The Bard lingers near the fire beside me this evening. He has an odd sort of instrument given to him by the locals which we call the Forest People. He sings at night, drawing people to the campfire. The Forest People come from several days away to hear him. They carry on and sing with the Bard and like ghosts they leave the Campfire like they were never there.
Before the trouble, the Bard frequented a large inn called The Puking Peasant. The Puking Peasant is an evil place to me, but the Bard embraces it with open arms. I wonder at times why he came to this place when he was doing so well at the Puking Peasant.
The Forest People love the Bard. He has an easy going way with words that transcends language. Like the Beast, I have known the Bard for a long time, but not as nearly as long as I have known the Beast.
He was in town when the Beast was in trouble and elected to come with us.
I envy the Bard and the Beast to some extent.
They have adventures and stories to tell and seem like they have it all figured out.
Me, I tend to overthink things and get caught up dealing with concerns that are brought to my attention.
I suppose it is my lot in life.
I like the campfire and the camp. It is my duty to keep the encampment in order so I had better like it.
Bard, the fire burns and we have travellers.
Sing a song for our guests, will you?
Brother, I thought you would never ask,
I will comply with your requested task!
I am the Bard, I sing at Brother’s fire,
Good times we have,of mirth I do not tire.
The wordsmith,the rhythm maker, Him sing along in measure,
Those thirsty for ears tickled will have in me a pleasure.
Welcome my friends, to Brother’s camp,
When you leave you may return,
We give directions or a map.
The Beast avoid, he is not fun and games,
But me the Bard with words will charm,
your smile on me you will blame!