Whistler's Songbook

(See Also: Whistler's Song Quest)

The Bard who hasn’t returned

(aka “Why Halflings should avoid the Higher Vortex.”)

Let me tell you the story
Of a Bard name of Whistler
On a tragic and fateful day
He put a fly pill in his pocket,
Blew a kiss to Kylor,
Went to fly on the Vortex breeze way.

Whistler swallowed down his pill
At the Skull top spire,
On his way through the higher vortex plane
But on arrival the demon told him,
"One more fly pill."
Whistler couldn’t get off of that Plane!

Chorus:
Did he ever return?
No he’s not yet returned,
And his fate remains unlearn'd (Poor ol’ Whistler)
He may ride forever
'tween the strands of matter,
He's the Bard who hasn’t returned.

Now all night long
Whistler’s blown through the Higher Vortex
Saying, “Is this a deleted Zone?
Crying
How can I get back to Loan
Cadee my flute of bone
Or ever find my way home?"

Cordir flies up
To the Inter-plane membrane
Every day at quarter past two
And with a twist of fate,
She throws Whistler a fried fish
As the plane just blows him right through.

Still the wind blows on
The poor buffeted and battered Halfling,
Whistler looks around and sighs:
"Well, I'm sore and disgusted
And I'm absolutely busted;
I hope this isn’t my last long ride."

Now you citizens of Midgard,
Don't you think it's a scandal
That the people fail to sing their praise?
Hail Nash and his Phantom,
Or they might destroy you,
and GET ME OFF OF THIS PLANE!

Chorus:
Or else I'll never return,
No I might not return
And my fate will be unlearned (poor ol’ Whistler)
I may ride forever
'Tween the strands of Matter
I’m the bard (Who's the bard?)
He's the bard who hasn’t returned.
I’m the bard (Oh, the bard)
He's the bard that hasn’t returned.
I’m the bard who hasn’t returned.

Yet.

The Prince’s Hound

Whistler takes his lyre and plays:
A plink kaplink a plink plink plink, a plink kaplink a plink
A plink kaplink katwang kaplink, katwang kaplink kaplink
Katwang kaplink katwang kaplink kaplink katwang kaplink,
Katwang kaplink katwang kaplink, a plink a plink-plink-plink.

He sings:
A young prince from distant lands had heard the wild wolves howl,
And thought that they’d make better friends than men who treat him foul,
He’d heard of those who chained the beasts and bent them to their will,
But such barbaric slavery he deigned unsuited to his ilk,
He sought to be companion of a friend both tried and true,
Such as one finds on sailing ships in a battle tested crew.

He journeyed to the wilderness, for such a friend to find,
But all the beasts discovered there seemed without a mind,
They met his friendly gestures with tooth and howl and bark,
Leading his bright hopes quite quick to fall to dark,
then one day he came upon a woodsman from the blue,
who told him of the place to find the brightest, best and true.

The learned sage advised the page to journey to the south,
To find the valley Ul had claimed by sign and sword and mouth,
South of the place that paths do cross, north of the dwarven kind,
Just a short hop from where it was Lineoleth laid his mines,
There, the nature knight proclaimed a trainer could be found,
With wolves he’d trained from puphood in a cave within the ground.

Whistler plucks his lyre:
A plink kaplink a plink plink plink, a plink kaplink a plink
A plink kaplink katwang kaplink, katwang kaplink kaplink
Katwang kaplink katwang kaplink kaplink katwang kaplink,
Katwang kaplink katwang kaplink, a plink a plink-plink-plink.

He sings:
Afore seeking out the trainer named, the prince pondered on his quest,
The noble hound that would be found should be armored fitting test,
From snout to tail the wolf he’d mail in fitting royal guise,
In barding meant as much to ward, as pleasing to the eyes.
So to this benefit of friend he gathered at great toll,
With his final gift for fitting friend: a gilded water bowl.

Encumbered with his sack of gifts and coin the price to pay,
The uffish prince no words did mince, but wended on his way,
Through wave and wood across the realms to seek the hidden vale,
Thus found he then the trainers den at end of mountain trail.
His coin he paid, the wolf appeared, but much to his surprise
His newfound friend could not append his boons to ban demise.

Whistler lifts his flute to his lips and plays:
T’wee-do Twee-dup.
T’wee-do Twee-dup Twee
T’wuh-do twee-dup
T’wuh-do twee-dup twoo

The bard returns to the rhythm of his song with:
He caught the beast up to his breast and swore unto his life,
That he the animal would shield, and guard from every strife.
But the nature of the beast prevailed, he found he could guard him not,
That trusted friend would not endure simply by his side to trot,
He would instead, unto the fore, his master’s health to guard,
Though he deigned allow his friend the prince, himself with magic ward.

