Saraid Landir of house Landaris, Eladrin Glamor Bard (Plus Short Story!) (Patreon)

Character Name: Saraid Landir of house Landaris, Eladrin Glamor Bard

Saraid Landir is a kind-hearted eladrin bard who has learned how to craft her music in fey gardens, layering in magic and emotions like a blooms. She is ridiculously in love with her half-orc forge/tiefling cleric companion and spends a lot of time giving him bardic inspiration while he works.

A short story by Saraid’s player:

A breeze exhaled across the field outside of the manor house known as the Ville Calinde, sending the long grasses and longer stalks of golden sunblooms into a gentle wave. It reminded Saraid of the bay, and the way the sunlight played on the water, at least what she remembered of it. She had been so young when she was last by the ocean. Closing her eyes, she could easily imagine the sound of the wind rustling through the field was actually the steady, muted crashing of waves against the shore. She licked her lips and could swear she tasted salt.

“All we are is memory,” Her mother would say. “All of us are made of the memories of our elders, of the stone and the rain. If you feel something, it's been felt before, and will be felt again.”

She opened her eyes as she realized she would see the bay again, and soon. This was, perhaps, her last time at the Ville Calinde, and she felt a sudden swell to commit even the tiniest detail to memory.

The tree line of The Grove was barely visible in the distance, but she could still make out the sizable oaks that served as the border to the Countess’ Ville. Manicured patches of roses, jasmine, sunblooms and other flowers dotted the Ville’s lands, a stark contrast to most of the Fey of Shae Loralyndar. Saraid was still a child when the Countess had brought the human into her court. He was a curiosity to the small girl, and she spent most of her days following the short eared man as he created gardens for the Countess. At the time, they were something of an oddity and a wonder, in equal measure, and scores of courtiers poured into the Countess’ circle of influence for a look at the gardens, which were the only ones of their kind in Shae Loralyndar. 

The Grove, which bordered Ville Calinde, was wild and unfettered, full of life in all of its stages. It was dangerous and exciting, much like the Fey that called it home. The Countess took great pride in the order and grace of her estate. It was meant to be a reflection of her own effortless nobility, a quality that put her in the highest standing with herself, if no one else. She wanted the world around her to be beautiful, inside and out, and dissuaded any seedy, shady business that tried to hide itself away in her salons. To a point.

Her crowning achievement, however, had been the gardens, a bastion of order and planned aesthetic amidst a literal forest of wild, brutal, unmarked passions. There had been a few poorly-hidden jokes made at the Countess’ expense when she returned from the Prime Material with a human companion, but his worth was soon discovered and respected. Saraid would hide behind wheelbarrows, and large pots to watch him work the land. The care he poured into each root and stem was like poetry. The simple memory of him kneeling in the dirt, a collection of moon- colored roots in his black-stained fingers was enough to send shudders through her chest, and call up pinpricks of tears in her eyes. 

“It’s love. It’s all love. Any act of creation is an act of love. And rebellion.” He had told her that once, when she was still too small to understand what it meant.

Now, even though the gardens were pale echoes of their former glory, the Countess’ lover having passed many years before, they were still magnificent in comparison to the wild, unfettered beauty of the surrounding Grove.

It was summer here, always summer, and in a fit of summer passion, the breeze changed direction, and the scents of the garden overwhelmed her. Full blades of grass, freshly tilled soil and the sharp, clear scent of clean water- each washed over her, and triggered a different memory; Plunging her calloused fingers in the shaded soil after her first week learning the harp, ushering wild frogs from the forest into the safety of the watering cans and ornamental ponds, and the feel of the grass against her back when she’d gotten her first kiss. Funny, she could remember the grass against her skin, the taste of mint wine on the boy’s lips, but she couldn’t remember his face, or his name.

She came to this spot often when she was at the Ville, and most knew to leave her be when she was amongst the roses. Her parents had loved it here, and preferred it to the confines of the court. They had taken no small amount of ribbing from their fellow courtiers at the irony of their joint love of the rose garden- after all, she was a Rose, and he was a Thorn, a courtier and a spy, beauty and death. Together, they had taught her the importance of calm, of keeping one's thorns hidden behind pleasant petals. 

So while her contemporaries sat in beautifully appointed classrooms and workshops, honing their skills and minds, Saraid had spent her formative years in the gardens. It was here her mother had taught her how to craft her music, layering in magic and emotion like a fresh bloom, here that her father had taught her anatomy- how to hurt, and how to heal, and how to hide. In the end, it was here, too, that her parents had been laid to rest, at special compensation from the courts.

Her long fingers moved through the rose stems with familiar alacrity, deftly snapping thorns off of a sampling of roses. She hummed, a simple tune she’d learned from her mother, and it buzzed on her lips like cinnamon. Soon enough, her thumb caught on a particularly thick thorn, a drop of blood immediately blooming on her skin. She watched the crimson pool for a moment, then calmly placed her hand on the cool, moist soil. 

Saraid didn’t know how long it would be until she was back at court. With the Countess’ recent passing to the twilight, she was without a patron, or a steady income. Folded neatly in her pocket was a letter from Fable, the kind genasi girl she’d met during her last tour through the Prime Material. It wasn’t much of a guarantee, but it was all she had now; a faint promise of work, even though it sounded like it was going to be a far cry from the quartets and ballrooms she was used to. 

“Byddaf yn eich anrhydeddu.” The words fell out of her easily, but then it was an easy promise to make, to honor her family, her parents. It was as simple as honoring the soil underfoot with her blood. It kept her connected to this place, to these flowers, the unwitting marks of her house, of the union that had produced her.

There was a whistle from the front of the manor, a call to travel from the portal mages. She could see a few long skirts and sweeping capes bustling towards the Ville, and she knew she wouldn’t be traveling alone. That was something, at least. She brought her thumb to her lips and gently blew, like her father had taught her, the skin immediately knitting close, and the blood and dirt all but evaporating into the warm breeze of the gardens. She gathered her bag and the wooden case with her harp, giving the field of golden sunblooms one last look before turning her steps towards the Ville, and a new adventure.

What do you think? :)