The Performances of Samuel T. Davidson

[Random_White_Guy]

Minstrel,
 
You have quite the talent with words. I admit I was expecting something more solemn, but I believe my expectations were wrong. This may be exactly what is needed in these times. Let us not forget that the Art is not some boring drabness from books.
 
When could I expect you to perform?
 
The payment promised will find its way to you soon enough.
 

With the thanks of the Church of Mystra the Third,
Daevian Wind

City Sending by Samuel Davidson : [In a boisterous cadence] Ladies and Gentlemen! It pleases me to announce that I, Samuel T. Davidson, shall be performing the first commissioned piece within these walls since the late Abigail Nightal! A celebratory prose on the glories of the Weave, I welcome all to come to the Mist`s End now. )

Scribbled on the back of a bar-napkin as if constructed on a first attempt

[tface=salt]The Mist is the Mist is the Mist,
But this Miss is one Mystic not to be missed,
Even here trapped by the Mist!

One Mystra, two Mystra, three Mystra, more-
For her temple a heraldric score,
Tripled in verse with words so terse!

The power of any spoken word,
The sweetest notes that any heard!
Spells across the realm-

No! A woven tapestry across the planes,
Knotted with cross-hitch-stich,
With the art all feats a synch!

Of great power equal care,
Must be taken in every plight,
Lest we face the scourge of night!

Keen restraint and cautioned woe,
For care we must take as we go
Even in the face of greatest foe!

To wield such power is a gift,
Abuse it and she'll be surely miffed,
Should your voice to her not lift!

Be you Imperial,
Be you Ethereal,
Be you Undead,
Be you Brain-dead

The Gift is the Gift is the Gift![/tface]

[Random_White_Guy]

[tface=salt]Citizens and Adventurers of Mistlocke,

I, Samuel T. Davidson, Mist's End Performer and Mistlocke's native son find myself lacking in both means and method to bring to you the finest pleasures that my talents can afford. To that end my people I beg upon you: If upon your travels you should happen upon a series of songsheets, a tuned piece of wood, or any other instruments to covet them with rapt appeal.

In return I shall offer my services to you for one free commission of your choosing, that your will or your name shall be carried throughout Mistlocke now and forever.

Samuel T. Davidson[/tface]

City Sending by Samuel Davidson : Had I a fat wife, I would still attempt to each night bring a quaking pleasure to the tavern. Alas the same can be said of a broken Lute. Seek me out, Samuel T. Davidson, should you find any of true form. Lutes, pipes, drums, other fine instruments. I shall be playing at the Tavern at Mist`s End on the broken lute.

[tface=salt]A love song...

A firm hand upon her slender neck, holding her tight.
Caressing her sunkissed frame tracing ever lower.
Two fingers dancing along the taut.

A slow and rhythmic stroke of her,
A breathless echo for only me to hear,
A whispered song so pure.

A pace quickening in the evening hour,
tracing the petals of a fragile bough,
Sweet music now for others to know.

A pluck of my upstretsched thumb,
A shrieking howl of primal delight,
Her song carried into the night.

Some say they are the same,
but to me she puts them all to shame,
Despite her nicks and callouses.

With my hands upon her,
Sweet music for all,
As her calls bounce off the wall.
 
Now my dear madam,
As I sing this song to you,
Imagine what I could do,

Imagine the sounds that could be made,
The attention that could be paid,
Were I to lay these hands...

...On a lute that was in tune.

A lovesong,
For a broken lute...[/tface]

[Random_White_Guy]

City Sending by Samuel Davidson : Ladies and Gentlemen of Ymph! In five minutes time I, Samuel T. Davidson, Mistlocke`s sole performer shall be displaying my second commissioned work titled "Imperial Bouillon" at the Tavern at MIst`s End. Come, drink, and fight for peace!

[tface=salt]Imperial Bouillon

[/tface]
[tface=fraktur]I

II

[/tface]
While Drinking and toiling,

With stock of chicken,

My dear fiddle oiling,

Did our waists thicken,

Did I hear the call-

Speaking through the night,

The Performer's wit,

For the Bouillon discussed,

He could not omit,

Cooked into our mouths thrust,

Sending reaching all-

As we sought a tune so right

"Holy Hells, that is you?"

