Days of Yore

This is one of my latests writings. Not my best nor one of my favourites by far. But then again, I barely like any of my writings. Read it and comment. Any sort of feedback is welcome.

The fire crackled, breaking the icy silence that had settled over the forest in a dark contrast to the lively chirping of birds and chanting of other animals during daytime. The trees loomed above us almost darkening the sky, yet the starry black mantle which covered the land made its way through trees and branches in a way that blotches of stars could be seen amidst the dense treetops. That only provided an even more suitable atmosphere for our bonfire, since, as it was accustomed, after everybody had eaten supper the bards would begin to recite and sing the odes and lays they had either learned or composed themselves which spoke of the days of yore. Better days they were as well, and each song brought renewed hope with it as it lifted our spirits while we heard tales of courage and nigh supernatural prowess. Tales such as the battle of Azal’aqent, the slaying of Hyrmtog the drake, the founding of our kingdom under the rule of Gertick the Just and other tales which have by now long been forgotten where not only common, but a must in every bonfire, in every settlement and wherever a bard abode.

The children’s eyes where wide open in amazement and expectation as the first bard made his way to the centre of the ring, produced some white powder from his pouch and cast it into the fire, making the flames crackle ever so loudly and dance with renewed ferocity. A simple enough effect, but still effective for it provided that extra ambience of mysticism needed in order to captivate and awaken the imagination of the folk. At once, the other bards began playing a generic rhythm as to provide with a better idea of tempo; and with a loud and clear voice the bard began reciting the first piece of the night’s repertoire: Azal’aqent. Children and adults alike dropped their jaws as they sat in open-mouthed awe, for this was not the ordinary ode which has survived up to our days, but the original and complete version in it’s full length and magnificence; a version that even in those days was almost unheard of, and to ever have the opportunity of hearing it was considered to be an immense privilege. So rare were the bards who knew it.

As if summoned by some unspoken spell, shadows drew closer to the circle as well as denser. If something lurked beyond the circle of light which ended a mere yard behind the man furthest from the fire it escaped our knowledge. The world faded and all ceased to exist; all but the score of travellers who sat around a common plain bonfire and hearkened the tales of yore with a child’s imagination. The bard kept reciting the ode and accompanied the stanzas with body gestures, and the musical score provided had shifted from a generic one to a specific unknown melody which flowed and intertwined itself with the poem. This was no ordinary bard, this was a true master storyteller; and even perhaps, as some of the men who witnessed the recital whispered afterwards, it was Freht himself who had returned from the land of spirits once more. So great was this man at his craft.

The bard continued for nigh an hour and thirty minutes before he concluded. His mastery was such that it took close to forty seconds for the men to respond and start cheering and clapping. Needless to say, the bard became quite popular and the invitations to drink of someone’s special ale reserve, or eat from the jerky supply of another man abounded that night. One man even offered his daughter in wedlock to the bard who, being of a true cast of gentlemen, of the sort which no longer roam the land, gently refused, saying that his life was not one to be shared by a woman since his bed was the floor and his roof the clouds.

The night continued in a similar fashion, though no bard could match the first one. Despite that, the men cheered and gasped as the tales came to a climatic cliff-hanger. Indeed, it was not until the night had grown old and many a child had fallen to deep slumber, with the inclusion of more than one man who had had a little to much ale to drink, did the folk start to move away from the bonfire. The night had ended for some, but not for the lookouts; yet despite the singing being over, not one soul that night slept dreamless, and all dreams where the same. For one night, for one moment, in a small camp lost in the middle of the northern woods, Azal’aqent had returned to the living and bestowed once again the hope and forlorn of the days of yore.

Author's Note

Go wild.