The Bard

Someone had to weave the tale of how the beast was slain, to paint in valor all the scars and make it worth the pain. A knight disfigured, charred and gaunt, returning from his quest employed a bard’s convincing tongue to tell it to the rest. The townsfolk were a fickle lot; naught kept their love for long until the wordsmith cleverly described it all in song. Young maiden hearts were often won by tales of chivalry of shining knights, and deathly fights for love eternally. Who better could express to they, the champion’s desire or stoke the ember in her breast into a roaring fire? Who but the bard, in gifted grace, could tell of blood and gore and cause all those who saw the knight to marvel and adore? Thus we see that though they wore no armor and no helm that poets, not the knights of yore, were masters of the realm. For had they never sung their songs, nor wrote their epics down the knights to all would strangers be; mere beggars in the town. 05/24/15