Dol Amroth Tourney - Bardic

Dol Amroth: Theater

The structure of this grand building is composed entirely of stone walls and floors of a smooth and largely unsullied texture, plus an ornate domed roof. The entire base of the theatre is also slightly sloped, the ground in the east declining via occasional steps that stretch across the whole of the theatre as it descends westwards, eventually passing down several meters from its highest point and ending at a small hollow before the stage, which seems to be reserved for players and musicians that might be involved in any acts.
 
The stage itself is a raised affair, set a meter or two above the floor and accessible via steps on either side, and its broad expanse implies flexibility for a whole variety of settings and uses. It also makes the the ingenuity instilled into the whole design only more plain, for even the simplest words uttered on the platform echo throughout all of the theatre with empowering reverb and clarity, reaching across all of the audience and even up to the raised booths in the east reserved for high nobility. The acoustics of the theatre can be altered at will, however, courtesy of the thick curtains hanging from long metal rails that run along the northern and southern walls, being dragged open or closed at will to dim or amplify the sound levels within, according to the needs of the performance.

Contents:
Barsaphad
Gweneth
Hraefengar
Faelwine

Lamps, freshly lit, dot the edges of the theater, casting a warm light on the mass of those who have come to view the Bardic competition. Nary a seat is empty and even in the aisles, people sit and along the walls they stand, waiting for the event to begin.

On the stage, a small trio plays an upbeat song popular in the taverns of Dol Amroth these days. Though you would be pressed to hear the song above the crowd's chatter amongst themselves. But soon the preference of words over song will soon end.

[OOC note: logger came in late, so missed some initial poses...]

The youth helps Hraefengar with his cloak, draws the heavy garment off and folds it over his arm. The scop still looks about, then nods as he sees Gweneth slowly he makes his way over to her. "Greetings," he says, and his voice is soft. "I am not sure... where are the performers supposed to go?" He rubs at his left shoulder, then glances about, nodding slightly to anyone he recognizes.

"I do not believe any have been called as yet," the Bragollach begins, "But I suspect they will call for you for you to perform. They certainly could not fit everyone up at the front."

She then notices the younger man, smiling and nodding to him, "Good day milord. Is this your first visit to Dol Amroth?"

Passing through the entrance to the theatre, an finely dressed Eorling woman pauses just inside, reaching up with both hands to slip her hood off of rose-gold braids, searching the scene before her with bright green eyes. She sighs, and begins to edge her way in a meandering path through the crowd, lifting her chin and sending her gaze this way and that, trying to peer either around or over the heads of the people near her.

The youth starts, then ducks his head. When he speaks, it is slowly. "N-no... it is not my first time here. I... My name is Feorran, son of Falred. I was here some... some years ago." He sighs, then looks down. "G-glad to make your acquaintance, m'lady. B-but I am no lord. Just an apprentice."

Hraefengar puts a reassuring hand on the youth's shoulder. "I will find seats at an aisle, then," he says softly. And we shall wait and listen..." He glances around. "Will things begin soon, then?"

"Soon enough, I believe," the young noble replies, "Oh, there is our traitor from last night," she says, pointing towards the Knight Barsaphad, "He does appear to be a fan of theater. I wonder why he has come?"

And then, as if answering her question, the trio at the front comes to a stop and begin to pack up their things. A thin man walks from behind the scenes to the edge of the stage, "Good evening friends and guests to Gondor alike! Tonight we shall hear from some of the finest poetry and song that can be found in the land. And to start us off, I would like to call a local of Dol Amroth to the stage, Sir Azrabar?" He shades his eyes with the flat of his hand, peering into the crowd, "Are you in attendance this night? Ah, I see him there, the stern looking fellow! Come and share with us your work!"

The Sea Knight nods his head -- and with long strides he parts the crowd to either side as he mounts the stage. In his wake the two sailors follow, their smiles flashing at the crowd, particularly the ladies. With a gloved hand, Barsaphad beckons for a stool, which is quickly brought to him.

