The Golden Tone Vignette PART 1

Jazbet stirred in the straw bedding of the tent he shared with the other boys of the troupe.
 
Young men without families, orphaned in the wars of the world, abandoned by their parents, or those who had absconded their villages, towns and homes in pursuit of a life brimming with excitement.
 
Jazbet however was the only young man to have done so without the knowledge or consent of the Golden Tone Jongleurs.
 
The unexpected arrival of a young stowaway in the trunk of one of their traveling show wagons garnered the expected response of shock, fear and anger. In no particular order.
 
Her name was Merna, a heavy set woman of at least three times his weight and double his width. She wore a bowler hat and waist coat with a curious floral print smock.
 
The young half Elf whelp she had found was starved and lice ridden. His arms furtively securing a finely crafted but ill kept Violin, an elaborate symbol carved into its frame. His piercing, blue eyes gazed at her hopelessly and the lass took the boy in. But not for free.
 
As he would come to learn.
 
That was three summers ago now.
Alright you worthless lot! Up and at ‘em, feed the pigs and gather the chickens. We hit the road in the hour. Work quickly now and we might find some suppa’ still warm. I think Agnus is even blackening some bacon and hot cakes.” It was Grimsley, the oldest of the Lost Bastards as they had lovingly taken to calling themselves. He threw a bucket of feed over those still mucking about in the hay...Jazbet included. As the animals rushed him and began pecking away he groaned, swatted away a bird or two and laughed.
 
“I’m up, I’m up!” He stretched his arms and began corralling some of the animals, tossing hay out of his hair for a bit. His clothes were rough spun and a poor fit, but this life on the road, meeting people all over the lands of Panagon and listening to the stories, the music of the traveling minstrels of the Golden Tones beat out his life of begging and stealing in Doolin a thousand fold. He never went to bed hungry, and had friends. Gods he finally had friends.
 
As he stumbled across the grassy plain, chasing one particularly stubborn chicken, he weaved in and between Gorbos, the Orc strongman carrying a trunk of the lady Estefan, as she instructed him and other muscle men through the ins and outs of her wagon’s furnishings.
 
“Excuse me! Coming through-“ he bumped into a beautiful elven girl, dressed far better than he with golden curls that reached the small of her back. She smiled and punched his shoulder lightly.
 
“Good morning Jazbet! My father asked you to come by our wagon later, he’s a surprise for you.”
 
He grinned, somewhat abashedly but his aim was for it to be confident.
 
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world Rosalyn-“ he tried to bow but stumbled and fell on his back into an uneven collection of swamp puddle and mud. Thrusting himself into the air and back on his feet, but not without letting out a rather uncouth squelch of mud that surely brought to mind the thought that he had done himself a great mischief.
He jabbed at the air, once, twice, before resting his hand on the back of his head. His eyes closed, his cheeks reddening with embarrassment, he smiled through his teeth and laughed.
 
She stared...bewildered.
 
A large clump of grass filled mud fell from his back with a most undignified plop.
 
“I believe your chickens are getting away”
 
“Right!”
 
He was grateful for the excuse to run away.
 
Upon rounding up what was left of the chickens, the auburn haired boy came upon a large gathering of townsfolk at the head of the caravan. His curiosity got the best of him and young Jazbet approached the crowd. There he found two of the other Lost Bastard boys, Pips and Waldo, at a washing barrel looking over the group of people.
 
“Oy Jaz, best get yer bacon if you’re finished chorin’. Hot cakes is gone, but Agnus boiled a potato for ya.” Pips said without his eyes leaving the congregation ahead.
Jazbet’s stomach rumbled and he nodded at the spectacle. “What’s this? More people wishing to sign on with the troupe?” There were many young men and women doting over the poets, musicians and artists of the crowd, but also parents shedding tears over their children who would be joining the Golden Tones, whether as a fellow member of the troupe or simply a member of a Fellowship paying for the safe passage that came with numbers across the country side.
 
Waldo, a heavy set boy with red hair and freckled face crouched down, his eyes wide and his mouth agape with wonder.
 