The youth found need of battles few till he did swell with pride.
His wolf enjoined the combat dance with relish at his side,
Armed but with teeth and nature’s claw, never did his watch abate,
With such vehement vengeance wreaked the beast, none thought his wrath would sate.
So this is how the wolf did earn his Such well suited name:
To every foe the prince did face, the wolf became a Bane.

Whistler beats his drum to pick up the pace of the song:
Dum-rumadadum rumadadum rumadadum dum dum
Dum-rumadadum rumadadum rumadadum dum dum

He sings on with bravado:
They journeyed north they journeyed south, They journeyed west and east,
To distant regions of the realm, And flew above the seas.
Wide they traveled, wide they roamed, far they went afield,
With faithful friend to guard his side, the prince needed not a shield,
finally their journey led to mountains and mines below;
Which is where that fateful day, Bane fell to mortal blow.

The bard’s lyre lets loose a discordant note.
Twang! Shush-shush Twang!
He drums:
Dum-rumadadum rumadadum rumadadum dum dum
Dum-rumadadum rumadadum rumadadum dum dum

He sings on in at the faster pace:
In Tharlodein’s vein, the prince engaged a shaman and a guard,
He cautioned Bane to hold his place, his person not to ward,
But the nature of the wolf it was not to stand idly by,
When miner joined into the fray, sotoo did Bane (to make that miner cry,)
The canine’s magic warding fell unto the dwarven blow
And bright red blood upon his fur quick came his wound to show,

The prince, he could not disengage, his friend wounded, unprotected,
He tried to heal him magically, but that learning he’d neglected
He called his friend to flee the field, but the beloved faithful hound,
Though overwhelmed by many men, resigned to stand his ground.
And so with horror, pride and woe he watched his Bane fall to foe,
Unleashed he then a killing wrath, that all his rage would know.

One by one the foemen fell, till all but one was left,
One by one he repaid each blow that lead to his hound’s death,
The field cleared, his friend he found, and fell into despair,
For the wounds upon its mortal form were more than men could bear,
He cradled Bane unto his breast, his soul, it filled with grief,
As the greatest friend that man had known, at last its soul released.

Whistler blows soft notes from his flute:
T’wee-do Twee-dup.
T’wee-do Twee-dup Twee
T’wuh-do twee-dup
T’wuh-do twee-dup twoo

Fighting back his tears, the bard finishes his song:
The Prince, he Howled outrage at gods and man and fate,
Unwilling to accept His Will had led Bane to that Gate,
As his sobs within the cavern fell, his anger burned to smoke,
And something in the prince’s mind at long last gave and broke.
For his hounds death, his failed oath, he imposed himself a ban,
To speak no more in racial tongues and be more wolf than man.

Whistler concludes his song with the flute:
T’wee-do Twee-dup.
T’wee-do Twee-dup Twee
T’wuh-do twee-dup
T’wuh-do twee-dup two

The Book of Nash, a hymn

[the noviciate should use both a drum and bell of doom to signify tempo changes throughout the hymn]

Come one come all Hail the Lord,
Whose wrath on the world has poured,
Sing in one voice and one chord,
Praise Nash whom the world hath Gored.

There was a time before this time When Nash walked through the world-oh.
He broke his bread and drank his wine and slew ev-er-y foe-oh.
He learned all there was to be learned, he did all one could do-oh,
He learned then of the rarest prize and sought to make it his-oh.

Nash, he walked throughout the realm, searching for the scroll-oh.
He slew the Arch-mage on that quest, and took that mighty spell-oh.
The Greatest of the Great he Was, but greater still would be-oh;
When Nash the world by scroll would rend, The greatest God he'd be-oh.

Come one, come all, Hail the Lord,
He whom chose the world to scourge
He That the scroll of Nova tore,
Praise Nash Whom this world hath Forged.

Inspired by the artifact, he wrought and made his own-oh.
With magic ink, a book he wrote and to the scroll it bound-oh.
Inscribed within its pages he-- etched his very soul-oh,
Between the lines and in good time to serve him as a loophole.

The greatest of the mortals he, no longer more would be-oh,
For through his book and Nova scroll, apotheos he’d see-oh.
Within the book between his deeds, by blood and mystic weeds-oh,
Mighty Nash assured his task and all his wanton needs-oh.

Come one, come all, Hail the Lord,
Mighty Nash whom wanted more,
Whom into tome his soul did pour,
Praise Nash Whom that world would Gore.

