The wandering bard of the steppes.

[johnhughthom]

We follow a group of men as they dismount their horses and walk together toward the largest of what looks like a city of tents. As we step through the opening we see a larger group of men sat around a raised table, drinking wine, smoking weed and singing song. Our friends sit on the floor and beckon toward the only female in the room who hands them each a jug of wine. They all look to the back of the tent where a man has risen to his feet, as he climbs onto the raised table the babble of chatter and raucous singing stops immediately. This is why they are all here, the wandering bard of the steppes is here to tell them tales of their past glories and tragedies.


Back when the heirs of Seleukos ruled in Persia, Syria and Asia Minor
(Though the Empire of Cyrus, Darius and Xerxes was indeed much finer)
Arose a tribe from the east,
Masters of the four legged beast.
Their fate was to conquer, to rule and to kill,
Nobody on a horse had the same kind of skill.
Antiochus in Seleukiea knew not of these men,
Could they cause him great pain,
Even end his foul reign?
The spears would be sent to crush the great tribe,
Would they be cut down from afar with nowhere to hide?
Will king be bereft,
With no soldiers left,
Or will the horsemen feel pain,
And return to the plain?

The bard paused and looked around the room.

To hear the story of these men,
Return here again.
The story is long,
An heroic old song,
Told me by my father,
Many times passed on.

The bard left the table and returned to his bed at the back of the room. The noise in the room increases, the men return to their drinking, singing and arguing. The bard is already asleep as we slip out of the tent.

[desert]

What a crappy bard; he sang for like a minute!

[johnhughthom]

It was an intro...

[johnhughthom]

We return to the tent just as the bard wakes and return to our seat on the floor.

Your ancestors fought just as you do,
On horseback with bow and lance too.
The tribesmen were quick, nimble and tough,
More often than not they were more than enough.


The Dahae were fierce, proud and strong,
We praise them still in campfire song.
The pick of the men rode in small roving bands,
The bow a deadly weapon in such well skilled hands.


The nobles, few in number but heavily armed,
Still too quick for the spears and rarely were harmed.
Loyal to the king their anger was fearsome,
If he was in danger swiftly would they come.


The best of the best,
Somehow better than the rest.
The Kings Royal guard,
Who always fought hard.
Feared by Saka, Indian and Greek,
Every enemy was made to look weak.


These were the men who rode out to battle,
Constantly eager to test their mettle.
An enemy at hand,
Who ruled a vast land,
How could they bring woe,
To such a great foe?
Enemies all around, north, east, south and west,
Such dangers to any leader a test.

And to you Mr desert, heckling my song,
How dare you claim I didn't sing for long?

Once again the bard retires to his bed, seemingly he could only sing in short bursts before tiring himself out.

[desert]

Mr. Homer would like to have a harsh word with you, o Bard.


<----- Homer

[Olaf Blackeyes]

lulz this is an awesome war in the making