Chords In The Rift (RP Intro)
By: Gellor
Five sharp notes carried out over the lake.
Born of an aged and antiqued mandolin they were. The notes seemed to hover for a moment over the water’s chop, stirred by the zephyr, before dissipating into echo and the wind’s deep whistle.
By the lake’s edge, under a stout and rough-barked tree, sat the man who cradled the instrument as if it were a slumbering child. His face was yet young, if the still-smooth features and the thin beard were to be trusted, but a few strands of grey had crept into his forelocks, and his fingertips were well calloused.
His cape was an earthen brown, and his pants and jerkin were of deep greens, so he almost melded into the scene. Almost. His boots were city-make, black and red and gaudy in the fashion of foppish townies. The cloak was held at his neck by a brooch of brass, and upon it was embossed a device: a spoked wheel backing an angular rune.
Several of his songs spoke of the device, but none clearly, as if listeners were meant but to know and be reminded of it. His mind fogged when he looked upon it.
A few gentle strokes of his fingers sent the five notes across the lake again, and they were swallowed into the air as before.
Unlike the brooch, the notes seem to speak to him, in peals that pierced the fog with images: A gentle healing hand, a notched dagger, a crowd in a small room, a neighing horse, and a kettle drum. One impression always remained as the images dissolved: there had been comrades, should be more of them, but where?
Maybe one more song would tell. If not, there was a village but a few hours walk from the lake, and if it held no answers, perhaps the questions might be less lonely.