An Unexpected Vir(tu)al Party

[piosenniel]

“Of, course you are, my dear Arry!” Pio laughed and reached out one hand to cradle her friend’s chin. Turning his head one way and the other. “Who else would you be?!”

Bending down a bit, she hugged him. As her arms encircled his shoulders, her hands bumped up against the instrument held close against his back. “Aah!” she cried in delight, clapping her hands as she stepped back. “We’ll have music!” Her eyes glimmered in the lights hung about the great hall.

‘I remember the old songs we sang. They always lifted my spirits. As did your playing, Arry, and that fine voice of yours.”

She steered him back to where her other companions were engaged in what appeared to be quite amusing conversation. “I have some new songs, too, I’ve learned in places traveled to of late. But what about you? What have you been doing? New songs? And what news do you bring of old friends?”

[Arry]

Arry tugged on the Elf’s sleeve after only a few steps. “Wait, Miz Pio,” he said slowing his steps. ‘Let’s sit over there for just a bit,” he went on, pointing to a small empty table in the corner. He pulled out a chair for her when they had arrived. He freed himself from his rucksack, hanging it by its straps from the nearest back-post of his chair. His guitar he leaned up against table’s top where it butted against the wall. Arry sat himself down with a sigh.

A passing server, in the meantime, was waved over by Pio, and two small, thick glass tumblers of Dwarven whiskey placed on the table. Arry nodded slightly as he raised his glass and downed it in a single gulp. The Elf sipped at hers, quietly waiting for what he had to say.

Instead, Arry picked up his guitar and began the accustomed routine of putting it in tune. This familiar habit calmed his mind and as he strummed a series of sweet, clear chords, he found the words to tell her the news he’d brought of their friend. Straightforward, plain words.

“It’s Jack, Miz Pio,” he began, playing a short refrain from an old song they both knew. “Jack Pryne.” He smiled, remembering other times when the music had carried them all along. “The old minstrel. You remember. We sang together – him and me and you. That old clapboard shamble of a tavern, down by that harbor… What was its name?” Arry heard the scrape of the Elf’s chair legs as she scooted closer to him. He looked up, into her questioning face.

“He’s passed, Miz Pio. Old Jack. He’s gone on.”

[Kath]

So many reams of paper had surrounded Kath for the past few weeks that another piece, beautifully addressed though it was, had quite escaped her notice. But finally all the other sheets had been bundled together and sent off into the desperately grateful hands of parents across the land, ready to be opened and met with cries of: “But that’s not how they did it in my day!” and “What do they mean by ‘bus stop method?’” followed by copious amounts of weeping and a few hefty splashes of gin.

A party, the letter said. A chance for old friends to gather and reminisce and enjoy each other’s company in a way that Kath could barely remember. If any silver lining could come from this strange new world everyone was living in, well, this was certainly one example. It was such a special occasion, Kath even dug out some appropriately themed attire (last worn, to the delight of the small charges she taught, for Shakespeare Week) before setting off with all haste.

Despite that, she was inevitably late to the celebrations, and by more than just Day 1 this time. And yet, as she carefully manoeuvred around the myriad of obstacles by the door and stood washing her hands (singing Happy Birthday under her breath), she felt glad of her late arrival as it meant that she had time to adjust to seeing so many people from such a happy time all those years ago. Tears sprang to her eyes for a moment as a warm feeling of ‘home’ passed over her.

An instant later they were gone as she was welcomed with good cheer, handed a drink and pulled straight into conversation. It was as if she had never been away.

[Envinyatar]

As the Wyrm regaled him with stories of old adventures she’d been on with Pio, Envinyatar found himself laughing and nodding his head. Angara had a quick wit and a sharp tongue in her opinions of how things might have gone better if only those involved had taken her counsel. What a battle that must have been! The self-confident Elf . . . impulsive, obstinate, even . . . standing toe to claw with the vociferous, tail thumping Old Wyrm.

His own wanderings these past years had been less colorful than those of his old friend and this new one. He had no home base. Just whatever dirt his old boots touched – wherever he laid his head down at night. Big towns, not too much. He tended to make a wide berth around those. Small little towns, yes, and no towns at all, too. Just little farms, wide spaced from one another. Long dusty roads intermingled with the much welcomed, cool, shadowed treks beneath the trees of some great, quiet forest.

These past few years he’d felt a vague insinuation in some old places he’d passed through of some deeper shadow that wriggled just out of his perception even as his attention was drawn toward it. He was thankful the brief encounters had been few. But they had set an alarm in him. And he’d kept a look-out these past few years for any hint of occurrence.

There had been no indication at all of any darkness, of any lingering shade, as he’d traveled the last miles to these Downs. And if this party here were any indication, the Downs continued to be an inviting place of light and good-natured fellowship. It was a welcoming feeling that put him at his ease.

His woolgathering was cut short as he felt Angara’s talons tight on his shoulder. “What’s this!?” she hissed, her eyes on the little scene unfolding in the corner of the room. “The Elf looks troubled. And sad.”

Envinyatar glanced toward the corner, narrowing his eyes. “And she’s crying,” he murmured. With quick steps, he and his perched companion moved toward their friend.

[littlemanpoet]

Elempi stared at the dark haired woman who had sat beside him. He seemed to recognize her from the Downs, one special corner of them. He searched his mind. He thought of a big, lumbering, blonde and bearded Eorling smith, a tongue tied and bashful man. Harreld. Such fond memories, writing for Harreld. He remembered now.

"Lhuna!" He whispered. "It's you! It's great to see you here! You wrote for Ginna! That was fun."

Elempi stopped being quiet, completely taken up in fond memories of hijinks and hilarity that the two of them had co-written.

[piosenniel]

Pio leaned back in her chair, shaking her head slowly. No words came. Tears pooled into memories behind clouded eyes. “That can’t be true,” she murmured. “We were to meet at the Windrose Inn – just a few weeks from today.” She shook her head again. “He had a new song to try out… and I wanted to sing some of our old ones again.” With her forefinger she traced the raised grain along the table’s top, losing the line of it as it faded into smoothness.

The sound of her small companion’s wings preceded the weight of the Wyrm’s body as she landed, her talons gripping tightly on the Elf’s shoulder. “Who’s troubling you? Shall I break them?” She fixed a wary eye on Arry. “Just bend them a bit, perhaps.”

[Arry]

“Now wait a minute!” Arry protested, leaning back in his chair. He looked Angara directly in the eye. “Nobody’s been troubling Miz Pio. Not me at least.” He shook his head. “We’re both troubled. We’ve lost a good friend. That’s what makes her sad.” He cradled his guitar against him. “Makes me sad.” He plucked a tune. Chords and single notes blended quietly together.

“Remember this one, Miz Pio?” He strummed a few bars, setting the rhythm of the song. “That one he said was about Mount Gumry. You sang it with him at the Seven Bells.” He watched as she tapped out the tempo with her fingers.

And then in a voice pitched soft and low she began to sing the familiar words of that old song.