Behold the Unloved King (Part 7): The Poetry Corner

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Log Info

  • Title: Behold the Unloved King (Part 7): The Poetry Corner
  • GM: Whirlpool
  • Place: The Unloved King's Palace, Quelynos

He sees you.

Aware of your presence at last, the Unloved King -- at least this reflection of the Unloved King, looks at you from between his fingers with a single eye. His actions do not stop, the waves of despair and loneliness radiate off him with the kind of intense, terrible ferocity of legend.

The waves of despair and loneliness cut to the soul, just as they did before, and Seldan's eyes lower. Holding the image of unfathomable brightness before him in his mind. "I see before me a man who thinks he stands alone," he speaks, quietly, evenly. "So too did I once believe. I was wrong." 

GAME: Telamon rolls perform/oratory: (2)+22: 24
GAME: Ravenstongue rolls Perform/Oratory+3: (6)+36+3: 45

Verna may or may not have much lore at the forefront of her thoughts concerning this entity, as much of it is speculation. The empathic projection from it, however, is ... overwhelmingly informative, if entirely subjective. She reels a moment and then takes further moment to study the being. "We cannot readily console nor correct this lamentation without knowing its cause..." she notes somewhat quietly to no one peer in particular.

Aryia's scarred throat bobs as the oppressive waves press her down, making her knees shake and warble. There has been many, many times the mute had fallen to despair with no way to express it. A rare pang of empathy hits her gut.

The silverguard seemed to know what he was doing. Aryia adds to the light show with one of her own, rubbing her hands together before holding a luminescent emanation of moonlight in her palm.

Cor'lana takes a breath. The Unloved King's eyes are on her. How does one speak to an entity born to be a weapon as a person? How does one speak to a reflection that might also be the real deal?

Through poetry.

"Through your hall we come, o Unloved King,
For we, of many paths and journeys in life,
Know of the ways in which sorrow can sting;
Know of the ways in which pains can sing:
The sorrow you feel cuts deep like a knife
And there's no glean'd end to your strife--"

Telamon tenses at that gaze, unable to resist a shiver, but he rises to the challenge, the weight of that stare. A glance at Cor'lana, a flash of minds linked together, and after she speaks, he continues the poem:

"But company's in misery, joy's in victory,
As there is happiness in camaraderie--
To know
That you are not so alone in this world,
That now and here we would share with you
The words and songs, like banners unfurled."

And with that, he spreads his arms, not in fear or in resistance but in benediction. Welcome. Hope.

Isolation. Loneliness.

These things can be met with empathy. Met with understanding. With a symphony of understanding and compassion, to offer solidarity and an end to the terrible isolation that surely must constitute the soul of a story about one unloved.

Yet, without knowing why one is so Unloved, how can they know for sure how it will be met?

As they speak, the atmosphere seems to shift, a subtle swirl of emotion laden energy.

The terrible eye of the Unloved King seems to soften. A flicker of something that constitutes recognition deep within its reddened depths, as if the weight of an eternity, or simply a stories worth, of isolation begins to ease. As if, perhaps a weapon sees itself reflected as a person for the first time. A fragile seed that begins to blossom into understanding. 

GAME: Ravenstongue rolls Perform/Oratory+3: (16)+36+3: 55
GAME: Telamon rolls talky: aliased to diplomacy+5: (16)+34+5: 55
GAME: Seldan rolls diplomacy: (11)+22: 33

The softening, even if it is only the first crack of the germination of a seed, sends a leap of hope through the waves of despair and emotion that wash through Seldan. It hurts - it does - for so long that he has separated himself from such things. But - in so doing, he turns to what he knows - to separate himself from the waves even now, and offer thought. "I would hear your tale. Of your sorrow."

Telamon picks up on the shift in the atmosphere. The crack in the walls, the first hint of spring. His expression softens as well. As his wife invokes the muse, Tel reaches for the patient, focused efforts of connecting others. His father's knack, passed to him. At Seldan's words, he nods.

"Please, your Majesty. How long has it been since you told your tale? We come bearing something more precious than anything: hope. The prospect of a better tomorrow. For in the end, there is light in the darkness. We carry it forth, to plant new seeds, to light candles. You do not have to face this alone." 

GAME: Verna rolls sense motive: (19)+15: 34

Of course. The most direct means to know the cause and history of the afflicted would be to ask. There would be far more context in a first-hand recounting beyond the basic facts, as well. As well... "Yes, please share your tale," Verna encourages this King and echoes Seldan's inquiry. "You need not bear its knowledge alone, and in so sharing perhaps you would also share some manner of its burden." Conversation could be therapeutic, in addition?

Cor'lana spreads her arms in kind with Telamon. She nods to Seldan's words, drawing inspiration from them again. Drawing inspiration from the light that Aryia has given.