He once more casts a sweeping gaze through the audience, but a disappointed frown is all that he musters. He nods at the two sailors who pull out their instruments -- a pipe and a small harp. Their expression sobers as their Captain settles himself upon the stool.

Silence...he does not sing, but looks out as if toward a distant sight beyond the walls of the theatre. After a deep breath, he begins in a deep baritone...

        'Twixt summer lake and mountains cold,
        A lady rode through wood and vale.
        She rode up to the cresting sea,
        And gray she gazed on ship and sail.

His voice is warm and without trill or ornament, the song rising and falling in a melody like the pulsing waves. Only after the verse completes do the musicians begin to accompany him...

Hraefengar catches sight of his wife, and he waves to her, motioning her to a seat. Then he falls silent, settling himself, listening to the music, his eyes distant.

At last, there is the honey-golden head that she seeks. Faelwine's gaze finds the scop just as he waves to her, and beaming, she steps through the crowd to him, settling herself in the offered seat and turning her full attention to the performer at hand.

The flute rises above the tenor of the Knight at the same time the harp strays through the lower notes of the sad and simple melody. The Knight now begins to look at the audience, his gaze dark and sad.

        Upon the waves, beneath the storm,
        The Knight he sailed on cresting sea.
        His gaze he cast on wood and vale,
        "So far away my love she be."

Now his voice rises with the chorus, the melody lamenting higher over the notes of the verse. Still it rises and falls simply...and his voice calls out somewhere distant, somewhere unattainable...

        And far beyond the shores he sailed,
        With eyes of gray and steel.
        Heedless of the storm or waves.
        Heedless of the haze of days.
        For King she set his heart as stone,
        And bravely fought on through the years.

With surprise Gweneth watches Barsaphad take to the stage, surprise that only deepens as he begins to sing. Quietly she leans back against the wall, clasping her hands behind her as she watches entranced by the song.

His voice drops quietly, the deepness of his fetch floating warmly through the room...an elegy sung on a dark and empty sea...

        When storm and war they carried he,
        Far away, to ne'er return.
        She wept alone beneath swaying trees,
        The wood and vale, she swore to spurn.

        And far beyond the shores she sailed,
        With eyes of gray and tears.
        Heedless of the storms or waves.
        Heedless of the haze of days.
        For love she set her heart as stone,
        And bravely voyaged through the years.

Now the pipe and harp drop as well...slowly fading to match the soft tambor of the Knight. His voice, while not refined or sweet, still carries far despite his dwindling dynamic.

        And though they never more would see,
        The mountains, vale or hill or sea.
        They braved the Gray for love and king,
        And so together ever they be.

The Sailors cease their music now -- the notes lingering like an echo of a distant ocean wind. Through the dying chord of their last, Barsaphad sings once more as he did at the start of his simple song...

        And far beyond the shores they sailed,
        With hearts and eyes alee.
        Heedless of the woe or fear.
        Heedless of the falling tear.
        For love they set their lives aside,
        And voyaged eternally.


Lord Azrabar lets the last note hang in the air for several seconds before he lowers his head, and with a sigh, he rises.

Gweneth begins clapping nearly as all other do, blinking away any chance for tears to stain her cheeks. The crowd too gives warm applause as the Knight finishes his tragic tale, clearing the way for him once more.

Hraefengar listens silently, intently, his eyes half-open. When it is done he shakes himself, as if startled, and then claps, turning his head to glance at his wife.

With a slight, appreciative, nod of her head, Faelwine lifts her hands to applaud the Knight, a sad smile upon her lips. She catches her husband's glance, and her smile warms. "Are you to perform soon, dearest?" she asks quietly of him.

The Knight bows to the audience before he leaves the stage. Halfway descended, he lets loose the Sailors who played alongside him. The two quickly mingle into the audience.

The Knight returns to the wall where he stood, thanking quietly those who stop him.

Now he turns his attention back to the stage.

