A piece of writing-Everyone look, a chance to criticize me!

It's too long. Can I get a summary over here?

 

I read it. And I thought it was quite good. Who wrote that?

 

The man was tired; he had been walking for days. The light knapsack he slung over his shoulders was getting heavier by the hour. He owned little – all he had was few days’ rations, an ebony walking stick, the clothes on his back.

And, of course, his trusty mandolin – a family heirloom, the origins of which had been long forgotten. It looked like any other instrument: plain, with few decorations. Its body was full of tiny scratches and cracks. Yet the strings of the instrument had never broken before. He could briefly recall his master once telling him that they were made of mithril, melted down with dragon fire, delicately twined into wiry tautness – but he had never really believed this tale.

And if you looked at the mandolin carefully you could make out, among the weaving, zigzagging scratches; marks which once might have been runes. He had tried many times to figure them out, but had never succeeded in scrying the ancient drawings. What he could not understand was why he had never bought another mandolin. Somehow, he could never quite bring himself to do it – though his audiences usually looked at him sceptically whenever he brought it out. Still, they were silenced when he started playing.

His thoughts were interrupted as he caught a glimpse of a sign in the distance. Hard to make out, even for his sharp elven eyes – not because of the distance, but the missing nail that made the sign swing with every breeze of mountain wind, and the moss growing over the inscriptions.

Diamondwater. Nestled in a narrow valley between two mountains in South Carlohn, the journey had not been easy, even for his sturdy, toughened feet. It was the sixth place he had visited in a year. And he had a feeling of anticipation – he didn’t know why, but he felt that something was going to happen; something important. And he didn’t really mind not knowing. He was just spreading the Song.

He had sent news of his visit beforehand. He knew that he would be welcome; a village high in the mountains would not be the first choice of people like him.

The dirt road gradually gave way to grass. His steps were lighter now as the ground began to level. He felt contented. The fresh air and the inimitable feeling of peace and calm were like a tonic for the elf. Already he could hear the lilting laughter of children playing. The smell of homemade soup filled the air.

Diamondwater was peaceful, for few orcs roamed the unforgiving mountain forest. Most of the villagers lived in quaint cottages of straw, reinforced with wood from the lowlands. Impassable ridges border the village from the east. To the west is a massive river, its fierce current with diamond-white crests giving the village its name. There was little need for contact with the outside world as the people were skilled hunters and farmers. The people were a close-knit community: everyone knew everyone, and strangers were immediately noticed and (usually) welcome.

Someone was calling his name – the village chief. They greeted each other warmly. The chief was the oldest elf in the village, well-loved by all for his honesty and tactful speech. He was delighted to welcome the traveller, insisting that he stay in his home for the length of his visit.

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“A bard performance? I’d much rather finish working on this table,� the young elf protests.

“Surely you must be tired of hearing the same old tales and songs over and over again. He may even have news from the outside. Besides, all elves love music, dear.

“I don’t.�

“Dear, chances like this don’t come every day. You might even like it,� assures his mother. “Anyway, the whole family is going – no one’s going to cook.�

“Hmph. Then why’d you even ask? You knew I’d have to come.�

“Just get ready, it starts in an hour.�

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“An excellent performance, don’t you think?� commented the elvish carpenter to his wife.

“You don’t say! Did you see the look on your son’s face? He totally forgot about that precious table of his. He didn’t even want to leave.�

“Where is he anyway? I thought he was with you.�

“Wha-? I thought he was with you.�

The Bard heaved a sigh of relief, stepping down from the makeshift stage in the middle of the village. He was not used to so many people coming to listen to him. He smiled, glancing at the still-smoking embers, the remains of the campfire – the only good thing was that the more people that came, the bigger the feasts were.

He felt a tugging on his cloak. He looked down in surprise.

“Sir, teach me how to be a Bard.� A young elf of about fifty was looking up at him hopefully.

Amused, the Bard chuckled silently. He was used to getting questions like these from youngsters. They usually had an impression of the life of a bard as being glamorous and carefree; dotted with exciting adventure and the occasional love tryst. Little did they know of the difficult training bards had to endure, of the loneliness felt when travelling alone from city to city. For Bards have no place to call home. Home – he could barely remember his parents now. His village, his former life remained but a vague memory. He had no regrets, though – he was spreading the Song.

“Well now, young one. Not just anyone can be a Bard, you know.�

“I know I can,� came the answer.