Light. Flame. To Vaire, she dedicates this next verse:

"The station of a friend is to sit and heed,
That on the shoulders of the greatest giants
Are burdens that press into compliance;
I deliver now, freedom in Vaire's creed:
The song of silence, so that you may sing."

Any performer knows when it is time for silence, so that another may speak. Cor'lana cedes the floor to the Unloved King.

Aryia blinks as the others lay interwoven words into such prose in a way that she could never imagine. Swears, tough love, glares, that's all she's got. But some how, some way, something cracks that a fist could never do.

The others ask for him to say his tale. His worries and woes. And to draw the song of silence.

Well. Best to take action.

Aryia walks forward, and holds a hand against the seat at the banquet table. Willing to take a seat and listen.

Verna considers what she knows of this Unloved King even as she steps towards the table andawaits tell of his tale. One might suspect the appelation would give insight as to the likely subject matter... and perhaps it does, though not in the way some might expect. To her companions, she offers, "I suspect that the tale is not of isolation nor loneliness. All references suggest that the Unloved King was always such, and such may well be his nature. An Arbiter does not regrets its orderly nature, nor a fiend evil intent." After a slight pause, she adds, "One does not lament that which it does not know and rather makes most use of what one has available." This last carries more emphasis on assurance, and perhaps personal experience.

A rumbling sigh fills the room. This towering figure, a story, a tall tale made flesh, towering over you in its grandeur and despair.

"In this symphony of sorrow, I play my part,
A king of shadows, with a broken heart.
No refuge from the darkness, no solace to attain,
Just endless lament, in this kingdom of pain.
In the abyss of despair, my kingdom lies,
Where echoes of agony endlessly rise."

Slowly, the Unloved King rises to his feet. His hands palm the top of the massive stone table as he leans upon it. His long, red-white beard touches it. His voice rises in agonized confidence.

"A crown of anguish upon my weary brow, in these hollowed halls I rule, but I know not how. The weight of time, an unrelenting chain, A king unloved, forever in disdain."

Thoughtfully, Seldan drifts over to the banquet table in the wake of the others. "You play your part?" he echoes, soberly. "Who placed you here, and why? Do you remember aught of how you cam to be so?"

"He may not, Sir Seldan," Telamon says softly. "But that doesn't mean he can't change his fate. Sometimes all you can do with the past is leave it behind, and build a better tomorrow." Tel looks up at the King. "What could we do, to draw you from this place, and help you find a new life beyond your sadness?"

Aryia glances towards Verna, a long ear twitching as a subtle nod is tossed her way. Dealing with otherworldly entities that exhibit certain aspects of their very being. That she could understand, of all the extraplanar encounters she's ran across.

And then the King speaks. Words press into her, and she doesn't look away even though it's pulling at her gut. Poems, to and fro.

She gestures to the two men that provide excellent questions, as she herself attempts to pull herself into a seat. Have to make good on her actions earlier. And to hide the tremble in her knees.

Cor'lana, for the moment, listens. Telamon and Seldan ask good questions, however.

For the moment... She does not speak poetry. She does, however, speak of a possible solution.

"Your Majesty," Cor'lana begins, using the man's proper address. "Would it gladden your heart to know there are those who have suffered as you once did... and found joy? Found happiness? Once it arrived to them on their doorsteps, out of the blue as we have?"

Verna dips her head to Aryia in return before looking back to the king by way of Cor'lana, long enough to offer her a small smile. "Indeed," she backs her sister-by-bond's truth; moreso that it is also very much Verna's own. She considers her further words and chooses to leave the inspiration to Cor'lana and Telamon, the diplomacy to Seldan, and the firm application of reality to Aryia. This leaves Verna with inquiry for his majecty.

"Regardless of what was laid upon you by others, what is it that you wish for yourself?" A pause. "If not that, what do you NOT wish for yourself that is, or may come to be? Such could be altered as you desire."

A hand raises up and goes back over his face. His visage, once seen, is impossible to describe. A swirling mask of sorrow and empty despair, a loneliness as long as time itself written across it.

He answers questions in turn, in thought. A gentle roll of his shoulders, a shrug accompanied by music, as if every motion of his was crafted to song -- because of course it was. Bits and pieces drawn together.

The tapping of his fingers is the fierce beat of drums the swishing of his robe, the ryhtmic patter of accompanying dance, and his voice alone carries with it sonorous tempo all its own.

"Memories fade, like whispers in the night, lost in the darkness, out of sight. My fate is written in sorrow's ink, A tragic tale, with no chance to rethink," he responds to Seldan, thoughtfully. He doesn't know. How could he? "I have always been in the castle, for it is all the lands that I encompass. I am the land, the land is me." Thunder overhead, now, and the sound of rain too is music to the ears. It gets into your bones.

"Your words, they offer a glimmer of light, But happiness feels so out of sight. To know others have found joy in despair, Brings little solace, to a heart laid bare."

