However much you believe you hate Ethel.... I promise that it isn't enough...
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The energy of the Revel had shifted, the earlier chaotic exuberance now coalescing into a focused anticipation. The crowd, a riotous tapestry of fantastical beings, began to gravitate towards the grand stage.The stage itself was a marvel, a colossal platform crafted from interwoven branches of ancient trees, their silver-barked surfaces shimmering with phosphorescent moss. It pulsed with a soft, ethereal light, casting an otherworldly glow upon the clearing. The air thrummed with a palpable sense of magic, raising the hairs on my arms and filling my lungs with the scent of ozone and wild blossoms.
As we joined the flow of the crowd, the cacophony of individual conversations began to subside, replaced by a hush that fell over the gathering like a velvet curtain. All eyes were now fixed on the elevated platform, where Hyrsam, resplendent in his horny glory, stood to address the expectant audience.
His voice, amplified by some unseen magic, boomed across the clearing, rich and resonant as the deepest notes of a celestial choir.
"Friends. Honored Guests. Children of the Feywild!" he proclaimed, his gaze sweeping over the assembled multitude.
"The moment you have all been waiting for has arrived. The culmination of our grand celebration! The competition of the greatest of bards, where skill and artistry will vie for the patronage of the Seelie Court, the Goddess of Joy herself... and, well, me!"
He beamed over the enthusiastic crowd, which erupted into wild cheers. Gently raising his hand to quiet them down, he continued theatrically.
"The winners of this contest shall obtain boons beyond a mortal's wildest dreams; rewards of fame and fortune that shall echo throughout history! But, let the stakes be known: those who are judged to have failed in their artistic duty will remain in our service until the next Grand Revel, in another nine years!"
Another deafening cheer erupted from the crowd, a wave of sound that washed over us, a symphony of whistles, applause, and the ululating cries of a thousand different voices. It was a sound that vibrated not just in the ears, but in the very bones, a primal chorus that spoke of unbridled passion and blissful chaos. The cheers were a cacophony of different voices, high-pitched giggles of pixies, deep bellows of treants, the trilling calls of fae birds, and the guttural growls of unseen beasts from the darker parts of the Feywild. It was a wave of pure, unadulterated enthusiasm tinged with cruelty, a tidal wave that threatened to sweep us off our feet and carry us away in its current.
It was quite clear that these beings didn't care about who won or lost. Tonight, the mortals were here for their entertainment — and those who failed to entertain would pay dearly for the privilege.
Hyrsam raised a hand, his gesture silencing the crowd with an almost supernatural swiftness.
"We shall now hear from those brave souls who have dared to bare their hearts and souls before us," he continued, his voice softening with a hint of paternal pride. "Let us listen with open minds and open hearts, and may the best among them win our favor!"
We watched attentively as the competing bards were called onto the stage one by one.
The first performer was a diminutive gnome with a lute crafted from polished rosewood. His fingers, surprisingly nimble, danced across the strings, weaving a melody that was both intricate and melancholic. The tune spoke of lost love and forgotten forests, of fading starlight and the ephemeral nature of beauty. His voice, a high, clear tenor, carried the weight of ages, each note imbued with a profound sense of longing.
Then came a tall, graceful elf, who sang a classic adventure ballad, her voice soaring and pure, like a nightingale in ecstasy. She accompanied herself on an expensive-looking enchanted harp, its strings shimmering with an inner radiance, each note a tiny explosion of pure magical energy.
Next came the group of the three kobolds we saw practicing earlier, their scales gleaming under the lanterns and emerging moonlight as they launched into a surprisingly well-coordinated percussion piece. They used an assortment of instruments fashioned from hollowed-out logs, stretched animal hides, and clusters of rattling seed pods. Their music was raw, energetic, and certainly original: a tribal rhythm that pulsed with a primal vitality. They chanted in their guttural language, their voices a mix of growls, chirps, and hisses, creating a sound that was both alien and… strangely compelling.
"Good job, little guys!" I thought to myself.
Each performance was unique, a testament to the diverse talents and artistic traditions of the invited bards. Each invitee was the crème de la crème of their field. Each bard poured their heart and soul into their music, striving to capture the essence of beauty, sorrow, joy, and longing, and to weave it into a tapestry of sound. And the crowd responded in kind, their cheers and applause a reflection of the deep emotional connection forged between performer and listener.
Sylvie and Karlach were practically vibrating with excitement. The two seemed to be having the time of their lives, grinning from ear to ear, eyes wide with childlike wonder as they took in the spectacle, cheering the performers enthusiastically.
