Player: Ted S
Email: richard_kallisto@disjunction.chaosdeathfish.com
The elderly man sat by the fire. He had aged well, but his rotund form and grey beard spoke volumes of a long life well spent, but there was something about the eyes, the curve of the mouth which spoke of something else – an innermost youth, a persistent foolishness, a quick mind, and strength of spirit. As he sat, drinking a fine ale which had been bought for him, a large crowd of people were all clamouring for his attention.
‘Oh glorious bard,’ they spoke, ‘please tell us the tales of Mad Kartos and the Rather Large Giant; of Heinrich the Hairy and the Thousand Barbarians; or of Sweitzeguth the Bold and the Obnoxiously Smelly Troll; or the tale of the rescue of the Harem of Purity and Plentifulness; and sing to us that most mighty tale of Sir Kalahan the Slightly Kitten.’
And the Bard smiled, and answered in a voice which echoed in the smoky tavern.
‘Alas, I don’t think I’ve got the time, my friends. I must leave on my next trip before long.’
But the crowd clamoured on.
‘Well, then tell us a shorter tale, oh Herald of Glory,’ they pleaded, ‘Tell us the tale of Talia, hero of the Thousand Kingdoms and Veil the Slightly Disappointing; or of that great enchanter Duncan, nee Hayley, and the battle with the snapper; or of Argos, the flying Librarian of Kyrine and the Saviour of Hope. Sing to us of the end of the world-that-was, and the many Battles for Godhood. Intone to us the tragedy of Donna the most Brave, and Donna’s Dad the Even Braver. Speak to us of the Forging of Destiny’s Lord, Tycho Flyteworthy, the Champion of Glory, and the First Battle for Glory. Tell us the Tragedy of the Flying and Fighting Neve who fought the Lady of Power in an epic duel. Or bless us with the musical myth of Bella Cossete, Goddess of Glory whom no man may loot at without weeping, and the Rise and Fall of the Stupid Golden Giant that stands still at the centre of the world. Or make us laugh us with the tales of Ingvar the Crude, God's Plaything and He whom Glory Slapped.’
And the Bard smiled more. For a second, there was silence. And the crowd began to murmur and the pleas fell silent, for as they looked, the Bard was crying.
‘Oh most Glorious Hero of Glory’, they wailed, ‘we are sorry. We did not mean to upset you.’
And the bard, tears still spilling, turned to them. And he said, in a voice which was tinged with music, a voice which spoke of glory and magic, a voice which resounded with strength and passion and spoke with a crescendo of words ‘You have not upset me. For here I sit, at the end of my life, and I know my work is done. My friends – Kartos, and Duncan, and Donna, and her Dad – their most glorious deeds have survived. And they WERE glorious. They were magnificent. They were heroic. And you know what?’
The bard’s sparkeling eyes turn to a hooded figure in the crowd. A beautiful, female figure to whom he raised his mostly empty glass of the finest Ale.
‘You know what? So was I.’
And thus passed Richard Aristodemos. Hero of Heroes. Herald of Glory. And the cloaked figure did cast back her hood, revealing the most magnificent of faces that, indeed, no man could look upon without weeping. And all there knew Richard to be truthful.
And his body did rise from the chair, bound by streamers of coloured light, and be lifted out of the tavern and unto the stars. And a most beautiful song was heard – a song of songs, sung by a voice of angels. And all there knew Richard to be blessed.
And to this day, Lord Richard is spoken of, and Richard’s Lament is sung only by those who are devotees of Glory. And all there wait for his return from where he has gone, on his most recent adventure.