Bard

SterlingKat's marvellous kitten tundra baby version of Bard!!

I. “Sing with me. Mimimimimimimiiiiiii!” The violet Pearlcatcher lifted her claws, conducting the hatchling chorus. Fifteen off-key hums joined her, trilling: “Mimimimimimimiiiii!” Viola smiled, then paused. The Tundra in the back of the cloister was breathing hard. “Andriel –“ Andriel burst forth into deep, melodious song, shaking the stained glass windows. His musical voice rang all around them, echoing off the high, vaulted roof, the ivory pillars. The hatchlings covered their ears, squealing. When Andriel closed his mouth, Viola breathed out and smiled. “Very good.”

II. Andriel was left on the porch steps of a religious musical conservatory in Dragonhome, one blustery, chilly autumn night. There, he was taken in by young dragons who pledged themselves to the Earthshaker. Like the Pearlcatchers from the Southern Icefields, they believed that the world itself was made of song. Every tree – every cloud, every leaf – was part of a grand tapestry of melody, made by the striking of the Great Pillar at Dragonhome’s center. So, Andriel grew into a young dragon with music in his heart. He lent his voice to choruses, chants, and masses. Everyone loved to hear him. But though the members of the conservatory were pleased with his gifts, they became deeply troubled: Andriel had no loyalty to his patron god. Instead, he sang for pure enjoyment. He played the flute, harp, and lute while leaning out his window, singing to the birds and the dragons passing by below. He wrote celestial hymns to the Lightweaver and dirges for the Shadowbinder. At one point, he wrote a coronet fanfare to the god of the Plague flight. His teachers found all the music very beautiful, but quite disturbing. Finally, after the hatchlings listened to his song about the Icewarden and wanted to pledge a new flight, Andriel’s old teacher, Viola, sat down with him in her office. Andriel leaned back in the overstuffed red-gold chair. Viola’s old grey clouddancer, Wing, dozed at his feet. The clouddancer snored from her beak and swished her tail. Viola herself now had crackled scales and misty eyes. They drank Manaweed tea in silence. For Manaweed, they said, was good for the throat and the soul. Then she gently took his paw and murmured, “Andriel, I’m not sure you belong here.” Andriel’s jaw dropped. “What – what do you mean?” “Oh, we will hate to see you go. But I and the teachers all believe your gift lies – out there.” Viola pointed out the window, toward the craggy peaks of Dragonhome. “You want me to sing in the courtyard?” “No, Andriel. Can’t you see? Your musical gifts don’t just bind you to the Earthshaker, like we would like. Instead, you’re moved by all the flights – all the elements.” His old teacher looked away. “We think they need you. Even if we do, too.” It was with a heavy heart and many tears that Bard’s old clan of minstrels convinced him to leave. Stowing nothing but his musical gear on his back, Andriel departed. It was on the steps of the Dragonhome Conservatory that he forsook his old name. Keeping with his life purpose, he took the name Bard.

At first – as with any great change – life was unkind. Consider the way a caterpillar becomes a butterfly, Bard wrote on a scrap of parchment, seated beneath a great tree, tired from his travels. Rain sheeted down around him. At first, the wings are wet and weak. And so are mine.
He forged through Sornieth, stopping at populated areas to play his music. It was well received, but the tips were not enough to live on. Time and again he found himself in some small hovel or tavern, rain-soaked and weary.
As he made his way through the Sunbeam Ruins, singing his hymns to the Lightweaver with the temple priestesses there, he spied a male Skydancer on a high ridge, alone, looking over the sunset. The golden crackle glinted along his wings and muzzle. He sparkled like the ocean.
Something about the sight – the slanting light, or the dark shadow the white Skydancer cast – impressed Bard deeply. He took his leave from the priestesses and sat among fallen pillars to compose a ballad: Son of the Lightweaver.