Hraefengar shrugs his shoulders, smiling slightly. "I know not, truly," he says quietly. "Soon enough, I suppose, or not soon enough, depending on how you look at it. Maybe too soon..." The lad snorts softly, and the scop chuckles. "I am sorry, did you want an easy answer?"

The announcer follows in Barsaphad's wake, "An excellent start from the Lord Azrabar! A style true to the seven virtues of his order and one we know well. But let us sample some song from the north. Uh, let's see if I can do this some justice... Hayfenger a," his brows rise, "A Master-Bard of the Riddermark and Bard of the Court of King Theoden! A treat for us I'm sure if he," he pauses, "Or she is in the crowd? Could you please come and share with us some song of the North?"

"Too soon, it seems," laughs Faelwine softly, arching a brow at the announcer. "You might want to have a word with that fellow, while your up there." She adds, shaking her head, though she smiles bemusedly. Then, before the scop departs, she leans over to place a light kiss upon his cheek. "Best of luck, dear heart... not that you need it."

"Hay..." The scop flushes with embarassment, but he shakes his head and rises, taking with him a small instrument. With an easy grace he takes the stage, bowing low to the announcer. "Hraefengar son of Hrothgar am I," he says, and though he does not shout, his voice, rich and resonant, clearly fills the space. "And what I sing to you tonight is a tale that... that is close to my heart." He sits upon the stool, then raises the instrument it is a six-stringed lyre-harp. He lifts his left hand slowly, stiffly, then sets it upon the further arm-piece. He lifts his head, then plucks one mournful, quavering note.

Hraefengar pulls from the strings a simple melody, a trilling of longing of notes. For a moment he closes his eyes, and he draws a deep breath. Then his eyes open again, and gazes out into the crowd, beyond the crowd. His clear voice rings, the notes rich and deep, the tune a mode as old as the Mark. In Rohirric he sings, and then in the Westron tongue.

"The terror of the linden is tall with pointed steel
The terror of the Dark Land sets trembling my limbs
But I must join my brothers, and I must heed the Oath
And heed the horn and heed the call
Stand bold or else the bridge will fall

We are brave, we are bold to bear our mighty steel
We are brave, we are bold to battle all our foes
We are stout at heart to stare at death
Do our strong hearts have the strength to live?"


Barsaphad watches, his lips twitching into a smile. His fingers drum on the hard leather of his vambrace as the scop tells his tale.

Faelwine sits attentive--nay, rapt--to the song of the scop. As the first verse closes, her breath seems to catch a little, and twice she blinks, as though suprised, though moved by the tale.

"The foul host is approaching, a foe I cannot count
A swarm of ants and vipers, a swarm of writhing black
The order comes so swiftly, the order comes to stand
What evil comes I cannot say
I will not flee, I will obey

We are brave, we are bold to bear our mighty steel
We are brave, we are bold to battle all our foes
We are stout at heart to stare at death
Do our strong hearts have the strength to live?"

The scop's voice is strong, but his face is pale, and there is a strain in his left arm that holds the harp that sets the limb to trembling. It is subtle, but present, yet despite it, he sings on.

"The dread host is upon me, a darkness stained with red
The clamor-clash of steel-play, I cannot see my friends
Outmatched I am surrounded, and routed to the edge
I must not jump, I must not try
I'd sooner fall, I'd sooner die

We are brave, we are bold to bear our mighty steel
We are brave, we are bold to battle all our foes
We are stout at heart to stare at death
Do our strong hearts have the strength to live?"

The scop plays an interlude upon the harp, the simple strings yet dancing, a tune suggesting battle, and a tumbling fall. Then he stills the strings, and sings on alone.

"My body is now broken and bound with ropes of pain
The battlefield is barren, and bloody is the frost
A shadow is upon me, a shadow in my heart
It whispers dread, it whispers die
Oh where am I and who am I?

