A Song of Winter

There was a small gathering in the human village north of the Orc town of Grublin. It was a small enclave not worthy of any note. The gathering was attended by the village's children and an old fiddle player.

No one heard the fiddle player play for years - for everyone knew that Music was Dead.

And yet, he had called this concert and the children came. The parents stayed away, wary of the fiddle player - but not daring steal the excitement from their kids.

The children sat in a circle around the old man. They huddled together for it was very cold even though it was only the beginning of autumn. The fiddle player sat with his back to the central fire pit, his long dark shadow enveloping the young crowd like a blanket.

And he plucked a string and a instead of a note everyone heard the crash of glass upon the ground. Of course, the fiddle would make that sound - for music was dead. Every song was just broken glass, every dance a comedy on ice. Every poem a frosted line and every painting merely a mirror. Art was dead after all.

The fiddle player silenced the broken fiddle - and then hush the crowd, and plucked another note. This time it rang clear and true, and was the first true musical note the kids (and the world) has heard for the last couple of years. The children clapped, and their parents cried. How was music still alive?

The man then sang, in the villages northern accent:

Lit me sin' ye a tale true. thes is winter's sang, an' sang ay winter.

The man took out his bow and began to play a melody, - it was a mysterious tune. It was heavy and dark, and a little bit sad. It was a song that knew the ending and hated it - but went on wards towards it for there was no where else to go.

Thaur was a god, an' its nam was oholimn. it was a cheil. it was a hen. it hud nae body, but it was a' place. it was whit gart life worth livin' ye ken.

Thes god ay art, gart a scuttle heralds. they hud names, but their names hae bin frizzen. they waur comedy, satire, tragedy, romance, glory, an' anger.

A body day, thes god an' his heralds went th' the soothern most point ay thes warld, whaur winter rules in its glass cathedral. thes god an' its muses wanted tae sin' winter a sang.

An' sae they sang. it was a perfect sang.

At this point in the song the man pauses, and the crowd, which had been leaning forward is absolutely silent waiting on baited breath to hear the next verse.

It was a perfect sang, an' thaur is naethin' mair 'at winters loves than frizzen perfection. an' sae winter offers art an' its muses a deal.

Fur ye see winter kent 'at graphite loons wanted a body, fur graphite loons was graphite loons an' ne'er hud a body afair. an' sae winter offered tae carve it a body ay th' purest ice.

An' graphite loons gladly said, och aye. sae winter carved it a block ay ice, an' fur th' first time ever it was in thes warld as an object. fur th' merely price ay th' muses service

The kids laughed at the song, but the parent's already grasped in horror the truth of what occurred. Oholimn, for the price of its own muses, had made itself a body. But music was music because it was everywhere. It was art. It was the wild urge to create. It was vibration. But now a frozen lump of crystal ice, it was nothing more than that. Music hadn't died. . . it had become a commodity.

For winter's lesson is that everything had a price, and nothing is worth anything except what you're willing to pay.

An' thus graphite loons noo dwells in th' frizzen heart ay winter, naethin' mair than a lump. an' its muses ur noo winters an' they trade fur their gifts.

Ah gart a deal wi' th' frizzen herald ay tragedy fur thes sang. fur th' price ay an extra day ay winter ye coods hear thes tale.

And indeed the children could see the Muse of Tragedy, Fesha, sitting sadly behind the fiddle player. She was now garbed in a beautiful gown made of ice crystals, and one could almost see her take the autumn day in her hands. You could feel pity for her . . .
Dornt feel pity fur th' a body behin' me, fur th' muses gart their ain deals wi' winter. fur their freedom, they each hae a price, an' hers is A body ay mah ain summer's day, sae 'er frizzen shackles main melt a day sooner.

Fesha's sad smile quickly morphed into a frown, and she vanished with her autumn day, and the fiddle players summer day held tightly in each of her hands. The day of autumn the tax of Anlorem for the gift of this one song. The summer, her own price to melt her servitude.

An' thus thes is winters sang. it owns it an' we merely rent. but graphite loons isnae deid but frizzen

And with those last tunes in the air, the old man gently slides down, and gently dies with his now useless again fiddle held dearly in his arms. One could hear Fesha's howl of rage as she was cheated out of her summer's day.

Tragedy indeed.

From then on, very few songs were ever heard again. Very few dances too - for each song and dance had a price, and very rarely were they worth it.

Spoiler
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AP 8 +rollover 4 = 12

Ap 1: Curse: all forms of art now cost a minute of winter. So for every song you sing - that's a extra day of winter for you (and the surrounding region). You can make additional deals with anlorem for discount pricing or bulk pricing, for festivals or other celebrations, or you can make the deal with the muses. Each muse has their own agenda and can make their own deal.

AP 1: Curse: The muses are now servants of Anlorem, they trade their gifts for moments of summer. With enough summers they can melt their bonds to Anlorem. It is uncertain if they will try to melt their lords form, which is located in the center of the world (I.e. the center of Anlorem)

AP 10