Cage and Song

Mameco the Bard

The old military road had reached its apex and stabilized for a couple meters before sloping back down, the searing coastal sunlight painting Polasso bright red, roof tiles glistening like shards of stained glass from even such a distance. The beautiful harbor, jewel of the city, was dotted by ships mainly medium and small, except for an imposing frigate with black hull and sails of fading purple. Around the port city, sand and woodlands alternated and were cut by the rivers Tusca and Selco, both flowing into the bay to form a lagoon which nobody had bothered to warn Mameco about. The Bard would have to make a mental note to visit the waters at some point in his stay. Beyond the lagoon, the treeline followed the coast in a rising curve to a promontory soaring high over the sea. It looked like a beautiful place, but the climb wasn't inviting.

The rest of the road went by in mere hours, and soon the smells of salty wind, fresh fish and sun-baked sandstone inundated Mameco as he wandered the streets. He found a stable that seemed to strike a fair balance between accessible pricing and lack of ticks, and a stanza whispered in passing guaranteed the stablehand could be trusted. The Bard wasn't sure the casual use of magic was exactly legal in that principality, but nobody would really expect a Bard to follow the letter of the law. By that time the last of the daylight was fading, and the lighter could be seen roaming the streets, entrusting the Sun's responsibility to the city's gas lamps. Tired and dust-covered by the road, Mameco decided to eat, rest and call it a day, and leave for tomorrow the objective that had brought him to that city: seeking stories.

Common sense and years of experience lead the Bard to the pier in search of an apothecary who, according to the innkeeper, was in fact an alchemist. An important part of his craft was seeking stories, and an important party of seeking stories is knowing who can provide them. Mameco wasn't interested in the tellings of alliance and treason, be it romantic or political, typical of the court, but in tales of blood and sweat, of adventure and near-death, and he knew these stories happened to wanderers, to soldiers and hunters, to those who clashed blades and faced mystical beasts. Invariably, such adventurers would have to look for an alchemist, be it to purchase preventive medicine, be it to sell their preys' innards. If anybody, then, could point him to the best story sources, it would be such an alchemist.

The store was small and smelled strongly of incense, but at least he didn't stumble upon any preserve or unspeakable herb in a jar. The shelves were stocked with flasks and pouches containing tinctures, potions, poultices and pills of all colors, shapes and consistencies, not a single one labeled. Behind a wooden counter, a figure wore an inexplicable amount of cloth for that coastal heat: shaw over cloak, over jacket over shirt, with veils, kerchiefs and hats obscuring his face.

– You strike me as a weary one, sire, and not one who bears the semblance of this city. Might I suppose you are just recently arrived? – the alchemist's voice was raspy and weary, like a shouted whisper.

– Oh, yes, certainly. A beautiful city, Polasso. I am still getting to know the sights.

– Then I would recommend a tonic, that it may revitalize your body and allow you to explore our great city with renewed vigour. Unless you have something specific in mind?

– I do, in fact, have something specific in mind. I could also, however, take a tonic or two, depending on how this something is seen to. – Mameco grabbed a blue bottle containing something viscous, proceeding to roll it in his hands to accentuate his dramatic pause. His old rhetorics professor had told him once that dramatic pauses were an uncouth artifice that had long been deemed unfashionable, but they had yet to fail him. – I am in search of a good story, and believe you stand a fair chance of having one for me.

– Of course, a story. May I suppose, then, that you are a Bard? That you come here seeking inspiration for your stanzas, ballads and tunes?

Mameco put away the bottle and held up his open hands, as though the alchemist had him at the end of a gun. – Guilty as charged. Though I promise not to sing or charm my way through our negotiation. Not to mention I am reasonably sure you have some tincture around that wards against charms.