Through every town, I play my part,
A bard’s life’s lived with a roaming heart.
By moonlit shores and dawn’s first light,
I sing of love, of wrong, of right.
In crowded halls and quiet glens,
I weave my tales, again and again.
In taverns warm and castlesgrand,
I strum my lute with steady hand.
For joy and sorrow, love and strife,
I sing the story of a wanderer’s life.
The bard carried the tune through a few final choruses, ending with a dramatic flourish and a wide grin before giving a deep bow. A scatter of half-pennies clinked into his tin, and one cheerful patron passed him a mug of ale.
As the crowd slowly began to disperse, I made my way toward the bar. I wasn’t certain this was the right place, but like the Eldergrove, I hoped the innkeeper or barkeep might steer me in the right direction. This place felt less chaotic than before, but it was still far more crowded than I liked.
A man suddenly blocked my path, and I stopped short.
“Wait,” he said, eyes narrowing. “I know you.”
The words dropped like a stone in my stomach. My heart pounded as a hundred worst-case scenarios ran through my mind. Had someone from Hyrall tracked me down already?
Then he grinned.
“You gave me a copper in the market square,” he finally said.
The tightness in my chest loosened as recognition dawned. It was the bard.
“I never forget a face,” he added, with a wink. “Especially not one as lovely and generous as yours.”
“Oh,” I said, pulling a smile into place. “You again.”
He grinned like I’d just made his evening. “The stars must be aligned. What brings you to the Cragstone tonight? Business? Pleasure? Perhaps a little of both?”
“Just passing through,” I said with another smile. “Leaving first thing in the morning.”
“Then fate’s been kind,” he said. “I’m off to Yserath myself. My cart and mare out back, always ready for the next adventure.”
“Sounds like you make a habit of it.” I glanced toward the bar. “Mind if I grab a drink?”
“My apologies.” He stepped aside with a small bow. “Allow me to make up for it. What’s your drink?”
“A sweet ale, if they have one.”
“Excellent taste,” he said, already flagging down the barkeep. “Plum and mulberry are quite popular around here. Which suits your fancy?”
“Plum sounds lovely.”
After exchanging a few words with the barkeep, the bard returned with a mug in hand. He passed it to me, and I accepted it with a nod. The ale was sweeter than I preferred, but I wasn’t here to indulge. I had to keep my wits about me. A woman with a taste for plum ale wasn’t anyone to remember.
What caught my interest, however, was the bard. He was traveling alone, a man with no attachments. He’d spoken of his mare and a cart, and though I didn’t know Yserath, that didn’t matter. A traveler without ties was exactly the sort of companion I could use, just long enough to disappear.
