Echoes of Glory
A halfling bard from the north. Dresses in a kilt and carries a bastard sword – the traditional garb of his people. Plays his bagpipes in battle to activate his spells and bardic abilities, though he also claims to be a fair singer. Puts pen to paper fairly often, chronicling his time in Taldor for the amusement of his family back home if he ever manages to return.
The ballad of Tzann MaCray
Tzann MaCray was from Creshing Way, up north in cold Brevoy.
Trained as a bard, he’d fought for the heart of a lass both fair and coy.
Though she courted a man from another clan, her heart he meant to steal;
And challenged the knave to a duel of blades, to the death, on honor’s field.
Though her buck drew his blade, “Peace,” she bade, “a bluff this must surely be.”
She’d enjoyed Tzann’s pain but she’d tired of the game, and of MaCray she now wished to be free.
“Away with ye,” said coldly she, “you’re far too young and poor.”
So he took up his pipes and his Giant’s Knife and made south for old Taldor.
Aboard Mary Ellen, Tzann traveled the Sellen and arrived at the Inner Sea.
The weather was warm but he was viewed with scorn by his rich human company.
He was ill fit at first, and his choice he cursed. Could he ever be so debonair?
But he soon realized to some surprise that women thought him “exotic fare.”
Southern girls loved his lilt and his pleated kilt; for his attention they surely were keen;
And after awhile (despite initial trial) he’d settled into a new routine:
By day he’d chase an easy lay, acting the part of a charming flirt;
And wile his nights at the bar, taking pen to memoir (working title: “It’s Not a Skirt”)
He lived in a bubble, with scarcely any trouble in finding a nightly bed
And though his new life was fine he could hardly find time to earn his daily bread.
He was on top of the world, with his choice of girls, but he’d soon suffer without some coin;
So he put down his book and began to look for an adventuring band to join.
It was they who found him, in a den of sin, drinking to a brigand’s health.
They’d heard he was ready for a gig more steady, and to add to his personal wealth.
They made him an offer and opened a coffer containing a goodly sum;
And admitted they came from a fearful name: the Aspis Consortium.
As an amateur liar, a bard for hire must be quick if he wants to get paid;
To pass on a lark or an easy mark lands a bard in pauper’s grave.
It was an easy bet, and to settle his debts, Tzann happily took their gold.
He was eager to see, with his new company, what sort of story he might unfold.
Though they sought after treasure (always a pleasure!), it was job to them, not a game.
Their priority was pay and they despised accolade, actively avoiding fame.
For his magic’s favor they endured his haver, and allowed him to scribble his tale;
Though oft he’d wonder if a simple blunder might leave him dead in their trial.
His query ceased to matter when his Aspis paymaster ran afoul of a band of knights.
In just one swing, with a falchion’s ring, their warrior ended the fight.
As yet still alive, though their patience he tried, Tzann engaged them in salesman’s dance;
Now for months or more (or til he finds Death’s door), the bard is now paid in advance.