A Virtual Bardic Circle Writing Contest
Quest Offering
July 15, 2015
I am sponsoring a virtual bardic circle, to be held here on the Forums, on this thread. Anyone is welcome to participate.
To make it interesting, after one week from today (that's 08/06 for those without a calendar in front of them), I will then post a Poll, listing the entries / offerings shared. It will be open to a popular vote. The vote will be open for one week. The winner of the popular vote will receive a prize: A Lyrical (or 250,000 gold if not a bard) and a Restring. Voting Shenanigans will result in rifts.
Clarifications:
Q: What kind of entries does a bardic circle entail? Poems, songs, ghost stories? or a log of a good old-fashioned bard-fu cage match?
A: Poems? Yes. Songs? Yes. Stories? Yes. Ghost Stories? Yes. (We've even had an interpretive dance done at a past bardic circle.) Logs? No. (Unless the 'cage match' was written in the _style_ of a log, but was actually a written story... for example, Lexie's version of events when Sparhawk hit level 40: https://wiki.tfcmud.com/index.php/Sp...aches_Level_40 )
Q: So out of curiosity, do we basically just post out "bardic" performance onto that forum post orrrrr somewhere else?
A: Yes - a "performance" - or simply the piece itself - gets posted on THIS VERY THREAD , any time before the deadline. If someone would like to submit their entry anonymously, they can email it to me and I will post it for them.
Entries
Entry #1 by Ink:
I have thirst
To be the first
Hope I'm not the worst
Or my heart may burst
Entry #2 by Ink
This artistic space is open to interpretation:
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Entry #3: By Lexie
nk has long been my arch-nemesis
Oh, those days past I surely not miss
He is indeed the worst
I hope his heart does burst
Entry #4: by Ptarchyzk
An ode from a thief of Midgard
who chose a life that was so hard
He thought "So, Mr Smith
with long life and such pith
who needs spells, when I have tells?"
He weathered the years with aplomb
made fame for himself when along
came a birdie with grace
and a most somber face
"Mr Smith, let me sing you a song"
Since most of your friends are in Fate
lets speak with the guard, whose legs number eight
You've lived such a life
with no Imm and such strife
it's time to get out the gate!
He once thought of himself as sane
having reached the top of his game
He sharpened his dagger
and spruced up his swagger
but secretly thought "This is lame"
Do I really want to ascend
up that ridiculous path with no end?
to take all that pride
and set it aside
and worship one I called friend?
Why look at this with such gravity?
Why should I keep with such sanity?
I can lean lots of spells
and hear a slew of new tells
and reach for a new apogee!
Thus he found a new low
leaning "you reap what you sow"
starting over at one
needing more help than some
and finding XP to be slow
Years later he sees once again
his struggles can find such an end
again by himself
still living in stealth
looking forward to each mana gain
He hopes that one day soon
again he earns such a boon
To see on a plaque
showing white upon black
The slowest level 50 buffoon!
Entry #5: By DarkClaw
Passion, combustion, fire and heat.
Stoking the flames, but being discreet.
A loss of control, a need too great.
Ignoring the signs of a terrible fate.
A bond strong enough to shatter a heart.
Cruelty so harsh it could tear one apart.
Silent seduction from one so evil.
Fights to deny; attempts so feeble.
Walls erecting to protect and control.
Another loss, feeling less whole.
A struggle to win for the sake of pride.
Unable to let go and push it aside.
Finality, betrayal, a savior at last.
Burned by the hand that fed the past.
Scars remain; a story not to tell
Of a Dark Lady and how far she fell.
Entry #6: by Tikruul
A life lived in quiet respite, this silent man moves on. Rebirthed many a time, he continues on, working his job, watching time pass by. People fall to Slue, small heroes grow, become big, famous heroes...and villians. The years pass on.
He wishes he could join them. Go on an adventure, leave his life, his job behind...but he wouldn't know how. All he knows is his broom, the steaks. The items left behind, the trash of the world at large. Every once in a great while a treasure, which would always be his but briefly, stolen from him by the 'heroes', great and small. How can he compete?
The years grow long, and the realms change. The maps grow, but he never gets to explore. He hears passing stories. Legends and tales to him. Fantastical places he cannot even imagine without the comforting stone walls of the city he's lived in his entire life. Comforts of which he wouldn't begin to know how to leave behind after the millenia upon millenia he's called the city home.
