The Bard

The Bard rests on a velvet cushion, its body carved from sun-bleached alder and inlaid with narrow bands of mother-of-pearl that catch the light like spent star-dust. Its curves are worn smooth where fingers have long found comfort in its form, and the surface bears a soft matte patina that hints at years of travel, weather, and whispered stories. Strings of pale gut and tempered steel span the neck, taut enough to sing a note that feels almost tangible, and the headstock is crowned with a brass peg where a tiny, etched banner flutters in the imagined breeze of distant stages. Along the back, a relief runs from bout to bout—a minstrel’s silhouette, a quiver of notes, a chorus in flight—so that the instrument seems to carry its own history in every grain and groove. It smells faintly of smoke, resin, and chalk from old practice rooms, as if the Bard scrapes memory from the air with every pluck, inviting a listener to lean in closer to hear what it remembers. Lore has it the instrument was born in a time when cities stood on edges and borders trembled at the wind. Forged by a guild of itinerant players who brokered truces with songs rather than swords, the Bard traveled from harbor to hilltown, gathering rumors, apologies, and the soft applause of strangers who learned to believe in music again. It is said the rune tucked into the thinnest part of its spine hums when it spots a sincere heart, choosing its owner through a resonance no oath can bind. Not every traveler earns the right to coax a note from it; some carry it for years as if carrying a dream that refuses to wake. When a true musician lays hands on it, the Bard seems to awaken the room, turning tension into tremolo and fear into tempo. In actual play, the Bard’s value glides between utility and wonder. When equipped, it unlocks a suite of melodies that weave through battles and campsides alike. A quick, lilting tune can bolster nearby allies with courage and speed, while a softer lullaby heals a weary party with a warmth that feels almost communal. These melodies aren’t flashy assaults but careful harmonies that shape the moment: a crucial retreat saved by a timely chorus, a skirmish softened by a counterpoint of resilience, a siege cooled by a ballad that steadies hearts. It’s less about damage and more about stitching a group back together when the world seems to fray at the edges. Market stories color its path as well. Adventurers drift into parks and ports, trading glances and old coins, wondering how much the Bard might be worth in a market that breathes with risk and rumor. In the busy hum of the Saddlebag Exchange, someone—perhaps a minstrel’s descendant, perhaps a cautious collector—will name a price, then watch the room pulse with negotiation until a deal settles into a quiet, almost grateful, exchange. The Bard isn’t merely an item to possess; it’s a key that can unlock quiet kinship in a noisy world, a reminder that music can still steer a crowd toward mercy, even when the road seems to vanish beyond the horizon.