In the city-state of Canale, on the continent of Mariland, there was a boy named Casimiro Cigno. His father had died in a naval skirmish against Ebon, leaving him and his mother to struggle on alone. The young boy wandered the streets looking for ways to earn some extra Nocciolo silver coins used by Canale. He worked as a courier here, a laborer here, when he came upon one of the large city squares. There, he saw the scarlet eyes first. He saw the Dark Divinity Zatolen, Chief of the Gods, and the Tamer of Star and Sun. 

He spoke in a voice like new leather, strong, refined, and fresh. He seemed to be teaching other children, some better off than Casimiro and others worse off. Those who could not afford private tutors. The Dark God welcomed him, and curiosity drew him to join. “Please, join us, young man. A mind is like bar stock; it can be shaped into a blade wielded with finesse or beaten into a plowshare and dragged or pushed along the established rows.” He taught basic mathematics, philosophy, and literature, while the great riders of the day gave no ground, regardless of the sensation that hours had passed. He felt maybe time did not move within the confines of the lesson. Zatolen reached one final subject, and with a wave of his hand, C-Horses fluttered down from up above with musical instruments. Each is hand-carved and strung in Zatolen’s spare time. The dark-stained stringed instruments were passed out, and Zatolen showed them how to play the mandolin, and as the god plucked the strings, so too were the strings of Casimiro’s heart pulled. There was a resonance, and he knew that he would be a minstrel. 

He looked up to the Dark God as he took them through the basic cords. Casimiro swore he would make such beautiful music that even the Chief of the Gods would weep. Zatolen finished his lesson, and the C-Horses started collecting the instruments when Casmiro approached the scarlet-eyed God. “Um, your dark divinity.” He bowed. “Might I keep this, please?” 

Zatolen gave a smile that radiated warmth. “Ah, mister Cigno.” His scarlet eyes swept over the young boy. “Of course, the pursuit of music is a worthy goal. I feel as if this small gift will spawn one far greater for our world. I see in you such possibilities.” Zatolen showed him how to tune it and care for it before forming a case of shadow for him to safely carry it in. 

Casimiro practiced and trained, earning coins as a minstrel, slowly showing his aptitude, and earning a spot beneath the greatest local musician, Canale Mattia Marcello. Under him, he learned how to work within strict structures; he learned how to order things, how to work in constraints to build beauty. He flourished and, after five long years, became Mattia’s personal apprentice. He used all he learned to craft something of perfectly structured beauty and called upon the God. “Zatolen, Chief of Gods, The Bearer of the Scarlet Star, please heed my call.”  

Zatolen appeared before the youth. “I always make time for those who seek it when I am able, at least. How may I help you, Cigno?” 

“Oh, your Dark Divinity I wish to play for you a song.”  

“Of course, music is to be shared. By ear, to mind, and coming to rest in the heart.” 

Cigno played for Zatolen his hopeful masterpiece ‘Il Giglio nelle Catene’. It was finding beauty in the structure and the wonder of finding new ways forward on an old path. 

Zatolen listened, closing his eyes and letting the music overtake the world. When it came to an end, Zatolen nodded. “Very good. Lovely, but I feel as if you are a dog at the end of its chain. Constraints help brew creativity and control, but I feel they are choking you. It’s beautiful, child, but you are not Mattia; you can never be Mattia.”  

Cigno mourned for his failure and said goodbye to Mattia, seeking new masters. He travels away from Canale to Ebon to learn from the great musician Jone Hawthorne. He showed him his skill, and Hawthorne took him in to teach him to find inspiration in the chaos and freedom of nature. Embrace birdsong, the singing of brooks and falls, the howls of wolves. One year, as they explored the wilds around Ebon, he was shown salmon swimming upstream, and Cigno saw in them his own struggles. He felt he had learned all he could from Hawthorne and composed his new piece. He once again called upon Zatolen.  

“Zatolen, oh father of darkness, I ask for your attention once more.”  

Zatolen appeared the dark dollidoo and demi-god Siegfried on one shoulder. Mealis, goddess of Purity, sitting on his other like a dragoness on her horde, all brilliant pride. “Yes, Dear Cigno? What divine providence do you require today? I hope it’s a new song, my sweet is always open to novelty.”  

“It is your divinity.” Zatolen waved away the formality.  

“Let me see how much you strive.” 

