Every bard is loved and sought after in their home town, but not me. And it’s all my fault.
Despite the rules, teachings, and social classes I couldn’t fight the truth in my heart, that I loved her. And neither could she.
She was the daughter of the Lord of Fainley. And I was the daughter of a blacksmith, and a farmer. Everything was wrong with it.
The bard that played at the Crooked Mallet had an aura of vicious brilliance, and expressed it in the nature of his songs. When I was old enough to drink I became obsessed, just with the very sound.
As a gift I got my very own lute, and took to playing it every day. I made my own music, some of it even better than the bard of the Crooked Mallet, and I hoped that one day I would take up that role.
As time progressed I got to know Lain Isar, the bard, and he began teaching me everything I knew, until I reached a point where I too, was playing with him in the Crooked Mallet.
One time I was requested to perform for the lord and his family while they were having a feast with lords from nearby.
Most lords looked on impressed, by the possibility that one of the great bards of the town might be a woman. Yet from the lords daughter I got a totally different expression, one of enchantment and delight.
Not for me, but for my music, she loved it. At every spare glance she was staring at my fingers, strumming. I noticed and smiled at her most times, but she just looked away, only to look back seconds or minutes later.
After that I heard nothing, until a guard from the lords hall tracked me down, practically begging me to perform and teach the lords daughter.
It was during that time that I realised she was beautiful. Bright blue eyes, a slender smile beautifully bewitched, and glistening skin which was only made more pronounced through her pretty clothing. Every part of her being was opulent, intricate, and indulgent to the extreme.
And somehow, her attitude was similar towards me. Not at first, of course, though I could also say the same thing about her. But over time we became closer, and closer, until a moment where every sentence she spoke was exhilarating.
Her lute was different to mine, even after tuning there was no way for it to sound the same. Her notes were the same, but fuller and richer. Her lute was beautifully crafted. It was made by the elite, and was therefore better made. But still even now, I’ve never heard a lute that could play such a beautiful song, not even by the likes of “the old koka”
One event led to another, which led to another, and another after that. Until one day we were caught in a dizzying state of intimacy.
After that I could no longer live in Fainley, and shame was brought to my name. Poor Charlotte was getting married to a rich lord for political gain despite her disagreements.
But before I had to go, she told me to go to a place in the woods that we had often talked about, but never been too. There, I found a note.
I’ve decided to give you my lute, after all, you were always much better at it than I was. I hope you’ll be able to use it to create a career in another town, and live and prosper. I have no doubts that this won’t be the last time I hear your name, I assume ten years from now you’ll be more famous than I, and have far more power.
I have one last request, that you would leave your lute here, in the same place as I’ve left mine. So that I too, have something to remember you by.
I wish you all the best, and I love you