Astarion observed the proceedings with a more refined air. His posture was elegant and composed, a smirk playing on his lips. While he seemed to appreciate the skill of the performers, his gaze was distant, as if his mind was many miles away. Still, he occasionally tapped his foot, and one long-fingered hand occasionally moved in sync with the music. Gale, who stood next to him, seemed equally lost in thought -- though, that was because he seemed more interested in analyzing the flow of magic in the clearing than listening to the performers themselves.
Lae'zel, predictably, remained stoic and impassive. Her gaze was fixed on the stage, but her expression was unreadable. Whether she was impressed or indifferent with the performances… was impossible to tell. Her body was rigid, her muscles coiled and ready, as if she expected a fight to break out at any moment.
Shadowheart, standing slightly apart from the rest of the group, watched the performances with a mixed expression. There was a flicker of genuine appreciation in her eyes, but also a hint of sadness. Some of the more melancholic tunes seemed to resonate with her own troubled past, and she often bowed her head in a quasi-prayer that, I suspected, would go unanswered.
Alfira, of course, was among the most invested. Her earlier fear had been replaced by an excited determination. Her eyes shone with admiration for her fellow bards, and she seemed to be studying their techniques with an intense focus, occasionally mouthing the words to the songs.
"You'll be fine," I whispered to her. "Just do your best with that ballad of yours; I know it will be enough!"
She blushed cutely, nodding in appreciation.
And then, it was the turn of the obnoxious bard from yesterday. Lysander.
He strutted onto the stage with an exaggerated swagger as if he owned the place, his gaudy red-and-gold outfit shimmering under the stage lanterns and the light of the full moon overhead. His lute was held with an almost arrogant flourish. His smirk was wide and self-satisfied, his eyes gleaming with a predatory confidence that made my skin crawl. There was an unnatural stillness about him, as if he were a puppet controlled by unseen strings. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding dramatically, and then he began to play.
The first few notes were… familiar.
Unsettlingly so.
A chill crept down my spine, a sense of dread tightening its icy grip around my heart.
Then, the melody became unmistakable.
…
Alduin's wings, they did darken the sky,
His roar fury's fire, and his scales sharpened scythes.
…
That motherfucker.
It was "The Tale of the Tongues."
Alfira's song.
My blood ran cold and hot at the same time, as I felt a surge of fury so intense it threatened to consume me. Every muscle in my body tensed, my hands clenching into fists so tight my nails bit into my palms.
I glanced at Alfira. Her eyes, wide and stricken, were fixed on Lysander with a look of utter disbelief mixed with a slowly dawning horror. Her breath hitched in her throat, and her body trembled, as if she had been struck a physical blow. All the color had drained from her face, leaving her skin ashen and pale.
This was a cruel, calculated act; a violation of the deepest kind. To steal someone's song was to steal a piece of their soul, to rob them of their voice, their identity, their very essence. And to do it on this stage, in front of this audience, with so much at stake…
It was an act of unimaginable malice.
Was this Ethel's doing? It seemed likely.
The thought of that hag's involvement, her long, clawed fingers pulling the strings from the shadows, made my fury burn even hotter.
I wanted to storm the stage. To rip that lute from the smug bastard's hands and smash it to splinters. To drag him off the platform and…
…
But I forced myself to remain still.
To breathe.
To think.
I knew that any rash action on my part would only make things worse. Perhaps I could survive fighting all of the fey present at once. The same, however, couldn't be said for my companions. Not to mention the danger my group would be in, any fight I started here would definitely disqualify Alfira, destroying any chance she had left, and would leave her even more vulnerable to Ethel's — and every other fey's — continued machinations.
No. I had to find a way to salvage this... without resorting to violence.
But how?
My mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, of anger and protectiveness, of a desperate need to help the poor girl.
Lysander continued to play, his smirk widening with every note. He seemed to relish Alfira's pain, to feed on her despair. His performance was technically proficient. Flawless, even. But it lacked the heart, the passion, the raw emotional power that Alfira had poured into every single verse.
It was a perfect, but hollow, imitation; a pale shadow of the original.
Finally, the song ended.
A smattering of applause rippled through the crowd, polite but subdued. Even the Fae, with their penchant for drama and spectacle, seemed to sense the wrongness of this performance. Lysander took a bow, his eyes fixed on Alfira. His smirk was triumphant, possessive, as if he had not only stolen her song but also her very being. Then, he turned and strode off the stage, disappearing into the shadows with a final, arrogant flourish.