He placed the scroll within his book, Then rent that cursed page-oh.
Then in the flash, the Lauded Nash regretted not his deed-oh.
All the world the scroll consumed and all the worlds beyond-oh,
And each and every thing within except the book that Nash wrote.

Thus when the spell completed, naught of any realm remained-oh,
Except the word and soul of Nash, bound within his tome-oh,
Which served to seed a universe, reborn and all renewed-oh,
Over which, the Great Lord Nash, Its Greatest god would be, Oh!

Come one, come all, Hail the Lord,
Nash, Whom Nothingness did Ford,
He in whom all things are moored,
Praise Nash Whom this world hath Forged.

Given time, the book did find, itself upon this realm-oh,
Its might and mystery revered, and Nash within revealed-oh
Through the Arch-lich Molo, and the Lord Phantom too-oh,
No less by the honored one, Sirak, Nash-son too-oh.

Now Nash’s work is nigh complete, he weighs each mortal deed-oh.
Some he rewards and some he damns according to his creed-oh.
So In accordance with his whim, What he wills will be-oh,
And that which his will has wrought, he shall also destroy-oh

Come one, come all, Hail the Lord,
Whose whisper is a Mighty Roar,
Nash, Whom cuts all mortal cord,
Praise Nash Whom this world shall Gore!

[The noviciate should here toll a bell of doom 3 times to signify the hymns end.]

The Rowen Chantey (Ode to DarkClaw)

Even although i'd finished my hometown quest, writing songs for all the hometowns on the north continent, it didn't seem fair that there there weren't songs for the other towns, so i scratched away halfheartedly at a couple others, such as my unfinished song about a thief in Nydia (Lock Robster) and a reggae tune about the Isle. One that I had more than half written was a sea chantey (for Rowengard/the rowen docks) when we recieved notice that Darkclaw was retiring.
That gave me some incentive to finish/rewrite this song. *takes a long draught of beer* enjoy.

Whistler slips both hands through the straps of his concertina and pulls his arms wide, filling the bellows.

As he compresses the instrument, his fingers dance across the keys playing:
Whadda-whee, wadda wee-wee, whee whadda wee-wee
Whadda-whee, wadda wee-wee, whee whadda wee-woo
Whadda-whoo, wadda wee-wee, whee-whooda wee-whaa
Whadda-whoo whadda wee-wee whee-Whadda whee whaa

Whistler takes a deep breath and sings his chantey:
When I started my journey I put pen to vellum
Before I had set out to quest in the Real-m
Then along came a lassie, a goddess it’s true,
Though she claimed to be neutral, her nature was blue.

He plays:
Whadda-whee, wadda wee-wee, whee whadda wee-wee
Whadda-whee, wadda wee-wee, whee whadda wee-woo
Whadda-whoo, wadda wee-wee, whee-whooda wee-whaa
Whadda-whoo whadda wee-wee whee-Whadda whee whaa

Whistler continues his story in song:
She sent me abroad to see all the towns,
To find for her what songs in them could be found,
For she knew that true treasure was not in doubloons,
For an unstealable one can be found in a tune.

The little bard nods knowingly to the audience as he plays:
Whadda-whee, wadda wee-wee, whee whadda wee-wee
Whadda-whee, wadda wee-wee, whee whadda wee-woo
Whadda-whoo, wadda wee-wee, whee-whooda wee-whaa
Whadda-whoo whadda wee-wee whee-Whadda whee whaa

Whistler sings to the rhythm of his squeezebox melody:
I journeyed about at the goddess’ behest
And scribbled my notes as I did my best,
For this she taught me: that I’d naught to fear,
As long as I’d Whiskey and Women and Beer.

The bard sends you a sly smile, and with a knowing wink continues:
Whiskey and Women, Women and beer,
When you find a good woman you’ve got naught to fear,
But although she may gain you all that you lack,
With a woman worth having, you must watch your back.

Whistler looks over his shoulder to check his back.
He plays:
Whadda-whee, wadda wee-wee, whee whadda wee-wee
Whadda-whee, wadda wee-wee, whee whadda wee-woo
Whadda-whoo, wadda wee-wee, whee-whooda wee-whaa
Whadda-whoo whadda wee-wee whee-Whadda whee whaa

The Halfling looks off into the distance as he recalls:
“Sail away, young Laddie,” she called to me,
“And search for your fortunes over the sea,
But beware ye the tempest, and the giant squid,
And don’t spill your whiskey while you dance your jig.”