Curious , thought the Bard. His years of experience had given him insights into the thoughts and motives of others; even absolute strangers. Right now he somehow knew that the young elf was not being stubborn. He was speaking with certainty, really knowing that he could. Might he be one of those who would spread the Song? The Bard suddenly felt apprehensive. He knew, of course, that most bards should take on an apprentice as they moved on in years. Yet he felt loath to do so – it would only cramp his style. He liked travelling alone.

“Boy, it’s not as easy as you think. You would have to leave your home, your family; never turning back. Besides, taking on an apprentice as young as you would only hamper me on my travels.�

“Oh. I see.� The child replied quietly. He looked crestfallen. The Bard felt a pang of guilt; that had not been the real reason why he would not make the boy an apprentice.

“Don’t give up, boy. Wait about fifty years and why, I’d be only to happy to have an eager boy like you become my apprentice!�

“Really? You’re not saying this just to please me?�

The Bard realized that he had just trapped himself. There was no way out; some sweet-talking bard he was. There was no turning back now.

“In fact, I’ll return after fifty years, no more, no less. If you’re still interested I’ll be only too happy to give you an apprenticeship. Again – there will be no turning back. A bard’s life is the life of a wanderer, travelling from…�

---------------------------------

Fifty years was a long time. As it happens, at the end of thirty years the elf had forgotten all about his “appointment�. Remembering things was not exactly the first priority of a good-looking elf on the threshold of adulthood. The lad was brought up like any respectable elf: learning the ways of the hunt, competing among his peers in marksmanship, training in the skills of swordplay. By and by came a new chapter in the hundredth year of his life: he fell in love. She was from a respectable family, slender, sweet, the type who could talk to a mother-in-law for hours. Their courtship was the talk of the town – for the lad had charm and the looks to match. The marriage was scheduled to take place the year after.

He was perfectly content with his life, but for one little thing. Whenever there was a festival being held, and the dancing and music began, he would feel an unfulfilled desire inside his heart. He could not imagine what it might be. As his family and friends made merry around the campfire he would be sitting under the great oak tree, lost in his thoughts. The music would play almost hauntingly in his mind, evoking half-formed visions of gaiety and carefreeness. When the dancing stopped, his dreams would disappear like wisps of smoke – the absence of music seemed to make the dreams grow old and faded.

It was now three months after his hundredth birthday. The setting sun spread its orange hues over the skies. The lad had just returned from a successful hunting expedition. On his way back to his home he bumped into a group of children scurrying in the opposite direction. They were excited and jubilant.

“Easy, there. What’s the excitement?� smiled the lad. Ah, the innocent life the children led. No worries, no responsibilities, save for childish passions that vanished over the course of time.

“A Bard is coming! A Bard is coming! They say he’s really good. We want to get the best seats so we’re going early.�

The Bard! The lad fell silent. Vivid memories began to flash through his mind – his parents laughing at his earnest declarations of being a bard, the times his friends had laughed at him for studying music and folklore when it was time to hunt; the silent “I-told-you-so� from his parents when he began to lose interest. It was all coming back.

Leaves rustled behind him. He turned around – a familiar figure was walking into the village.

He ran. He did not know what else to do. Dropping his hunting bow, he scrambled wildly to his home. He could not face him now. He could not live up to his promise. It had been but a passing fancy! He was about to get married, to make his own home. It would be folly to follow his heart.

Yes - folly indeed. But why was he even considering this? He must surely be mad. He had made a decision years before, and he would not relent now. But which promise would he keep?

------------------------------

An aged mother sat stunned in front of the fireplace, her speechless husband reading the note over and over again as if it would change its contents.

“How could he do this to us?�

His father blinks, a faint memory stirring – a bard jovially dancing around a campfire, a young boy – himself - right in front of him, staring, awestruck; a talk with the bard carrying on to the late hours of the night. Of spreading the Song, of living the life of a wanderer, going it alone. And his heart had failed him: he dared not follow.

What was it the bard said? “Do not feel sad. Not all are ready for this step. But I just hope that someday, you will come to know someone who followed his heart.�

“Don’t blame him, dear. He had to spread the Song. And it is a path few dare to take.�

 

Chalcedony, if you wanted to share that, why didn't you start a new thread? By the time I waded through all the posts from June, I lost interest.


GRAVEDIGGING BAD

 

It was supposed to be a prequel of what I wrote - I mean, what tzehoong wrote - earlier. And hey, it wasn't my fault the earlier thread went down the drain.

You weren't supposed to read everything either...just the most recent post.

 

Gravedigging is still bad, but that's actually quite good...

 

Come on - someone else venture an opinion!

You mean you weren't satisfied with your recent VoF-destined quoting hoo-ha?