Water was wet. Stones and bricks were heavy. The sky was generally blue, the
Sun was bright, gravity pulled you downwards at -9.82 meters per second squared, and the gathering of Bards was drunk.
These were the finest, the greatest, the most talented, the most beloved Bards through all the Lands. Occasionally one would clutch his heart, double over, and fall to the floor; it meant an inferior vintage. When this happened, the wine steward would be taken out and flogged, and a new one take his place. Or sometimes not; they were very drunk indeed.
“In wine is truth; ergo, in LOTS of wine is LOTS of truth”, was the third thing you learned in Bardic School. Tuning your lute was about seventeenth, and singing didn’t happen until second semester. “If they think you’re a training Bard who sings badly,” it was oft explained, “they may feel sorry and give you more. Once you cross the threshold into ‘acceptable’, they won’t pay you at all until you cross the hump of ‘exceptional’. So take it from me; you’re better off where you are.
The Bards had received a Proposition from the Men of the West. They already knew they’d take it; but there were some truly great unopened bottles in the Cellar of the Bards, and this was a very good time to open them, as the situation was important and time-sensitive.
For this is what the Men said:
“We speak the truth, as you all know,”. The Head Bard and her top several aids; most had been schooled in the land of Men and came from it, and believed this fervently; also, the Men of the North wouldn’t call what YOU’D call a sword a ‘decent butter knife’, and, since they were swearing sovereignty to whatever dignitary hadn’t been poisoned lately, those swords were all out. For all that the Bards were talented and devoted Sophists, the blades spoke nothing, could not sing except in a figurative sense, but were very, very convincing.
“We offer you the perfect deal.
“We will speak unto you the truth, or at least something which, if followed, will LEAD to the truth and end the rule of Evil. This is all you could ever want, except an audience; and if you continue to carry news and find ways to make it even more entertaining, not only will we rewards you, but we won’t slice off your heads, exchange them, sew them back on, and display your mutilated bodies from the battlemen A Senior Bard spoke up, “Indeed, Lords, we LOVE the truth!”
A Junior Bard spoke up, “But doesn’t the Council need to approve?” The sharp *BONK* he received upon his head from the enchanted lyre of the Chief Bard quieted him. The Chief smiled up at the Men (they were all rather intimidatingly tall. “This is correct, and indeed, Truth deserves rewards. We shall convince our fellows, and they shall spread word—discretely, as Bardic Secrets are not for the uninitiated.”
“Good,” said one of the Lords. “Make it so.”
“What have you got to drink?” asked the Junior Bard.
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My name is Jeff Mach. I write a lot of things and I run the Catskills Halloween Festival.
Here, try some faerie fantasy in poetic form: A Short Tale of Coyote and Titania — Jeff Mach Writes
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