Bard looked up from his parchment to find the white Skydancer’s deep golden eyes meeting his.
Bard dropped his quill. “Ah. ‘llo, there.”
“Good evening, songster.” The regal Skydancer tossed his head. “I take it you’re going to invent some far-flung lost love for me in your song?”
Bard hurriedly pulled his cap lower. He’d been planning to do just that.
The Skydancer swished his long, white tail.
“So?” Bard finally asked. “Has she got a name? Or have you one?”
“She does indeed. But it’s not how you think. Not a romantic love of mine.”
“Who do you seek, then, sitting on your ridge?”
The Skydancer looked up above Bard’s shoulder, skyward. The sun was sinking away, the golden orange fading to deep, lovely violet. Silver, blue and green stars swam in the sky’s ocean.
“My name is Cloudweaver, just like it’s always been.”
Bard startled at that. It was a strange comment. He’d almost forgotten his own old name…
“And you seek whom?”
“Celandine,” Cloudweaver said at last. “My sister. We were – separated. Foolish on my part. So foolish.” He looked down, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry.”
“Never mind that. I leave for the Southern Icefields tonight. If you see her – please. Somehow, I feel that you’ll find her, then me again.”
With few other words, Cloudweaver took wing. Bard watched from the ground as he rose into the sky, scales glittering like angels’ wings.
“Wait!” Bard called. “How will I know her?”
“She’s got wings that look like a thunderstorm at sundown! You will! I promise!”
As he flew, Bard ran after, beneath him. The minstrel gathered a single feather of Cloudweaver’s – a pure, star-white one, tinged with gold.
Bard continued his travels. He finished the rest of the ballad, which he kept in a loosely-bound book of parchment, close to his breast. Cloudweaver’s feather was his bookmark.
The ballad became one of his personal favorites. He could never forget the look in CloudWeaver’s eyes…
Something about that gaze almost made him want to turn back, to bury himself in musty music tomes and sing only the praise of Earthshaker.
Instead, he pressed onward.
His travels brought him to the fringes of the Windswept Plateau. He paused for a moment, and let the wind play along his fur. Then it gently plucked at the strings on his lute, making a ripple that sounded like tiny chimes.
Alright, he sighed. That’s enough. I can’t let the wind outplay me.
He headed onward. The first clan he met among the waving grass, he stopped, pulled out his lute, and began to play.
They gathered around him, tapping their feet, laughing and exchanging knowing looks at romantic lyrics. Some called out requests for 'Time-Turner’s Tale' or 'Fae’s Delight.' A few joined talons and danced, laughing. Wind dragons all love music.
When Bard’s talons grew sore and the music slowed to a stop, a Coatl stepped forward. He was greener than the grass around, with exotic, fiery markings along his wings and face. He beckoned Bard forward.
Bard went hesitantly. For a minstrel, he was very shy.
Once out of earshot, the Coatl grabbed Bard’s wrists. “Hi!”
“Um. ‘llo there.”
“I’ve got a job for you, my friend. Yes. A job. We’re all desperate.”
The Coatl was speaking fast. Bard pulled away and said, “Your name first, please, sir. And then what sort of job it is.”
“I am Spiritforged of lopika’s clan, first ambassador of – well. Our leader. Our gentle-hearted leader, who, who –“ And here the Coatl almost broke into tears.
Bard panicked. “Do stop for a moment. Where is this leader? What is this job? Hello? What was your name – Spirit? Spiritforged?”
“He’s just so sad all the time,” the Coatl sobbed. “We can’t stand it any longer.”
Everyone in this clan is completely bonkers, Bard thought. Then he shrugged. Most dragons he met were bonkers, one way or another. “And you want me to –“
“To cheer him up. To make him smile, to let us hear his laugh again. He’s very powerful. He’ll reward you handsomely! Food, lodging, coin. All of that. If only you can make him smile.”
The thought of a warm bed excited Bard – though the powerful thing made him a bit nervous.
“Alright,” Bard said, stretching the joints in his paws. “Take me to him.”
Spiritforged led Bard deep into the Windswept Plateau, tiptoeing. They spied Zash sitting by himself, looking mournfully up at the night sky.
Spiritforged stopped a few steps away, motioning Bard to go forward.
Bard took a deep breath, stepped forward –
Tripped.
And landed on his face, by Zash’s feet. He tried to scramble to his own feet but fell to the side. His lute let out an unmusical twang. His hat fell off, into the dirt.
The strap of his lute caught him across the nose and pulled his upper-lip up.
Desperate to salvage the situation, he began to say, “Good evening, my lord.”
But because his nose was blocked, it came out as “’oooood evesning, m’ laird.”
With that, Zash threw back his head and roared laughter. Bard blushed red as a rose and let him laugh, struggling to disentangle himself. Zash laughed until he was weak.
It took Bard a moment to realize that Zash was a Tundra like himself.
He brushed himself off. “Well, that wasn’t so terrible. And here I thought making you laugh would be a challenge. Not for the greatest minstrel of all time.”
“Bard?” Zash asked with a squint.
“You’ve – heard of me.”
“We’ve all heard of you.”
“He’s talking!” they heard Spiritforged exclaim to the rest of the clan members, who were gathered in the darkness, nothing but bright eyes bobbing in the grass. “He laughed!”
“Oh, dear. And you’re the leader of all these sorry souls?” Bard brushed his tunic off. His flush, now, might have been of pride.
“I am indeed.”
“Then I’ve got a nickname for you.”
“What is it?” Zash chuckled and brushed dust off Bard’s back. “I’ve got yours: Dirt-Nose.”
“Mine was going to be a bit more dignified.” Bard squared his shoulders. He liked Zash greatly already. “The Sad King.”
There was a moment of silence.
Then Zash rubbed his furry chin. A smile grew on his features. “You know what, Mudpaws? I like that quite a bit.”