The murmurs of the crowd that followed added to the sense of unease and betrayal. I could feel Alfira's despair like a physical presence, a suffocating weight that pressed down on us all.
Suddenly, a small figure darted through the crowd, a pixie with iridescent wings and eyes like glittering emeralds. She zipped through the air with incredible speed, landing gracefully on Hyrsam's shoulder. She whispered something into his ear, her voice too soft for anyone else to hear.
Hyrsam's reaction was… telling. His brow shot up, his eyes widening in surprise. He glanced at Alfira, then at the retreating figure of Lysander, then back at Alfira again. A flicker of… something that might have been pity crossed his face.
Then, he just shrugged, chuckling in quiet amusement.
"The next performer," Hyrsam announced, his voice regaining its booming resonance, "is Alfira."
A collective gasp rose from the crowd. It was a sound of shock, confusion, and a dawning realization of the sheer cruelty of the situation. Many of the fey have made bets on the outcome of this contest. Some have heard Alfira practice her ballad and knew well the original author of Lysander's song.
Nevertheless, what Lysander had done was -- apparently -- within the letter of the rules if not their spirit.
Alfira still had to compete.
The poor tiefling bard flinched as if she had been struck. Her eyes darted around frantically, searching for an escape, but there was nowhere to go. She was trapped. Trapped in this waking nightmare, forced to face the consequences of a Faustian bargain she had made in foolish desperation.
Her breathing became rapid and shallow, her chest heaving with each ragged inhale. She was hyperventilating, on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.
I knew I had to act, and fast.
I stepped closer to her, my voice low and urgent. "Alfira," I said, my gaze locking onto hers. "Look at me. Can you hear me?"
She nodded weakly, her eyes filled with tears.
"Do you trust me?" I asked, my voice firm but gentle.
She hesitated for a moment, her gaze searching mine, her expression a mixture of fear and desperation. Then, slowly, she nodded again.
"Good," I said. "Then listen to me very carefully."
I leaned in close, so that my words were for her ears alone. I whispered my idea, my plan, my gamble, into the darkness of her despair. Her eyes widened as she listened, a spark of something that might have been hope flickering within their depths. When I finished, she took a deep, shuddering breath, her expression a mixture of terror and determination.
Hyrsam cleared his throat, his voice echoing across the clearing.
"Alfira," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "It is your turn to perform. You may either take the stage, or forfeit your place in the competition."
The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy with finality. It was a choice between the impossible and the unthinkable. Between facing the humiliation of performing a song that had already been stolen, or losing everything she had worked for... and still owing an unspecified favor to a hag. Alfira straightened her shoulders, her chin lifting with a newfound resolve. Her eyes still glistened with unshed tears, but her gaze was steady, her voice surprisingly firm.
"I… I would like to delegate my turn," she announced, her voice trembling slightly but carrying across the hushed clearing, "to my representative."
A murmur of confusion rippled through the crowd. Hyrsam raised a questioning eyebrow, looking at Alfira, then at me.
"Your… representative?" he echoed, his voice laced with curiosity. "And who might that be?"
Alfira took another deep breath, her gaze fixed on me with unwavering trust.
"My agent in this competition" she declared, her voice growing stronger with each word, "is Harald."
The crowd erupted in a cacophony of gasps, whispers, and murmurs. All eyes turned to me, their expressions a mixture of shock, disbelief, and a dawning sense of anticipation.
The judges, four Archfey and a Goddess, exchanged glances. Titania, the Summer Queen herself, inclined her head in agreement, her consort, Oberon following her lead soon afterwards. Lliira, looking very distraught at what had been done to Alfira, quickly nodded as well.
Hyrsam clapped his hands together with visible glee, his eyes sparkling with childlike excitement.
"How unexpected! Nay… revolutionary! This… truly is the most fun I'd had at a Grand Revel in centuries — and we haven't even heard the grand finale yet!"
A wide grin stretched across his face, revealing a set of surprisingly sharp teeth.
"By all means," he boomed, his voice filled with amusement. "Let the Godling Harald play! Three pieces shall he perform for us this fine eve: one for the bard Alfira; one for himself; and one for the little Sharran under his protection."
Hyrsam's voice slowly gathered strength until it became a booming thunder, further riling up the crowd.
"This night, we shall see if he is up to the task of entertaining us. This night, we shall see if the newcomer shall win our patronage — or else, if him, Alfira, and their entire group shall remain here, in our esteemed service."
The crowd erupted in a deafening roar, which gradually died down as I stepped forward, my Ebony guitar in hand, and began to walk slowly towards the stage.