Verna's words make him pause and his terrible gaze sweeps from her to Telamoin and back again. For a moment, it is hard to escape that this is a weapon born, forged to fight on a scale unimaginable, but the thunder of its tears hitting the table makes it seem even his despair is deadly, somehow, but so too is the spark of light that such refined oratory has placed in him. Light and dark, waging war within. 

GAME: Ravenstongue rolls Perform/Oratory: (16)+36+3: 55

Silence lingers around Seldan for a moment, and he considers the king, leaning against the back of one of the carven chairs. "To linger in the place where so much sorrow has been wrought," he begins slowly, "mires the heart deeper within the places that that sorrow knew. Well too do I know this, and it is for that reason that the house I purchased within the city I once called home now belongs to another."

"Would you come with me? Outside the kingdom you call home? Walk another path, and see that which you have not known?"

Telamon tilts his head, thinking. "He's defined by his existence. You see this a lot, you know. Your Majesty, this is not a new problem, and others have had to fight this battle." Again, the prospect that maybe there's a way out. "Changing one's nature. I've seen it happen, you know. With people. Even with a god. Sometimes you don't know what they'll become, but you can't judge on what might happen."

He smiles fearlessly up at the Unloved King. "And if you need a new story to define you, Your Majesty... well, we're pretty good at writing better stories."

It's hard to focus, fingers drumming against the table, thundering teardrops giving bassy rhythm. Aryia bites her tongue. Just focus on the words. Just focus on- her brows furrow. And she tears away to look at the others. A walk. A different path. Change. Morph.

"Mind. Body. Spirit. They all are connected and mutable. They change and influence each other. It takes naught a small step to the light. A small step changes and writes a new story." <Handspeech/Tongues> 

GAME: Ravenstongue rolls Perform/Sing: (13)+16: 29

Writing better stories. Those are words that resonate with Cor'lana. How many times has she wished that she simply could write a new story for herself, lost in the cold and the grey of the world she had known back in Rune, in those lonely years spent in amnesia where she could not remember her own name or where her mother had gone.

Would you come with me? Outside the kingdom you call home? Walk another path, and see that which you have not known? Seldan's words resonate so deeply in her, too, their meter and their near-rhyme inspirational. She's set ablaze then. Set aflame with the aspiration to right the wrong before her. Set aflame to tell the Unloved King that there are kindred souls here.

"Once upon a time, in a land far away,
There was once a King of unloved claim.
He was made for misery, born into chains,
But in the passing of time were six who came:
A knight of Eluna, called in moon-bright,
A starborn man, adorned with Her light,
A strong warrior, mute yet all-speaking,
A keen scholar, knowing-quest unceasing,
A careful Mourner, draconic in dirge,
A feyblood woman, magic word in surge.
These six, who came forth in heroic deed,
Offered to him their loving heed:
'Listen to our song, o Saddened King,
That you might fly on gladdened wing
Like ravens who nest in thawed spring.'
And they sang for him a joyous song..."

She clears her throat again. This time, she does not recite. She sings.

She sings in Sylvan. She sings a song that is about the Unloved King, except remade in the song of a fey-touched woman--herself--remade to be joyful. Remade to be loved. Remade to be thought of. In a way, it's a promise, because Cor'lana promises the Unloved King she will think of him. She will sing for him every day no matter who is listening to her. She will write songs of him. She will perform those songs, and then people will perform those songs.

No more will he be forgotten. No more will he be unloved. How can he, when so many people think of him? How many, when so many people sing of him? She gives him song.

She gives him hope.

Verna made her inquiry, and invitation of thought. Now others have made their own, more tangible invitations... and oaths, with Cor'lana's words. Verna remains quiet, now, to observe the king's reaction, and perhaps choice. They can but offer; it is to him to make the decision and effort.

"In the depths of sorrow, I've made my home,
Bound by chains of misery, I'm left to roam.
To linger in this place, where shadows dwell,
Is to drown in sorrow's endless well."

This King so unloved leans forward, then raises his hands to the sky, fingers outstretched. Despite being of an appropriate size, you feel small in his presence, despite being legends yourselves in your own time. A story grows larger than life with each passing, after all, and while his is no longer shared in the world, it has been told for an age within its circle.

"Yet still, I hesitate, in fear and in doubt,
Can I leave behind what I've known about?
To change my nature, to redefine my fate,
Is a daunting task, with stakes so great."

His terrible gaze drops upon each of you, studying you. Reading you. Feeling your stories, skimming your fortunes.

"But why can I not see the threads of your fates, here in this place?" He considers a moment, then shrugs his slouching shoulders before sighing mightily.

"Your offer, it sings of a brighter morn,
Where the shadows fade and joy is born.
I accept your hand and stray,
to journey forth from this shadowed play."

A deep, rumble tremors through this realm, a creaking as a branch on the world tree turns. As you step outside, the stars above seem to be rewriting themselves, shifting in interplay as fate struggles to adapt.

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