Grondal and the Owl
Grondal Moonbreeze could sew with ease, there was nothing he would not do to impress and appease. A tailor by trade, he lead a quiet existence, his only menace the mice, his sly furry tenants. But like the Thistlebear, who slumbers all winter, necessity will bring him out when the snow begins to thaw. So too would Grondal be moved when cutomers thought his fashions a bore.
'The design too old!' 'The colours too bright!' 'The lapel too bold!' 'What a hideous sight!' Our poor Grondal was hurt but determined to set things right!
What he needed was a ploy, no simple gambit, something extreme that would bring coin and respect back with it. Grondal thought long and hard, night and day, but alas to sleep he finally fell prey. Yet in was in his dreams, the idea had struck, and when he awoke he praised Elune for such luck. 'Yes!' he yelled, 'That was just the thing!' So happy was he, he began to sing. Out the door, without a morning repast, he skipped down the street with hope at long last.
You see his plan was bold, and truth be told, if anyone had known of his risky design, they would have thought him either foolish or blind. Indeed, they’d have said only death would he find. 'A tailor, slay harpies for their coat and feather!' 'What a jest!' 'It’s a grisly end at best!'
The trek was long and Grondal's legs burned, but he carried on, for pride is a trickster as you have no doubt learned. So confident was he, that Grondal ignored his good sense, the tailor thought of harpies as nothing more than dim-witted fowl. This he had heard from his boastful cliental.
Our Grondal rushed at them headlong, dagger and sword in delicate hands, hands more accustomed to working needle and thread. So did his arrogance soon turn to dread. Grondal could not win, they were too many, too strong, and his wasted demise would come before long.
Amid the cacophony of shrill screeches and threats, came a different shriek, one not evil, nor cruel or unkind, it was a cry of virtue from an untainted mind. Out of the sky a strigid owl did soar, plucked up our cowering Grondal and flew him back to Darkshore.
Poor Grondal, humiliated and sore from his reckless quest, locked himself up and let his resentment nest. But the very next day, someone knocked at his door. They did not give up, even after and hour or more. Grudgingly, Grondal finally went to the door, confident they’d see his woe and come back no more. Yet, they were no crowd come to jeer, just one pretty elf maiden with the most beautiful blue hair. ‘I love you,’ she exclaimed, jumping into his arms, ‘Be mine forever and I’ll give you a thousand harpy feathers!’
What could he say? His dreams had come true. Be honest and ask yourself what you would do! ‘Yes,’ Grondal proclaimed, giddy with lust and greed, ‘But truly your love is the only thing I need.’ Of course, after a week of newly wed bliss, Grondal felt somewhat was amiss. You see, the desire to prove the hecklers wrong was unfortunately just too strong. ‘Might I have but a few of those feathers? The ones you promised my darling, my night’s moonlight! A mere hundred or two will set things right!’ Her eyes and face fell, and she did not smile, but she handed him the feathers then said she must leave for a while. Whether it was guilt or pleasure, I know not which be true, but Grondal did not even think to ask why all the feathers were blue.
Grondal’s clients were elated and ecstatic; they all flocked to be the first to wear such fine, soft fabric. His pride and fame fully restored, Grondal rushed home to tell his wife; tell her that from now on they would have a rich, privileged life! But upon his return he found no one was home. All that remained was a single blue plume, which upon closer inspection and careful measure, Grondal knew to be a lone owl feather.
Grondal Moonbreeze could sew with ease, there was nothing he would not do to impress and appease. A tailor by trade, he lead a quiet existence, his only menace the mice, his sly furry tenants. But like the Thistlebear, who slumbers all winter, necessity will bring him out when the snow begins to thaw. So too would Grondal be moved when cutomers thought his fashions a bore.
'The design too old!' 'The colours too bright!' 'The lapel too bold!' 'What a hideous sight!' Our poor Grondal was hurt but determined to set things right!
What he needed was a ploy, no simple gambit, something extreme that would bring coin and respect back with it. Grondal thought long and hard, night and day, but alas to sleep he finally fell prey. Yet in was in his dreams, the idea had struck, and when he awoke he praised Elune for such luck. 'Yes!' he yelled, 'That was just the thing!' So happy was he, he began to sing. Out the door, without a morning repast, he skipped down the street with hope at long last.
You see his plan was bold, and truth be told, if anyone had known of his risky design, they would have thought him either foolish or blind. Indeed, they’d have said only death would he find. 'A tailor, slay harpies for their coat and feather!' 'What a jest!' 'It’s a grisly end at best!'
The trek was long and Grondal's legs burned, but he carried on, for pride is a trickster as you have no doubt learned. So confident was he, that Grondal ignored his good sense, the tailor thought of harpies as nothing more than dim-witted fowl. This he had heard from his boastful cliental.
Our Grondal rushed at them headlong, dagger and sword in delicate hands, hands more accustomed to working needle and thread. So did his arrogance soon turn to dread. Grondal could not win, they were too many, too strong, and his wasted demise would come before long.
Amid the cacophony of shrill screeches and threats, came a different shriek, one not evil, nor cruel or unkind, it was a cry of virtue from an untainted mind. Out of the sky a strigid owl did soar, plucked up our cowering Grondal and flew him back to Darkshore.
Poor Grondal, humiliated and sore from his reckless quest, locked himself up and let his resentment nest. But the very next day, someone knocked at his door. They did not give up, even after and hour or more. Grudgingly, Grondal finally went to the door, confident they’d see his woe and come back no more. Yet, they were no crowd come to jeer, just one pretty elf maiden with the most beautiful blue hair. ‘I love you,’ she exclaimed, jumping into his arms, ‘Be mine forever and I’ll give you a thousand harpy feathers!’
What could he say? His dreams had come true. Be honest and ask yourself what you would do! ‘Yes,’ Grondal proclaimed, giddy with lust and greed, ‘But truly your love is the only thing I need.’ Of course, after a week of newly wed bliss, Grondal felt somewhat was amiss. You see, the desire to prove the hecklers wrong was unfortunately just too strong. ‘Might I have but a few of those feathers? The ones you promised my darling, my night’s moonlight! A mere hundred or two will set things right!’ Her eyes and face fell, and she did not smile, but she handed him the feathers then said she must leave for a while. Whether it was guilt or pleasure, I know not which be true, but Grondal did not even think to ask why all the feathers were blue.
Grondal’s clients were elated and ecstatic; they all flocked to be the first to wear such fine, soft fabric. His pride and fame fully restored, Grondal rushed home to tell his wife; tell her that from now on they would have a rich, privileged life! But upon his return he found no one was home. All that remained was a single blue plume, which upon closer inspection and careful measure, Grondal knew to be a lone owl feather.