I traveled through ashland and heartland, suffered through peak and valley and humored the most awful bard and skald imaginable, only to find myself in High Rock - a province of unabashed pretentiousness and pseudo-savant syndrome, bordering on delusion. Like the rest of my contemporaries, I heard the murmurs and whispers grow loud, until they were deafening my doorstep. Some species of wunderkind hailing from the isle of Betony, who summoned and captivated the heart of the commoner like so many collections of precious stones. A musical savant so ingenious he not only crafted his own instruments, but reinvented the use of several others long past their prime.

After such a discomforting journey I was longing to write off any performance, regardless of its merit. Tales of an overbearing, widower father had not helped his cause. Many fourth, fifth or fifteenth sons wed some form of cultural occupation, due to their relegated birth standing. But this Tristyn de'Betony, son of Tristard was a first and only born! Outside of debt to lord or country, how could such a noble name fall to the mise en scène of a minstrel's melancholy? To say it was not to be believed would have been poetically cogent, but admittedly I withheld judgment until landing on the shores of Balfiera. This was, after all, a charity concert for the cholera stricken cities of the Illiac coast. And even an ancient Dunmer like myself can recognize a philanthropic cause.

Every lord and lady, and every baron and baroness bore a cameo or brooch of the enigmatic musician. Cries and calls were caught upon his arrival to the isles. Heralds were drowned out by the so called "Tristymaniacs" and their approbation. The howling was so loud, it overtook the royal entourage parading through the main-fare, and could be heard from as far away as Menevia and Lainlyn.

It is a fact that the highborn audience in attendance was a veritable who's who of aristocratic pomp. Patricians from Cyrodiil brushed elbows with the various earls and marquess of Daggerfall. Independent kingdoms crossed paths with island baronies and lowly fiefdoms bowed and placated their betters, as they seated for the presentation. Scurrying beneath their gilded palanquins were two and ten thousand peasants, eager for a show.

Of all the names present, King Lysandus was the most recognizable. Accompanying him was his sister-in-law Klynisera, Madame Royale, and Royal Lady of the Most Noble Order of the Dragon. Lysandus' wife Mynisera was away, purportedly consoling Prince Gothryd after his betrothed's untimely death.

When the sun set and the carriage lanterns were extinguished, the recital began. An improvised Requiem Mass for Gothryd's intended, composed and conducted by the whims and wit of the Breton maestro, filled the briny sea air. Two horns blared, echoing throughout the islet and softening into a most delicate phrase. Enneatonic scales married the classical Mixobretonic, anologous to the would be marriage of the Cyrodilic princess and the prince of Daggerfall. Every eye and heart - including my own - was fixated on the black figure that operated this dark mourning. A cocked tricorn hat, with a raven cloak and baton swooned the aether, cuing 3/4 time seamlessly into a 4/4 staccato. As the sable silhouette sat his clavicytherium, (vertical strung harpsichord) an harmonious aria revealed the first of many leitmotifs of the night.

I have seen the three hand effect and the spectral octave method, but never have I witnessed the virtuosity displayed during the requiem's third and final sonata. Tristyn could have been playing with heel and teeth for all I was concerned. His arpeggios flew like spells bursting overhead, but every finger spoke a note. There were no magical alterations on his many keyboards. Unless his perspiration could incant melodic hexes, the prodigy's hands alone guided the rhapsody. Ten minutes of ovation followed, as the king's men-at-arms subdued maiden and bachelorette alike from sieging the stage.

Throwing his helm and mantle to the ground, he unveiled another instrument from a bygone era. Sitting a virginal (small, parallel harpsichord) upside down, he led the chorus into a comical interpretation of the play Fool's Ebony. In a call-and-response redolent of Yokudan culture, the masses shouted out the lines turned libretto. Backward, left hand over right, he played this way until his fingers grew bored and the crowd became hoarse. Leading into the entr'acte, Tristyn motioned the riggers to bring forth his largest and most antiquated apparatus.

I was once - shocking to my readers, I know - a youth myself, so many columns ago. And as a youth I accompanied my father on many of his political excursions into Cyrodiil. There among the Imperials I noted a most peculiar keyboard device. One must know, that during the early second era, it was customary to ring bells at every opportunity. Bells rang at dawn and at dusk. They rang for birth and death, and for every battle and duel won or lost. But in this shanty inn straddling the border of man and mer, I harked the sweet caroling of chimes unheard of. Some ingenious nonentity had devised a way to sync the levers with the striking of the bells, producing the first Carillon (bell struck harpsichord). I fondly remember this as my first interest into musical theory and classical, tonal nomenclature.

? And on that stage stood a refinished carillon, and a bold maestro to steer her. The knell of the chords ushered in a slew of feelings I hadn't visited in centuries. These waves of buried emotion were reminiscent of the Fyr's Sujamma, a literary device used in his memoirs of remembrance. Like Fyr's lips upon that long abstained liquid, I was metaphorically awakened to my past and life in toto. Remembering past the scars and shame of adolescents was easy, when listening to such innocent nostalgia. It mustn't end, and yet it never had an ending. The bells melded into the virginal he had atop the carillon. Playing with the audience as a wag would, Tristyn challenged the congregations' musical acumen by way of request.

"Name the piece and I shall play it, dear lambs. I breathe but to serve you, and you and you!"

His words were humble but stern, and one could decipher the altruism in his intent. The humans ate it up as was expected. Embarrassingly, I was just as impressed by his rigid brevity. Many songs were called out but only one was acknowledged, and it was mine! An archaic, Chimer birthing lullaby so rare only a few recall its existence. If he could play this, I knew every rumor was true. I promised myself that I would walk straight out of the amphitheater and teleport to the nearest guild if those first three notes rung out.

In the key of C, he played the opening: E E G, E E G. I stayed for the latter three notes dumbfounded and perplexed. With a whistle and snap of my fingers I left the island and began writing this feuilleton, never hearing the encore. It wasn't needed, really.

This Tristyn de'Betony offers something quite new, but in an old fashion. His technical playing is unparalleled and his breadth of euphonious knowledge is unquestionable. Here stands our modern day showman, covering any fault with charisma and every intermission with curiosity. All connoisseurs of the arts would do well to heed this recital as the dawn of the unrivaled virtuoso!