an hour before sunset. Why?”

“That gives us until noon to get out there tomorrow. If my sources were right, they should begin The Ballad of the Lovelorn Prince in the early afternoon. It's never performed outside the Principalities, and the ladies in Yamato can't get enough of that tragic Elven mushy stuff.”

A sweeping gesture bought the other members of her troupe over, the three faun musicians. “Now we are but simple performers, where might we find starwart guides to lead us to this spire?” The eyelash flutter was clearly practiced.

Gar chuckled, and collected his plate. “Please take my seat miss. I am certain you can work something out with our young heroes.”

“Just be sure to get paid up front, kids!” was his last instruction before joining old Thorbrand at another table.