Always though...always he is watching. Waiting. Cleaning up behind you all. The steaks. The rings. The occasional small bit of gold, the rare treasure. He will be killed again, and again...and meet more rebirths, and he shall silently endure, for he is no hero. He is no adventurer.
He is a janitor of Midgaard.
Entry #7: By Ghazkull
Who's hiding.
I know he's there, I sense him.
But who I cannot tell.
There are so many of them now
just who I cannot tell.
It could be the Suicidal one.
Is he asleep? we just don't know.
The Dreamscape is his joie de vivre.
But if it's him, we cannot tell.
I know he's there, I sense him.
But who I cannot tell.
There are so many of them now
just who I cannot tell.
It could be the Elven Kindred.
The Outworld calling his name.
He'll return as soon as he's able
unless you can call his name.
I know he's there, I sense him.
But who I cannot tell.
There are so many of them now
just who I cannot tell.
It could be the Phantom Nashite.
Black Ogre Clan, Represent!
A mask to hide the torment.
and to save us all from Dread.
I know he's there, I sense him.
But who I cannot tell.
There are so many of them now
just who I cannot tell.
So many people hiding,
But who I cannot tell.
I think I might go back to sleep.
And it's probably just as well.
Entry #8: By Aoide
CYRENIAN GARDENS—The small café is tiny, and I barely find a place to sit despite the early morning hour. I had to pull some strings to even find lodging in the area, and even then I trekked in from EmDeeVille this morning. When I left, no one else was awake and on the streets but me and the watchmen. I was surprised to find the Gardens busting and humming with activity before the sky was completely light.
All the emotions and issues aside, the activity is a marked change for the area. The waitress is cheerful as she takes my order, so I as her about the influx of business. “It’s just been great having so many new visitors.” She waves one hand about while the other steadies a tray of drinks balanced on her hip. “Our chocolate-covered croissants are enough to keep anyone coming back after all of this gets sorted out.” When I asked her about the business at hand, her smile dimmed somewhat. She looked over her shoulder before answering me. “Oh, I’m sure I don’t have any opinion about that one way or the other, ma’am. Can I get you anything else?”
Her comments about the croissants were not wholly unfounded. Her response to my question was pretty common, too. I noticed that few of the locals wanted to weigh on either side of the issue. More than one hesitated or looked around before responding. In a community as close-knit as this, it could be anything from not wanting to disagree with a neighbor to risk of losing a job. I also got the impression that while I was welcome and invited to come and visit, I was still definitely an outsider (and therefore not to be wholly trusted). This impression was given voice by the one woman, a gardener, I did get to go on the record, on the promise that I would not use her name or describe her in any way. “I feel for them, I really do,” she said. “If that was me or one of my kinfolk, I would be right there begging for their release. But. Here’s my problem: where are they all going to go? We don’t know much about these people and where they came from, let alone what their confinement has done to them. This is a small community. I just don’t see how we can handle a bunch of strangers like that.” Emphasis on that. When I asked her to clarify, she waved her hands and bustled off.
In case you’ve been living under a rock, here’s the basics: A month ago, plans were approved for a development at the border between Cyrenian Gardens and Mystic Wood. As part of the construction, the developers outlined a plan to create an escape route for those eternally trapped in the Village of the World. As word got out about this plan, individuals and groups around the realm immediately began taking sides in favor of or against this development. I finally decided to travel to the area myself when I heard that a young local girl had claimed the only key to the Mystic Wood and was refusing to leave the zone for another to pop. Intrigued, I headed out to Cyrenian Gardens to get a feel for the arguments myself.
As I got closer to the center of the gardens, the activity and noise only grew. A heavy-laden patron I followed out of the café stopped at one of the outer groups and started passing out drinks and croissants. I could tell before I even asked which side of the issue they were here to support. Although they hadn’t begun picketing for the time being, their signs rested among the trees. “STOP THE INVASION,” “NO ONE ASKED FOR HELP,” and “FIND A REAL ISSUE” were the most common. I asked one of the protesters, a lanky elven man, what brought him here. “I—we—heard about what this girl was doing and just had to help. I was sitting in class when I first got the idea. I mean, where better to actually do something: in a classroom or in the world?” I got similar responses from most of his companions. “I’m just so sick of these big corporations coming in and clearing everything out for their own purposes,” said another elven protester. “I couldn’t handle the waste and hypocrisy any more. Do you have any idea how much this development is supposed to cost? Enough to supply the whole Frontier with energy-neutral water pumps. When this is done, I’m moving out to there to live off the land.” That elicited applause from the group as I moved on.