Now my dear friends,

The patrons inquire,

As the tale ends,

As the artist does retire.

The questioned must be asked-

For the Empire awaits,

Is it so vile?

Amid political debates,

Should I compile

A song-weaver-for-hire.

That which I was tasked?

Through the forest,

If might makes right,

Feet the sorest,

No sweeter delight,

A sandy enclave found.

Than Imperial Bullion

Tethered and chained,

Should we desist,

Above sandy plain,

Peace they insist,

Was an enclave bound.

Brought by Zaboulon

Summoned before a great feast,

It's golden hue,

Indulgent to say the least,

My pockets askew,

Sat Saer Zaboulon.

As I did depart

An olive branch verse,

Some soup, Some Gold,

I must rehearse,

A task to be told,

over Imperial Bouillon

Bouillion for my Art.

In the cold mists we endure,
So let us procure,
A small bit of a peace,

Deals they do make,
So for all of our sake,
Find us one to take,

That leaves us all alive!

"Very good! A fine fiddler you are!"
Siagrin Izrick

[Random_White_Guy]

City Sending by Samuel Davidson : [In the wimsical cadence of a carnival barker, rolling the first "L"] Llllladies and Gentlemen of Mistlocke! In a rare gem of splendor I am pleased to announce that the lovely landsrover Lodia and Samuel T. Davidson, Mistlocke`s native son, shall be partaking in an impromptu and unrehersed performance at the Tavern at Mist`s End now! Drink, sing, feast, and join us!

Lodia: "How about we make a new one? You do one line and I'll the next"
Fris: "Aye, aye, a right proper drinking song eh?
Samuel T. Davidson: "Certainly, shall I begin?"

[tface=salt]

Pints down!

Pints down, Fists high, did the dwarven cry!
Up in the air went their braided hair!
With beards and teeth aplenty to spare!

Down under the table spralled the few who could not pay their fare.
We don't welcome no elves in'ere!
Oy now, you fancy hair, get out of here with your pointed ear!

Y'best be lucky we brought no axe!
But be damn sure a headbutt would stop ye in your tracks
So raise a pint for all with Orcish Axes in their backs!

Hey now drink a round all ye, spend all the gold that is in your packs!
Find a drunk wench to loosen slacks!

Get on the bed, get on your backs, and enjoy the girl just don't try some ploy!
For tomorrow we slay Giants, Oooooh boy!

[/tface]

Ahoy! Ahoy! Bravo's to you two! Can I buy you a drink for performing?
Farrigrine Fris

[Random_White_Guy]

Samuel T Davidson,

I have noted that you are the proud proprietor and editor of one of Mistlocke's first attempts at a newsheet. Of course, I have also made note of the fact that this attempt to increase literacy amongst the unenlightened wretches who live in your hovel of a village lacks a proper mention of the wonderous Word of Cyric. I will be very dissapointed in you should you not see fit to inform the good villagers that we are still awaiting tribute of the material and spiritual kind.

I thought you might need a hand with your work and so I took the liberty of including one with this letter.

In faith and madness,

Apostle Halethestan Timorious, Bringer of the Word of Cyric.

P.S. If you require payment for delivering my little message then come down to murdertown and collect your fifty golden coins.

[tface=salt]I have been informed by Stephanie that she did not send this letter and that you -are- in fact a cyricist. To those ends I leave you with a humble composition

There is no discourse had,
With one who is so mad,
So go and fuck yourself.

Yet I would be remiss,
And things quite amiss,
If I did not wish good health.

For health must be grand,
If one is to take a hand,
And shove it in their ass.

To tickle the innards,
To pleasure the sinners,
As prayers to a dark god cast.

For a puppet you are,
Of a mortal man scarred,
To think he is a god.

In closing dear sir,
I shall gift to you,
An off to Sod

Samuel T. Davidson

[/tface]