We are brave, we are bold to bear our mighty steel
We are brave, we are bold to battle all our foes
We are stout at heart to stare at death
Do our strong hearts have the strength to live?

My dreams are filled with darkness, a dawn that will not come
My limbs are twisted, aching, my limbs are not my own
But I must win the battle, I must carry on
The wind is cold, the wind is shrill
It numbs my heart and numbs my will

We are brave, we are bold to bear our mighty steel
We are brave, we are bold to battle all our foes
We are stout at heart to stare at death
Do our strong hearts have the strength to live?"

The trembling of the scop's arm does not escape Faelwine's gaze, and it is this, perhaps, this amid his words that brings tears to her eyes. One by one, tears drizzle down her cheeks. She listens yet in silence, if listening it can be called, for she sits now near the edge of her seat, heedless of those around her, seeming lost in the song.

"But here a wee spark flickers, now flames within my breast
A light that rises, growing, a light that brings the sun
A song comes from the ashes, a song that fills my heart
For dawn has come and day is here
Be of good heart, be of good cheer

We are brave, we are bold to bear our mighty steel
We are brave, we are bold to battle all our foes
We are stout at heart to stare at death
Do our strong hearts have the strength to live?"

As he sings, Hraefengar begins to pluck the strings once more, faint and quavering at first, and then strong, bold, lilting. A sad, gentle smile comes to his lips.

Sirion Isilrim watches, raising a fist to his lips to stifle a yawn. It would seem that the Isilrim, and their Lord in particular, do not possess a discerning ear for music.

Or perhaps he is weary of woe and Doom.

The scop plays another interlude, bright like spring, yet twining in softer notes, gentle, sorrow and mirth entwined. Then he stills the strings, singing again.

"I sing the songs of heroes, I sing of all their deeds
I weave the words of courage, the woven strands of fate
But I am not a hero, but I am just a man
Yet heed my words and heed my tale
Have hope or else the heart will fail

We are brave, we are bold to bear our mighty steel
We are brave, we are bold to battle all our foes
We are stout at heart to stare at death
Our strong hearts must have the strength to live!"

The last note lingers, rising, then falling into silence. Hraefengar takes a deep breath, then bows his head.

Gweneth, too, joins in with the praise for the song, clapping for the song. Though her look is more of concern than of sadness or warmth. Perhaps she also noticed the arm.

The announcer returns to the stage, "Excellent, excellent. Never let it be said that King Theoden does not have an ear for song! Though another of your lands has a song to challenge yours. Bardawulf, Lassahaelend for the Mark has another song for us. Shall we move on to his?"

[Note: It was actually Bardawulf's tempalt, Beorhtgar, who presented ICly.] 

Hraefengar lifts his head, then rises and bows. Wordlessly he heads back to his seat, holding the harp in his right arm the left hangs down limply at his side.


Faelwine's praise is delayed, not out of hesitation, but because it seems to take her a moment to gather herself again. First she brings her hands together before her lips, then applauds with the rest, her cheeks shining, wet with tears. As the scop nears, she offers him a sad, yet proud smile, her gaze for him and him alone.

The sandy-haired youth takes to the dais, cradling the small lap-harp that is his only companion. Swallowing, he bows to the assembled crowd then, his gaze slightly unfocused, he starts to pluck at the strings. At first a simple two-note beat, tonic and dominant, but then he softly starts to pick out the chord notes. A sparse sound, dry as the dusty plains yet somehow oddly commanding. Drawing in a deep breath, the youth begins to sing in a clear tenor voice:

Hearken and hear! A song I will sing you
To celebrate courage, the stirrer of hearts,
That stiffens the sinews, strengthens the sword-arm,
Sends forth the spear that scatters the foe.

Courage was found in our fathers of old,
Men of high honour, their might much renowned:
Fearless Fram, who fought with the wyrm,
And forged a fine necklace from its teeth.

The harp's music changes, full chords now, evoking a more martial image:

Leod's son Eorl, true leader of men,
tamer of horses, upholder of honour.
Bold on the battlefield, bright was his spear,
When, summoned, he came to Cirion's aid.

