Blog Post #3 Dirk Garpler: a Modern Day Nostradamus, of Guitar

The low murmur of the theatre quickly reduces to a patient, expectant hum as the lights dim. Darneth Gripson will take the stage at any moment. My palms are sweating, my heart beating rapidly in my chest. The nervous anxiety I had felt while entering the venue has transformed into a fear that is consuming me. The dread feels like ice fractals slowly taking over my brain. It's an intolerable fear that keeps me pinned to my seat, like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car. Everything is telling me to run, to get the hell out, but I sit and wait. This is something I have to do, even if it's the last thing I do. A serene calm washes over me as I see Drack Gavler walk onto the stage. I feel like a man lost in the desert, who has stumbled into an oasis and drunk deeply. I am alive for the first time. Everything I have worked towards over these past five years has become tangible. He is here.

The last time I laid eyes on Garpy Derkenhands was the last night I was a boy. It is my most vivid memory. I replay it every evening, I dream it through the night, I relive it every morning. It has been the burning ember inside my heart, keeping me angry, driving me towards revenge.

It was dusk, as me and my friends came into view of the village. We had been off at the river fishing all afternoon. As we drew closer we began to notice there was more smoke than usual, rising above the village. Closer still we saw the flames. We ran, sick with fear.

"It can't be," I tried to convince my self, "he's just a myth."

I reached edge of the village, and stood panting under the old ginkgo tree. I heard screams farther off into the center of town. Many of the buildings were burning. The grainery had been scorched. Thatched roofs roared in flames. Slain livestock lay in the deserted roads.

"It's only a raid," I realized. "Sure, some may have died and we'll have a tough winter, but we will survive."

Finding solace in these words I continued making my way towards the village center, towards my home. The wretched sounds of violence and terror echoed from the center, and grew louder as I drew near. A woman I'd known ran past me screaming and clutching her child. I came upon the the edge of the clearing. Flames eating home and tree surrounded me and licked me with heat, but I didn't care.

I was wrong.  He was real. He was here. Dorfko Grampkin.

All of the able bodied men in the village had stayed back to fight. They knew there was no chance of defeating the fabled man-beast, but they needed to buy time for the elderly, the women and children to flee into the woods. Surrounded by twenty men on all sides, he stood, brandishing a broadsword in each hand.

"Who's next?" he bellowed.

His dimensions were beyond description, he was the size of two men in every regard. Three men charged towards him with wooden spears and were stopped dead in their tracks (literally). He walked over to a burning house and ripped a support beam from the foundation. The house collapsed behind him and he threw the flaming beam on a group of fighters, six of whom were crushed beneath the gigantic pole. As Drilk looked back towards the living fighters a spear hit home, sticking deep into the side of his meaty head.

"Nobody touches Florbus Gronchy," he boomed. "Nobody."

As he made his way towards the thrower of the spear, my heart sank. It was my father, the Village Baron. He wore the sacred armour of the Village Guardian, a post he had held since the death of his father. He readied himself with dignity.

"Have at me, Kredek," my father said confidently (in a british accent).

"I'll have at you, Baron, just like I had at your grandpappy," the brute chuckled.

I stood in the shadows, frozen by cowardice. I watched helplessly as this demon-god ran towards my father, shaking the earth with each bound. I watched as my father was killed. I watched as the rest of the men fled or were slain. I watched from the ash, my own face black from the smoke. Just twelve years old, I had watched Dernik Trickler take everything I'd ever had away from me. There, in the ash, I knew that all I had left in this world was revenge.

The last five years I'd spent all of my time training and investigating the whereabouts of my father's killer. After five long years I finally got a lead. He has been traveling the land under the guise of a classical-fusion-afro-european acoustic guitarist. Now I am at his show. But, as you know, I am not here for the music. I am here for revenge.

But as I sit here, listening to him play his music I am hypnotized. I cannot imagine a sweeter sound. An impressive mix of familiar and exotic sounds. It instills both a sense of wonder and nostalgia. And between each song, he masterfully tells the history of music from many different lands. His knowledge is a deep pool, I can tell he has been on this earth a many hundred centuries if not eternity. It dawns on me that with each culture he destroys, he absorbs their art and musical history, fusing them together to create masterpieces beyond description. I know I should hate him, but the music is too beautiful. I now struggle with my own conscience, but I feel now, in my heart that If Derek Gripper needs to absorb the souls of countless people over the earth to create this music, then so be it. I sit through the rest of the show, content and free. I no longer thirst for blood, the only thing I desire is the full discography of Derek Gripper.

-DP