Everyone’s heard of bards. They’re the lifeblood of taverns and town squares. Every small village relies on them for news, and every large city needed them for entertainment. Heroes of every stripe are made by them and many a corrupt noble has been torn down by their words. Everyone has heard of bards. But there’s a difference between bards and Bards.
Many of what people think of as bards are just normal people with a small talent for an instrument or a good singing voice, going from town to town making a small bit of coin entertaining the masses or delivering news. Hells, most of them have a sideline delivering letters wherever they go. Few of them know any type of magic, and those that do generally only know how to do an undirected sonic blast, maybe a but of mending.
Bards, on the other hand, were a different order of magnitude. No one is exactly sure what causes such a stark difference between the two, but what is known is the extent of which they’re known. Most bards might be known in a town or two, maybe have a song they’ve written be known the length of a trade road. They affect things locally and ultimately die being with their names on few lips, quickly fading from memory after a generation or two.
True bards like me have larger reaching effects. Without fail we’ve written songs and told stories that entire countries have heard. Epic tales of heroics, damming tales of corruption, moving tales of common folks moving mountains. The things we put out into the world resonate in a certain way and with that comes our power, and our curse. Everyone has a certain idea of how bards should be and that knowing shapes who we are
Ever since I was young I wanted to be a bard. To travel beyond the borders of my small village and see the world. Write an epic and have my name known far and wide. I was a young dreamer. At best I’d be known in my village and maybe one over. But I was fine with that. An early familiarity with the lute and a pitch perfect voice all but assured me I’d be able to fulfill my dreams, no matter to what degree. So I began learning the most popular songs, performing for free in the square when I could squeeze a minute away from the farm.
To be honest I got more jeers and fruit thrown at me than money at first. My voice hadn’t quite caught up with my ambitions and my lite playing left much to be desired. But I persevered, and soon people would stop and listen for a minute before going about their day. Coin replaced fruit as well. Not much, a few coppers a day was my best haul. Every piece, every person that stopped to listen bolstered my flagging confidence.
The beginning of my life changing came when the tavern owner stopped me when I was packing up. My big break: working 2 days a week performing the popular songs. Sure it was only the lunch shift but it was a step in the right direction. Over time I went from two days, to three, to working nights, to working all week. My parents were understandably upset that I was putting less time on the farm but I was a step closer to achieving my dream of being an actual bard.
It was a normal night when he burst through the door. A hulking warrior, the floorboards creaked dangerously as he walked to the bar. Thankfully my professionalism was in full swing and I barely missed a beat. The crowd was drunk enough to not notice and continued with the plethora of dirty verses to the age old drinking song I was performing. A hushed conversation took place with the owner, and I desperately wished I could stop my performance and properly eavesdrop on them. The frequent glances were especially worrying.
After what seemed like am eternity my set ended. I prepared to make polite noises with the grateful crowd but to my surprise the owner beckoned me over. I’ve never packed my lute so quickly before, and would be thoroughly checking it over for damage at the end of the night, but I hustled over. The warrior was even more imposing up close. The air around him seemed suffused with a coppery tang, and up close the dents and damage to the heavy steel were obvious. Shoddy repairs lay next to masterwork craftsmanship. A patchwork of scars told a story of violence far better then I ever could.
“Camylin, this man wanted to speak with you.” Say what you would about our friendly tavern keeper but he did get straight to the point. The warrior turned to me, eyeing me up and down. The weight of his gaze was almost palpable, the only thing preventing me from passing my breeches was the fact that the sense of him never hinted at violence.
“You a bard?” Ah, another man of few words. I could work with this. I flourished my most practiced bow at him. Possibly a little over the top, but better to err on the side of caution .
“Indeed good sir. I am but a humble bard at the start of his craft.” Humility was always a good starter. Time to earn my bread. “What can one such as I help you with?”
“I’m hunting a beast in the woods around here. The good baron,” he sneered, “would like to commemorate my victory. Normally I like to do my killing and move on, but one must accept certain things when you take a nobles money.”
I could barely contain my excitement. This was the kind of big break that set true bards apart from normal ones. A chance to immortalize a hero’s mighty deeds for everyone’s entertainment. An opportunity to make my mark on history. Assuming, of course, everything went right. If the hero was successful. If I could write a catchy enough song. Assuming I came back alive. High risk, high reward basically.
“Good sir, I humbly thank you for your consideration.” The hero snorted.
“Not much consideration. You’re the only bard within 50 miles. If I’d realized that, I would have grabbed a better known one while I had the chance. Not some no name farmers kid who barely learned to play the lute.” An apt description of me, if slightly hurtful. Time to shoot for the stars and take my biggest risk yet. My practiced posture dropped and I leaned on the bar, signaling to the bartender to bring me a drink.
“Look, I can tell you’d rather have blunt language than flowery phrases. Like you said, I’m the only bard within 50 miles.” My drink arrived then, and I took a long drink from the weak ale. “Unfortunately you didn’t plan ahead so I’m your only option. We both know this is an opportunity for me. A big one. So tell you what: I’ll do this for no pay. I know the woods around here, so you won’t need a guide. You make sure I’m provisioned, and make it there alive. If you can’t agree with that, have fun explaining to the baron why you didn’t follow his directions. Good luck getting paid after that. Based on your armor, I’m pretty sure you need the money he’s giving you for this.”
You could hear a pin drop. The tavern keeper looked like he was about to have a stroke. Every customer was trying desperately to look like they weren’t listening in. I put on a mask of indifference as I finished my drink. A subtle creaking of metal could be heard from the warrior. My body tensed involuntarily, sure I was about to get dashed against the wooden bar. To my surprise rather then becoming a warning tale in the bar I was suddenly assaulted some hearty back slaps.
“that’s what I’m talking about,” the warrior cheered, barely holding back laughter. “you’ve got some mighty balls on you!” All the adrenaline in my body flowed out at once. My back hurt but it was infinitely better then what I was expecting while also being the ideal outcome.
“I take it you agree to my proposal?” I pressed.
“Of course I do! You’re saving me money, and keeping your scrawny ass alive won’t be much of a problem. You’re right about me needing the money, dammit. One wife found out about the other so I’m on the run from two angry women. Didn’t have time to take any coin with me.”
“Sounds rough. Let me buy you a drink then, and we can toast to our upcoming venture.” I signaled the bartender again to bring reasonable quality alcohol. Things like this shouldn’t be done with cheap ale.
“Good man!” he crowed, taking the mug placed before him. We tapped glasses, signing our commitment to each other in the generally accepted way of these things. If I’d known the things to come, I would have run the second I saw him. Hindsight is an amazingly useless thing.
