But anyways... wha's been 'appenin'... I forgets most. Mainly due to a yuletide gift off me good friend miss Linwe - a nice bottle o' blue.. sourberry.. somethin' wine. I forgets what she calls it. But can blow yer 'ead off, that stuff an' open up yer eyes to all sorts o' strange sights. On the negative side, it can also make yer lose a couple o' months.
I remember, through a dull haze o' blurry mist, lots o' strange 'appenin's. Linwe even died at one point, which were guttin'... but then she came back again, which were good... A couple o' times, I'd be walkin', an' I'd see a man crawlin' across the walls o' the ruins. Vertically, like a spider or somethin'. I knows 'im... the undead fellow, Lore. And I knows I's seen it right... it's nah a vision o' drunkenness. I don' trust 'im. I'll take 'is coin, but I keeps 'im at arm's length. Don't matter anyway... 'e gone off travellin' now or somethin'.
The elvenfolk are still as barmy as a collection of nutcases baked into a fruitcake an' rolled down a hill, but tha's a status that 'as taken 'em centuries ta perfect. Last I 'eard, one o' them, miss Alo, 'ad burnt down the Elven Hall... they don' do themselves any favours, these elven. Under some sort o' magicky strangeness o' the matron o' the drow they reckons. An' 'er man Markus is quite the mystery an' all.
She's a funny one too, the matron. Only seen 'er once or twice, but they reckons she be experimentin' on folk or somethin' now, as she gone an' put vampire blood in miss Justine (who be also pregnant wi' the Solstice twins). Wha' good that'll do fer anyone, I don' know. Vampires an' them things undead make me skin crawl though. I's got enough bloodsuckers of me own livin' in me hair.
Meh... there'll be nah experimentin' on this minstrel though, tha's fer sure. A good dose o' rum'll keep the blood clean...
As fer me purpose now, I's back to entertainin'. I's 'ad a long 'ard think about me situation while I was in 'ibernation. So I'll leave on a song...
♫ Now lately facts 'ave come ta light
Tha' I can't disregard...
The very question o' me fame
An' standin' as a bard...
It seems I's gathered some repute -
I knows wha' yer all think.
An' I's nah goin' to refute -
I likes a little drink...
But then... skilled drunk or gift o' song?
Which says me name the most?
Be Swith the Smashed or Swith the Scop
When I's nah but a ghost?
I say we let these two ghosts fight
An' put me skills on trial.
First - the minstrel, quick o' wit,
An' cheerily in style.
I's nah bad wi' a lute yer know
(An' music be love's food)
I raises chuckles oft, although
The songs can oft be rude...
But tha's jus' from me early work
O' singin' pirate shanties...
They likes ta 'ear, them burly lads,
O' ladies wi' nah panties...
Now to the drunk - be nah a pain,
But more... proficient sot.
In truth, I likes ta entertain
Wi' fallin' down a lot.
I's nah great cause o' lots o' strife.
I nah takes off me clothes.
I's ne'er awoken as a wife
Ta someone I nah knows...
But when it comes ta drinkin' rum,
It's well clear that I'm able
To drink most folk onto their bum,
An' righ' under the table...
So now dilemma, she unfolds:
Two talents, both o' worth...
But then a sayin' sprang ta mind,
Me memory did unearth:
"Oh Rum - yer makes me lips go numb,
An' makes me tongue be limber...
But mind that I don' find mesel'
A-hangin' from some timber..."
So as a wise an' studied bard,
I took the words as spoke.
The obvious conclusion be
Don't fix what is nah broke...
Good bedfellows are song an' rum
A limber tongue is luck...
Most vital is rum - it rhymes wi' 'bum'
(An' the other line rhymes wi' f-)
An' as a wise an' studied drunk,
I keeps control enough,
Ta run from them who takes offence,
When they's angry, big an' gruff. ♫
