The Wandering Bard

In the dimly lit tavern, thick with smoke and spilled ale, a bard sat by the far wall. His delicate features, pale skin like a winter sky, and silver hair cascading over his shoulders made him stand out. His frozen-lake-colored eyes stared mournfully into his untouched mug.

Among the rough mercenaries and loud adventurers, he seemed out of place. The locals called him the "Snow Elf," though he never corrected them. Few knew his true name, and his past was hidden beneath the sorrowful melodies of his lute.

His slender fingers traced the strings, drawing out a tune filled with longing for distant, icy peaks and forgotten stars. Yet in the warmth of the tavern, it sounded misplaced. The bard knew that here, everyone carried their own burdens, and no one cared for another’s sorrow. Sad bard started his song "Upon the hills so far and fleeting, Where silent frost and shadows play, The dawn awakes with softest greeting, Yet all my dreams still drift away..."