Cigno played for Zatolen ‘Il salmone lotta contro le cascate.’ It was a breaking of chains, a finding of freedom from constraint, though it still carried what structure that worked like the trunk of a great branching tree. It was a constant rise like a hand reaching out towards the greatness of the heavens.  

Mealis and Zatolen clapped when he finished, Cigno’s breath heavy, and Zatolen said. “Wonderful, dear child. You found such freedom; you swim so hard against the current that you still can’t see that, regardless of how great you might be, you are not Hawthorne and can never be him.” 

Casimiro, once more feeling dejected, said his farewells to Hawthorne and went off to seek out the master Sophie Rochefort of the Ville de Pierre. He found in the prodigy as young as him one who embodied the beauty of people. Finding each personality coal that fueled the furnace of her soul. She took refinement of ladies, the bawdy tavern goers, the dedicated farmer and laborers, and the pious priests, taking from each new ideas.  

As Casimiro learned from Sophie, and she learned from his experiences with the other masters. The two share their love of the craft, and between them, romance is kindled. When he feels he has learned much from Sophie, he calls upon Zatolen once more. 

Zatolen appeared once more; this time, he had with him one of his sons, Fineth, God of Sport, Music, and Art. Mealis stood beside Zatolen, though she seemed to come separately. 

“Zatolen, I seek you, master of the Scarlet Star. I wish to play for you my newest song.”  

“Of course, play my child, I look forward to the sweetness of the strings you have come to play.” 

Casimiro and Sophie played for them ‘Il lamento dello scugnizzo’. It was beautiful sorrow, it was the trials of the streets, it was hunger for more than the sustenance of the body. It was the beauty of humanity, of the neighbor, of triumph over the chains of fate. It was structured where needed, expanding its confines where required, and drew from the lives of those around him.  

Zatolen and Fineth clapped while Mealis slipped behind her husband to sniffle. “Fantastic,” Zatolen said. “It speaks to the soul but…” Zatolen paused. “Child. You should know you are not the lovely Rochefort. You can never be Rochefort. If you seek to be those who have triumphed before you, you’ll be forever in their shadows.” 

Casimiro felt lost, and he and Sophie decided to journey to Estrella to learn from the Master Morales.  

As the two traveled there at a crossroad, they came across a lone rider upon a pale horse. Samarind, God of Ill Omens, Doom, and Last Chances, his body pierced by dozens of arrows and spears. He shifted his mount and blocked the path of the two. He fell off his horse, blood pooling around him as he shakily rose from the sodden earth. “I come to tell you this way is but doom. Kaxis nears your mother. She is not long for this world, and Viwrath awaits. If you return to your home now, you will at least be able to say goodbye.” Samarind pulled himself back onto his horse and pointed back to Canale. “Go forth with haste.” He rode off a trail of blood following the eternally dying God. 

Casimiro and Sophie traveled to Canale and found his dying mother. He introduced her to Sophie and said his goodbyes. He saw to the burial, and his soul was a maelstrom, a typhoon, an inferno. It was chaos, guilt, and rage. In his pain, he wrote something of raw emotion, caught in the structure of man and nature, shaped by the experience of the masses; it was Casimiro, it was life. He played it for himself, for Sophie, for his mother. He played it until the tears ran out, and the fire of rage drowned in his sorrow. He carried the best of what his masters had taught him, but was slave to none of them. He looked up as the glare of Scarlet caught his attention and found Zatolen’s black tears running from his eyes as he took the young man in his arms. 

“Oh, sweet child, you have finally become the best of you. To learn from a master is meaningless if you cannot forge it into your own path. You have traveled a long, painful road, but you found in it love which might be prize enough.” Zatolen blotted out the young master’s eyes with one black sleeve of his toga. “I give you one wish.” 

Casimiro was joined by Sophie, and they rested in the strong, pale arms and fine, callused hands of the Dark God, whose fingers were thin for fine, detailed work. “I… wish.” Casimiro considered, he delayed; he waited for some great inspiration. He saw the tears of the dark god through his own burning eyes and the moist face of Sophie. “I wish art could touch the world as greatly as he touches us.” 

“Then it shall be so.” Zatolen pulled upon the strings of Ithia, played them like a harp; it changed the ink, it changed the words, it gave a soul to the world so that music, paintings, and words could affect it as much as they did men… mayhap greater. Casimiro and Sophie became the first of the bards and spent the rest of their lives teaching apprentices the bardic arts.