New Haven Summit

Crow co will

:: Some time during the day, a second parchment appears pinned beneath the larger document. The black-inked script is neat, flamboyant, and measured. :: "Good friend. I am never without an excuse to attending a gathering of friends (especially one that falls under such a sunrise of merriment surrounding the harvest festivities)! I shall see to it that I am present if truly requested, however I need to make something quite clear (which my public response here should underscore).

The Bard's Guild is not a group which could lend itself to ever having a 'representative.'

There are no leaders, and there are no overseeing central organizations. It is merely a tradition-filled fellowship that exists around a single Mother Tavern-empowered commitment: to propagate and preserve the artworks and artifacts of yesterday, tomorrow, and today.

As such, members are often keen to pledge themselves to remaining neutral in the political, social, and religious affairs of what could otherwise ruin future potential audiences. Afterall, Mother Tavern herself does not discriminate whom she offers her mead-filled bosom. This custom has not changed since we arrived fleeing those horrible flames so many days ago. Thus, when New Haven first organized itself into a political entity, members of the Bard's Guild refused participating in the electoral process. Rather, in the name of this time-honored neutrality, we offered our services as an impartial body that oversaw the collecting and counting of votes. We are more than willing to present a voice of diplomacy, but it would be a great error to suggest we're an 'organization' with ends echoing the other entities listed. It is quite a large ask to request a bard depart from harvest festivities to attend to some political pandering (I will admit, personally, the prospect sounds borish). However—in the name of civility, diplomacy, and friendship—I could see how the membership would not be opposed to serving the fellowship through serving as scribes that record a written record of the discussions, and then publishing a public account in the library (a service that meets our fellowship's propagation and preservation commitment). Besides that scribal service, you should not consider any verbal contribution from my own character as representative commentary of the commitments of the Bard's Guild community. Mother Tavern Protects, and Mother Tavern Provides—and she does this inpart by helping us servants of the arts keep ourselves able to perform for audiences on all sides of a social debate. With firm confidence in your understanding, Signed, Kannoth 'Of Songs' Eldanar. Bard Extraordinaire. Percussionist, cartographer..." :: At this point, a second parchment is pinned beneath the other. It appears Kannoth ran out of writing room, and sought a second sheet to include his many titles (of which, nearly fill this second page). ::

Merci strolls into the tavern, adorned in her dark brown traveling cloak - the very one that she wore the night she arrived in NewHaven nearly two years ago. She looks to the missive and draws a quill from one of the pouches at her hip, writing on the document tacked to the wall. She smirks playfully at her handiwork, then returns the quill to the pouch on her side. She goes to a nearby table, filling another pouch with various foods - dried meats, bread, and the like. Traveling rations. She flips up her hood, and pulls her face covering up past her nose, obscuring her rosy red halfling cheeks and cute pointed ears. Sadness sits behind her grayish-blue eyes. Torrin's old drum hangs on her hip. She takes her first two fingers and salutes to those in the tavern before making her way towards the front door, headed towards the road. The missive now reads:

((If you wish to stop Merci to do some RP, feel free to do so!))

Myrddin sits at the table near the bed used for major surgeries looking over parchment papers in a pile as he is cataloging supplies. He looks up at the sound of someone entering the tavern and recognizes Merci and recognizes what is meant by what she is wearing. He stands up and walks over to Merci and steps in front of her blocking her departure from the tavern.

In a low whisper as not to draw to much attention Myrddin asks, "Where are you going?" he says with a concerned look. His half elf ears twitching in nervousness.

A response is left in common looking common.

The Order will attend, barring any re-elections I will come as Primas of our cohort with a scribe. Any changes I will keep you appraised of.

-Theron

A response left in hastily written, but clearly legible script:

"Bal'ar Do'rae: attending as representative for the Temple of the Six"

Merci looks to Myrddin "I'm going to assist on the front lines for a time. I will be back in three or four fortnights. Likely just after first frost. I can't handle another Time of Thinnest Veil here in NewHaven. It will destroy me." She says in response, her tone hushed but understandable.

Myrddin’s head drops low with sadness.

“I understand. Please be careful, friend. Come back to us in one piece.” He says with a solemn low voice.

Myrddin quietly walks back over to the surgeon station and continues what he was doing before.

(Update the Summit is now at ten at the legion camp)