It is a pale, crisp autumn morning in Jastrey. It is early enough that crickets are still chirping in the trees nearby the tavern. A lonesome sprite, clad in simple robes, approaches the tavern, dry leaves crunching noisily beneath his boots. The sprite is unarmed, save for a simple, beaten mandolin.
With a creak of the old wooden door, the lonesome sprite enters the tavern. Just as he thought--empty.
A few spiders skitter away as the sprite lights a candle or two, pulls up a bench, and takes a seat. He tunes the mandolin. It is an old instrument; tuning takes a little longer than usual. Several moments of stillness pass.
After what may as well have been hours, the sprite takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, his breath becoming a pale mist in the cool morning air. He picks a few notes on the mandolin, then begins to sing:
A tale, a tale, of the lonesome bard,
A tale of tragedy, wrought from the start,
A tale of intrigue, adventure, and loss,
Of a man who holds many things in his heart.
To have loved and have lost is a pain worse than death;
The memory of a lover bites worse than the wolf.
The cannonballs fly and the swords they do clash,
But pain of loss only does thy spirit engulf.
But, mark ye well, it is not all for naught,
The healing of time, of art, and of song;
These things can cure, though they are slow,
And Friendship - aye, Friendship - will ne'er steer thee wrong.
At times it can seem like no friends are around,
But, take heart! and solitude be damned.
Comraderie, though precious, is not so scarce;
And if ye find no friend, as for this bard - I am.
Indeed! Great tragedy has befallen us all;
No soul exists without love torn apart.
But find ye a bard, then a friend ye have found.
Yea, and everyone alive is a bard at heart.
[-J. Johnstone]
[I would like to apologize to Billy, whose recent forum post I just realized was also in the Tavern. Please excuse my oversight, and treat this forum post as a blog post. Thank you.]