Not surprisingly, the next group I came to was full of pro-development picketers. They had already begun their march and chant for the morning, but I did get two minotaur women to stop long enough to speak with me. “These developers are just trying to help and to bring these people back up to speed with what’s out here,” she said. “I don’t see why that’s a bad idea.” Her companion added, “Besides, what’s it to all these Elves and Humans if some people need a leg up? They don’t know what it’s like anyway. It’s easy to have all those lofty ideas when you’re born into privilege.” Before she could say anything else, the group I’d just left started jeering and yelling responses. I hurried away among clashing chants of, “HAVE A HEART, GIVE A FRESH START!” and “STOP THE INVASION!”
I weaved my way further into the fray, passing representatives from the Cleric’s Guild (“We just feel that these older clerics deserve to know that never again will their Word of Recall land them in such a predicament. If they knew, surely they would come back to the guild and finish their training.”), the Arcane Mage’s Library (“We oppose any development that could potentially harm artifacts of great magical value or age.”), the Mothers of Lost Adventurers (“I am sure my son is in there! Why won’t she just let me in to look?”), and PRAS: the People for the Release of All Slaves (“I have on good authority that there may be some escaped slaves in the community there. What do you expect will happen if the developers get their way? Hmm? That their masters will just let them go? I say we don’t let anyone in or out until we have that guarantee.”). Many of the groups had set up semi-permanent shelter. I spotted more than one ranger heading in from the surrounding forest with fresh steaks.
As I reached the edge of the Ficklenut Grove, the volume and tone calmed. There was no protesting or jeering here. If I hadn’t known what the controversy was costing in time and gold around the realm in lawsuits, fundraising efforts, political debates, and missed work hours, I might not have believed it. A young girl sat among the peaceful gardens, reading a book. She had a bright orange cardigan spread out on the ground beneath her like a blanket. Someone had obviously been bringing her food, because she was munching on some berries and a Magic Mushroom. A mostly empty glass of iced tea sat next to her. Before I approached her, I passed a group of construction workers resting in the shade. One of them stood up and approached me. “Ma’am,” he said, “we don’t want no trouble. She’s not much older than my own girls, see, and we’ve all taken to her.” He motioned back to the others in his group. “If you could convince her to just give us the key, we’d be on our way.”
With that, I walked slowly toward the center of this chaos and sat down.
“What are you reading?” I asked her.
She looked at me briefly. “An Introduction to the Socioeconomic Hierarchies of Island Shamanistic Tribes.”
My surprised must have registered on my face. That was clearly not what I expected, given the idyllic scene. “I was expecting something a little more...”
“Entertaining?”
I nodded.
“I ran out of stuff like that days ago.”
When I started to ask her to tell her side of the story, she sighed and put a pressed flower in her book to mark her page.
“It’s like I tell everyone. I think they should be left alone. Plus, my dad says that all the construction and notoriety would overrun the grove and it would never be the peaceful spot it’s always been.”
“But it’s not calm and peaceful right now,” I pointed out to her. I told her about the camps and clearings protesters on either side had made.
She looked concerned, but didn’t have anything to say to that.
“How long do you plan to stay? What if you need to leave the zone? They’ll just pop another key then.”
“I haven’t left yet. Besides, there are so many people here now, I don’t think the key would pop that easily.” She was right, of course, and I was surprised by her knowledge of how it worked. And with that, she went back to her book. The only other thing I got from her was right as I prepared to leave. She looked up and said, “Send me something better to read, okay?”
At the time I am writing this, the conflict still has not been resolved. The number of outside groups getting involved only grows. I have on my desk a 347-page lawsuit brought by The Anthropologists of The Southern Continent” outlining something called “Complex Adaptive Systems.” Unlike many of the protesters, I have actually been to the Village of the World. I have talked to those marooned there and seen their plight. I have also been to the Gardens in quieter times and wandered the vineyards there myself. I am disappointed to say that I still don’t have a clear idea of where I stand on the issue. Each time I think I’ve decided, I remember something else that makes me question the issues again. All I can say with certainty is that I was drawn to that little girl and her forthrightness. While I haven’t joined the cause on either side, I did leave a copy of some of my favorite poems for her at the café for a sympathetic patron to take out to her, whatever that means.
And the Winners...
The Winners were selected by Popular Vote, and were as follows:
1st Place: Aoide
2nd Place: Ghazkull
3rd Place: Ink
4th Place: (tied) Ptarchyzk & DarkClaw
5th Place: Tikruul
6th Place: Lexie