“That’s not all, they say they’ve a Wizard with’em. Horned and terrible with power, prolly stole from a devil and turn us all into frogs if we dont do as he says.” The rotund boy leaned back and sat on his hind, unaware or perhaps uncaring of the soaked turf beneath him.
 
The three boys all gasped at the same time, as if on cue a large horned man passed through the crowd. His skin was a dark indigo blue, practically glowing, his robes flowing bright and colorful in Golden silk and rich scarlet. His teeth, though sharp somehow conveyed a warmth and confidence that convinced you everything was going to be alright.
Through hushed whispers, the crowd parted and the boys could hear the name, “Chester the Magnificent” carried over the wind.
 
With unearthly grace the Tiefling Arcanist reached into his robes, removing a wax stamped scroll, to Ricard Moonblood, the unofficial leader of the Troupe and the greatest lute player Jazbet had ever witnessed. The Elf was dressed casually, but in clothing that were clearly of the highest quality. His lute was said to be hundreds of years old, handed down and crafted from Elven artisans who mastered the luthiers trade in ways that few in the world would ever know outside of their lands.
 
“You drive a hard bargain Mr. Trueblood, but it will be an honor to travel alongside such as your lovely Troupe.” His voice was heavily accented, but there was still a conveyance of confidence and refinement. To a young man like Jazbet, raised and fed in the streets of a city like some sewer rat...this Tiefling was grander than a king.
 
 
 
—————-
 
Later that evening, as the fellowship broke to switch drivers and camp for the night, fires were made, a pig butchered and laughter could be heard through the clearing in which they rested. A stream of fresh water with rumors of a nearby waterfall gave plenty of excuse for those to go and launder clothes, bathe themselves, or steal a lover’s kiss.
 
Jazbet took advantage, remembering his friend Rosalyn’s promise of a surprise her father had in store. Her father was Ricard Moonblood, and he had a feeling there would be a lesson for the lute in store for him.
 
As he approached the master lutist’s tent, he overheard bits of conversation from within.
 
“The Fochlucan bandore? You’re sure?” This voice was definitely Ricards, bordering on incredulousness. The voice in reply, to Jazbet’s amazement was the Wizard from earlier, Chester the Magnificent.
“I would not have secured passage with your troupe under false pretense. My source says that the item in question is the genuine article. This one said to have been owned by Iblin Vahn Ferrin.”
 
Both men at the same time said “The Desert Song”
 
“How long do you plan to stay?”
 
“My travels take me many places, I prefer not to stay with one people or place too long.”
 
“You aren’t wanted are you? A charlatan is not welcome here, bad for the troupes reputation.”
 
“A poor way to respond to one who has procured the location of an artisanal treasure for you. And why can one man be one and not the other. I am a wanted man for many reasons, but charlatanism is not one of them. My studies take me far and wide.”
 
Ricard chuckled at that. “Very well Chester, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. If there is even a chance that the information you have provided would lead us to the genuine thing...it would be well worth it a thousand times over to have you aboard.”
 
The Tiefling inclined his head before making his way out of the tent. In Jazbet’s shame and embarrassment he realized he was still crouched just outside of it, eavesdropping. As the flap to the tent opened, Jazbet found himself face to face with the imposing and grand figure that was Chester.
 
“It is bad manners to listen in on the conversations of your elders boy.” He said through his unflinching smile. He laughed softly to himself as Ricard exclaimed from within.
 
“If I had to bet my last copper bit, I’d wager that the eavesdropper was Jazbet. Curiosity will be the death of that boy.”
 
Jazbet felt the heat rush to his face. He looked down in embarrassment.
 
The Tiefling offered his hand to raise the adolescent up.
“Is that so? Curiosity is the catalyst for genius. That is a seed you should continue to water.”
 
“Don’t I know it.” Ricard exclaimed warmly as he lifted the flap to his tent, something held and concealed behind him.
 
“I promised you a surprise now didn’t I?” Ricard Moonblood, a copper toned elf with golden hair just like his daughters, looked just as young as she. Lithe, well kept, and of unbelievably nimble hand he removed what he held.
 
It was the violin that had belonged to Jazbet’s father. The only keep sake from either of his parents, but in perfectly mended condition.
 
