Role

Chapter 4

That night, the old bard dreamt deeply. Perhaps it was the wine,
the tavern was known to serve chip swill that would leave you
ill for days after. Or maybe a simple matter of the night's story,
for it had been a long time since he last told it.

In the dream, Talisin waged and endless battle along the roads
between Isle and Village. Blood ran down his arms, as he swung
his blade, crying out in song with each stroke. He fell once, then
again and again, bodies of his foes piled against his own.

In the midst of the battle, a crimson angel appeared, hovering above
the field. The fighting slowed, and the angel conversed with the
Rhyme, its chosen bearer. Turning back to the bard, it frowned
in contemplation. The path to the Chalice was hard and narrow, and
made progress, but was not yet ready.

The dream blurred, and now the bard danced back and forth with a
rugged giant. The giant, Commander of the village, swung his massive
pole furiously, as the wood-elf endeavoured to evade it. Many times
he'd slain the bard as such, his scout's eye finding weakness. The battle
wore long, and Talisin's songs weakened the giant, stealing his senses.
At last, Aoirse retreated to the village, the giant flying quickly
above the ground. The bard pursued, and the battle resumed, with the
Destructor a third participant. Blood pooled in the dirt below,
elf and giant near death, when a final chord brought forth a ball of
fire, and Aoirse lay dead. His greatest foe now filled the Chalice.

When he woke, he was as tired as the moment he first laid down his
head, though he accounted this, at least, to the wine. The dream
had merged with his tale, but seemed so personal. Of course, this
had happened before to the bard, where he could not separate his
stories from his own past.