The First Lament

''A strange front room for any dwelling, this greenhouse is put together to feel quite welcoming, if a little odorous. Tall walls surround the large, hexagonal room, made of sturdy birch, allowing for privacy and plenty of space overhead, and spanning the tops of these walls is a glass ceiling, supported by a wooden honeycomb lattice which casts its shadows over the floor. The ground itself is separated into four quadrants by a pebble path running through the greenhouse, cruciform in shape. Vegetable gardens fill three of these quadrants, all supporting healthy patches throughout the year, while the fourth quadrant is a small, grass-covered hump, with a wooden table at its top.''

''Four doors leave this greenhouse, one at each end of the paths, to a bedroom, a kitchen, a bath, and the exit to the street opposite the bed. By the street exit are a few racks and chests, filled with gardening tools and materials.''

Sandrim smirks. "There's a next problem?" he asks, taking a step, and being wrapped up in shadow as he winds up near the shelves, pulling out some cups. "I don't think there is a next problem."

Taran tilts his head, then chuckles. "Showoff," he says, finding a place to sit. "And you were worried for your family, I thought. Is it all resolved?"

Sandrim frowns. "It's... nothing is happening there," he says. "I don't know what to say."

Taran looks down to the grassy floor. "...Your family, they are very rooted in Road's End?"

Sandrim picks up a small jug of juice, starting to pour it out. "My father is, at least," he says. "My sister is more of a wonderer than even me."

"I meant...if they could make the trip," says Taran slowly, "we have room for them on the height. If you need it. You and I, we could see them safely that far. If it would help."

Sandrim finishes pouring the juice, before turning to bring it over to Taran. "I'll go keep an eye on him," he says. "That's how I'll manage."

Taran accepts it with a smile of thanks. "I suppose I would not be much help?"

Sandrim blinks at Taran. "Well, if you wanted?"

Taran seems surprised. "Your family matter to you. You matter to me. Why should I not wish to help?"

Sandrim grins at Taran, then sips from his juice. "Alright then," he says. "I'm sure you could always find a reason to be playing in the Black Sword."

Taran nods. "I could at that, yes," he says. "I may yet be remembered there, even. My reputation came mostly from playing in taverns."

Sandrim grins at Taran, and opens his mouth to say something, but stops. He knits his eyebrows and starts to frown, tilting his head to the side, as if listening to something.

Somewhere outside, a faint, musical sound can be heard, but is muffled by the walls of the greenhouse.

Taran blinks. "And it seems someone else assumes the bard's mantle," he says, though not as if he's displeased about it. "Shall we hunt the minstrel?"

Sandrim nods. "Sure," he says, setting aside his cup before he starts walking for the door.

The eastern artery of the independent freehold known as Crown's Refuge is known quite simply as the Eastern Pathway; a road of smooth cobbles, wide enough for two carriages to pass with space to spare, that runs a perfect east-west route between Tempest Corona to the west, and the eastern palisade wall.

''The cobbles of the pathway are not only smooth and level, but also seem to have been born from a variety of different types of stone, giving each one a distinct color as it rests next to all the others. Hues of brown, gold, bronze, slate, charcoal, and a myriad of other shades all conspire together to make such a route more affluent than it really needs to be.''

''The sides of the pathway are protected by low-rising curbs that mark where the road ends and the rest of the large township begins. Beyond those curbs, homes and stores flank the pathway in carefully placed patterns of building and street. Small backroads and trails break away from the main artery to lead to the two eastern quarters of Crown's Refuge that the Southern Pathway runs as a divide between.''

''The towering fortification known as Tempest Spire looms overhead towards the west, giving you a constant bearing of where you are located within Crown's Refuge. To the south spans the quarter of the freehold known as Wildcat Haven, which plays host to the various services of the township, such as the central Tavern and various storage buildings. To the north rests an area known as Wolfsbane's Row, the main residential area for the Human Wildlanders living within the freehold.''

Outside, the song is much clearer, and the direction it comes from is rather indistinct. It has no words to it, at least no words understandable to those living here, but it is a heartbreakingly sorrowful tune. If it is a male or a female singing it is impossible to tell.

The song breaks over the entire refuge, and the mages are far from the only two to hear it. Quite a bit of the activity tonight has slowed down, hunters and traders stopping in their tracks to look around, and even up at the moons, for the source of the song.

Sandrim finds himself looking at Stormwatcher, and then the walls, looking around.

Taran smiles as he listens. "It's good to hear someone else sing, now and again. Song always seems the first thing lost in troubled times. Nevertheless, as he closes his eyes he tilts his head side to side, triangulating for the source.

Taran isn't the only one out hunting the voice down. There's a small group of children running down the paths, stopping to cock their heads to the side every now and then as they try to find their way, before starting to run off a different way. They're playing tonight, and the game is hide and seek with the singer.

"It is pretty," Sandrim says, smiling a small bit. "Kind of sad, though. I wonder what he has to be sad about."

"Possibly much the same things as everyone else," says Taran, listening. "But the singer sings anyway. Sometimes it helps."

Giggling, the little band of five children disappear around a corner, running out of sight. Nearby, a young Fastheldian girl visiting the Refuge, arm around a dashing Wildlander hunter, sighs and rests her head on the man's shoulder. Life goes on, and so does the song.

"Well, if you have such a voice, I suppose it does," Sandrim says with a grin. "If I tried, I think I'd just scare people off."

"Skilled singing is a matter of practice and training," says Taran simply, leaning back against the greenhouse wall. "Not talent. It is the one instrument everyone has, as expressive as we wish it to be."

Sandrim grins a bit cheekily. "I suppose," he says. "But I've never been patient enough to learn it." He rubs the back of his head. "Maybe some time."

And then, rather abruptly, the singing just stops. The sudden shift is enough to catch a few people off guard, and even more stop at that than when it started.

Taran frowns. "Music critics," he says. "I hope it wasn't Aes. Now that he's finally learned to play it would be a shame to discourage that."

Sandrim smiles a bit at that. "Somehow, I don't think it was him," he says. "Aes would be making loud protests about people cutting him off."

Taran nods. "And with Tshepsi there would be ...trouble, I think." He shakes his head. "But it is over now. Back inside?"

Sandrim grins and shrugs. "Might as well," he says, before turning for the door. "A nice distraction."

Taran nods. "A pity the acoustics are so distorted. I would like to duet with such a voice sometime." He moves to follow Sandrim back inside.

Back to Season 8 (2008)