Whistler breaks into a grin as he dances a little jig to his tune:
Whadda-whee, wadda wee-wee, whee whadda wee-wee
Whadda-whee, wadda wee-wee, whee whadda wee-woo
Whadda-whoo, wadda wee-wee, whee-whooda wee-whaa
Whadda-whoo whadda wee-wee whee-Whadda whee whaa

Whistler recounts thoughtfully in song:
Along in my journey I found both the Kind,
As well as those persons of treacherous mind,
Still I decline to commit with my peers,
Although I yet canna decline a beer.

Without releasing his instrument, Whistler stretches his neck over his beer and sips it.
He plays on:
Whadda-whee, wadda wee-wee, whee whadda wee-wee
Whadda-whee, wadda wee-wee, whee whadda wee-woo
Whadda-whoo, wadda wee-wee, whee-whooda wee-whaa
Whadda-whoo whadda wee-wee whee-Whadda whee whaa

Whistler smiles and sings to you:
Now the lady, she’s left here, but re-mains in part,
For she has forever laid her mark on my heart,
Now I share her wisdom with whomever I find,
If not over whiskey, a beer I’ll not decline

(so I sing: )
Sail away my young lassie, to where ye belong,
And may you find comfort and may ye find song,
While I find my solace in what I’ve got here,
Solace in Whiskey and Women and Beer.

Whistler plays:
Whadda-whee, wadda wee-wee, whee whadda wee-wee
Whadda-whee, wadda wee-wee, whee whadda wee-woo
Whadda-whoo, wadda wee-wee, whee-whooda wee-whaa
Whadda-whoo whadda wee-wee whee-Whadda whee whaa

The melody slows as the bard continues:
Now the young seek me out- for her wisdom sometimes,
And go seeking adventure- in spite of my rhymes,
But I still waste breath tellin’- over my beer:
Sail away my young laddie and earn yer own tears.

Whistler reminisces with a twinkle in his eye:
Now DC she’s gone by, as the young come and go,
Yet there’s still treasure out there and the magic doth flow,
But I play it safe with my whiskey and beer,
So if you come back to Rowen Docks, I’ll still be here…

Whistler winks at you as if to say that’s the last place he’ll be.
Whadda-whee, wadda wee-wee, whee whadda wee-wee
Whadda-whee, wadda wee-wee, whee whadda wee-woo
Whadda-whoo, wadda wee-wee, whee-whooda wee-whaa
Whadda-whoo whadda wee-wee whee-Whadda whee whaa

The bellows of the little accordion falls quiet and the bard takes a grand flourishing bow.

Days of the week

Whistler plucks some hearty notes on his Lyre:

A Plinkety-plink
A plink-plink-plink
A plink-plink-plink-plink-plink
A Plinkety-plink
A plink-plink-plink
A plink-plink-plink-plink-plink

The little bard takes a deep breath and bellows out:
Rumor has it that the days . are named from days gone by,
Or at least that’s what I’m-told the-midgard-crier-cries,
And each or at least one of them,
from gods who ranged across the realm,
and now the days are numbered ten
enough your hosiery to mend,
here’s how their sequence lies:
Caern comes, then Rishanae
Ivyn, Jawiliea,
Searynx and Marisae
Dreade then precedes Kelir
Zoardrin comes then next in line,
Last comes Oz-man-dI-UTTTT. . .
All good days and very fine,
Now as to which is what:

Whistler gives you a knowing wink as he continues:
Oh, there’s . . . Tennn
days-in-the-week, there’s only 10, there aren’t any more,
So if you’d know the days-of-the-week, you should hear my score:
Caern I call the first day, when DarkClaw was born,
And Rishanae’s the second day, with 3 syl-lab-les worn,
Ivyn comes then next in line, then comes Jawiliea,
And Searynx shines a Crimson Sun, in all probiliea,
On Marisae make marzipan, On Dreade drink down to dregs
On Kelir morning drag your head, right out of the kegs
The Phantom’s day is Zoardrin, but if you’d challenge fate,
Ozmandiut is Cordirs day, so best not show up late.

Whistler sings on with a grin:
And That’s . . . Theee
days-of-the-week, that’s all there is, there aren’t any more,
So one more time, with all line, listen to the score:
Caern comes, then Rishanae
Ivyn, Jawiliea,
Searynx and Marisae
Dreade then precedes Kelir
Zoardrin comes then next in line,
Last comes Oz-man-dI-UTTTT. . .
All good days and very fine,
Now my mouth I will Shu-ut.

Whistler , grinning, closes his mouth and returns to his lyre, playing:
A Plinkety-plink
A plink-plink-plink
A plink-plink-plink-plink-plink
A Plinkety-plink
A plink-plink-plink
A plink-plink-plink-plink-plink

Whistler flicks his wrist dramatically with the final note and takes a grand flourishing bow.