Helm the Hammer-hand, Hornburg's defender,
Still his horn sounds in the shadowy hills,
Brytta the bold, beloved of many,
Folca the fierce, who hunted the forests.

Hraefengar smiles to Faelwine, then turns his attention to the song. He listens wearily, but does not speak. His head nods to the beat of the music.


The harpist returns to the broken chords of earlier, his voice lifting above the scatter of notes:

Yet what of that number whose names are unknown?
Their valour no less, though their songs are unsung.
The farmer who falls defending his fields,
The Rider whose spear lies shattered and ruined.

For us they have laboured, and laid down their lives,
Honour their memory, mark well their bravery,
Rise with me now and raise up the cry:
To courage!

A final triumphant chord brings the music to an end, and Beorhtgar lifts his head - sweat-soaked and exhausted, yet a smile is on his lips.

Theoden's court-bard smiles at the youth, and applauds him warmly. But the applause is brief, and he lets his hands fall into his lap. Instead he cheers, his eyes bright.

Faelwine listens to the song with a smile, beaming for the lad at its close. She lifts her hands together in warm applause, adding her voice to the cheers. Then, with a sigh, she falls silent once again, and glancing to her husband, reaches out to lay her hand gently upon his forearm, a warm smile lighting her eyes for him.

Several other amateur bards try their hand at the stage, some better than others, though the first three were obviously the favorites of the crowd. Each are introduced and given their time and the night moves along at a pleasant pace.

After all have finished and the judges have disappeared to opine on the performances, the trio returns to entertain during the small break.

Hraefengar relaxes now, leaning a little against his wife. He lifts his hand to gently wipe the tears from her cheeks, but he does not speak a word. He glances across the crowd towards Barsaphad, and he gives a nod. The yawning Isilrim is beneath his notice.

As the bard finish their craft and the intermission begins, Gweneth slips out the door with a few others, having received what they came for.

After a few minutes, an older man slowly waddles towards the edge of the stage. He clears his throat roughly, as the trio finish their song. "The judges have finalized their choices down to Sir Barsaphad, Master-Bard Hayfenger, and young Beorhtgar. Of these, we found a great talent for both word and song. But we cannot award first place to three, though we considered it for some time."

The Knight nods politely in reply to Hraefengar. His attention is quickly drawn back to the stage as the announcer begins...

Hraefengar's apprentice Feorran snickers. "Hayfengar. Because of your hair, you see..."

The judge continues, "So, looking at quality of the verse, tune and theme for this year's tournament, that of the virtue of courage, we award first prize to..." he pauses, allowing the tension to build, as judges do.

A hush falls over the crowd...

The apprentice's comment brings a brief grin from Faelwine, though she glances apologetically to her husband before turning her attention back to the judge.

Quickly broken by the cry of a young child, her mother quickly trying to sooth the child.

From the back a craggy voice cries out, "Out with it!"

The master-bard flushes red, and elbows his apprentice in the ribs.

The judge smiles and announces, "Master-Bard Hayfenger! Truly, an epic story of courage in the face of insurmountable trials and tribulations. It seems his job is secure in the mark for at least one year yet more!"

Barsaphad smiles at the bard from across the room and claps as loud as any three men.

The judge then waves off the crowd, "Now go and by the bards that entertained us so well an ale or four! And a great thanks to those all who shared with us their song."

Hraefengar blinks, somewhat stunned, and then he rises slowly, and bows. He stands for a moment, unsure whether to go forward or not, so for the moment he just stands, a shy smile growing upon his lips. Then, at the judge's continuing words, he seats himself again, waiting for the crowd to pass.

"Well, that may just make up for the name-calling," laughs Faelwine with a broad grin, her eyes bright as she applauds warmly for her husband, then leans over again to plant a kiss upon his cheek. "Hay... really, now." She shakes her head, and laughs again.