“It took me quite a while, son. But I believe the lower bout is as good as new and the scroll was worked on for weeks back at Eastgrove’s luthier. But ah what am I saying, see for yourself.” He offered the violin and bow.
 
With tears welling in his eyes, young Jazbet leapt hungrily at the instrument, feeling wholesome and complete with the one thing that still connected him to his parents, whoever they may have been. Tears streamed down his eyes freely as he hugged the instrument to his chest.
 
“Thank you!” He sniffled, “thank you so much Ricard...”
 
The Elven man smiled, and laid a hand on the young boy’s shoulder. “I’ll give you lessons starting tomorrow. But you must promise to practice every day.”
 
Jazbet nodded and even tried to smile through the tears.
Later that evening...
 
The majority of the troupe were deep in their cups and huddled around the fires. Some had taken to dancing, while others sang and played fiddle, flute and lute. The Lost bastards hung off to the side, while young Jazbet stared into the violin, at the expense of all else.
 
Grimsley slapped him on the shoulder.
 
He looked up to see the boy had wet his hair, and held a bundle of weeds and daisys.
 
“Jaz, how you think I look? Tonight’s the night, I feel it. Rosalyn, I’m asking’ ‘er to dance.” The older boy opened his arms and turned around slowly. Expectant.
 
Jazbet stared absent mindedly for a bit and answered, “You look good I suppose.”
 
Grimsley grinned at this, and plopped down beside his friend.
 
“Who needs a girl when you got a fancy fiddle though eh? You play it yet?”
 
The half boy continued to admire his fathers instrument.
 
“It’s a violin. And no, it broke last year, shortly before I joined the troupe.”
 
“You mean stowed away.”
 
“Same difference.”
 
Upon hearing this a drunk minstrel, Gabba, a dark skinned man from Vassan chimed his support with Grimsley.
 
“Yes Mr Jazbet, draw the bow along the string. Let us hear it with heart and soul...even unpracticed hands can-hic” he hiccuped and almost went sick. Before motioning his hand to continue.
 
Jazbet smiled sheepishly, aware of the eyes on him...yet excited to make these strings sing.
 
He plucked a string, and was rewarded with its tune in turn. Grimsley smiled, as did Waldo and Ricard.
“Go on Jaz! Pluck away.” Someone shouted. Even the Tiefling sorcerer who had joined their troupe nodded his way for a moment.
 
So he took the bow and slid it across the stringed fingerboard as it rested on his lap. The sound and the feeling it gave him...was indescribable.
 
He had never felt more full, more whole than he did making the violins strings play these sounds.
 
Yet something...did not seem write. He adjusted the pegs and fine tuners, plucking away as he worked without experience but off pure instinct. After ten minutes, no one else seemed to pay mine. Rosalyn and Grimsley danced in the distance, their faces home to the dancing lights cast by the bonfires beside them.
 
He took the bow and rested his chin against the pad of his violin designed for such a purpose.
 
He glided the bow across the strings, he made the violin speak, no...he made it sing. He listened to the rhythms of the wind, of the laughs of his friends and the troupe. He played alongside the sounds of the seasons, he played the song of the moon and stars.
 
He intoned the theme of his pain and loss, of a child without mother nor father. Of hunger and loneliness.
 
He chorded the song of creation. And for a brief moment, his eyes closed. He heard words not spoken since the dawn of time. He knew the world, and the world knew him. His soul was bare for all to see, it’s melody on display as it was given sound and demanded to be known.
 
Defiant and beautiful, he played, an open conduit to the tones of the universe.
 
He stopped playing and opened his eyes, slowly. His hands cramped and bleeding, he must have lost track and played for longer than expected.
 
In front of him he had witnessed the entirety of the troupe standing around, eyes wide and mouths agape in wonder.
 
Ricard, a stern look on his face. Almost in disbelief.
 
“That was the most amazing performance I have ever witnessed.”
More gasps, random bouts of applause and shock, even tears and sobs filled the air as the crowd looked back and forth with one another.
 
One figure never looked away. Master Chester, the Magnificent, grinning with an appraising look and nod of approval.