Though Bard had many a high time, great meal and affectionate embrace in Zash’s demesne, he eventually felt a deep yearning in his feet again. A desire to move.
And there was still that single white feather in his song-book, that he saw whenever he referenced a lyric. Cloudweaver’s.
Zash spied this token by the dinner fire one night and scoffed. “Well, Greasy-Toes. That a memento from a lover?”
“Absolutely not. It’s from someone who was as sad as you were, but not half so easy to cheer up.”
“You should’ve tripped before him,” Zash advised, sipping his mead.
“It’s not that simple. He lost his sister in a storm, and he’s looking for her, and she’s gods know where, doing gods know what.” Bard glanced up and saw that Zash’s face had grown serious.
“I heard a tale like that from a different minstrel coming through. Not so good as your poem, but about a Skydancer girl who cries in her sleep for her brother.”
Bard sat up quickly. “And where was she?”
“Labyrinth. That horrid green place.”
“Horrid?” Spiritforged murmured into his dinner. He liked to sit and eavesdrop on all the jokes between Bard and the Sad King. “I enjoyed my time there.”
Bard got to his feet and shook the Sad King’s paw. “I’m sorry, friend. I must move on.”
“Well, that’s the whole point of you minstrel types, isn’t it? You never stay down. They say that it’s like a storm inside you, blowing you ever onward.” Zash left and returned with a fully stocked pack. He hated to see Bard go, but knew he had to.
So began a long, tiring journey to and through the Labyrinth. At night, Bard found himself praying to the Gladekeeper for her favor. Sometimes he swore he glimpsed her kindly face through the trees.
He became very skilled at quickly pulling out his lute and strumming the melody to The Lightweaver’s Son. He sang it to every Skydancer female he passed.
But though all of them loved the tune and the tale, and some cast longing glances at him, none were the sister Bard was seeking.
There were times he wanted to quit. He was convinced the sister was a delusion, a metaphor, a fairytale.
But then he dreamt of the look in Cloudweaver’s eyes and pressed onward.

Bard met Mephala on the road- strictly speaking he heroically swooped in from nowhere to clout a hapless wolf away from her stricken form, but he doesn't like to brag. Mephala's obvious devotion to him and sparkling eyes with grateful tears belies his minimizing however, and the favourite lute in question does have a certain battered quality about it, so who's to know. The odd pair, the mute and the bard with enough voice for two, travelled together awhile, on Bard's quest.
He came to a large clan of dragons, nestled beneath the bushes. Some had wings like a butterfly. Some were golden, or dark colored. A rainbow of eyes looked back at him.
He cautiously took a seat by their fire. Then he realized: they all had his world-weary, traveled look. A certain haunting look to them, even though all of them seemed happy enough.
A golden Pearlcatcher kindly handed him a carafe of water. “Do you play that thing, or is it just for decoration?”
“Oh, no. I play it.”
“For treasure?”
“For love. For hope.” He glanced at all the Skydancers, wondering if any of these, at last, was the one. He took hold of his lute and sang:

“Wait!” a voice cried. A young Skydancer stumbled forward. All eyes turned toward her. She was with a different clan who had stopped by to hear the minstrel’s song.
Bard sang on:


As the last notes of the lute died away, Celandine stumbled forward and flung herself, sobbing, on Bard’s breast.
“My brother Cloudweaver – you’ve met him?”
“I know him. I know where he’s at.” He hugged her back just as hard, and couldn’t stop a tear or two from gathering in his eyes. “Please. Won’t you come with me?”
Celandine nodded, begged leave of her clan. And so it was that Bard, with his strange and growing entourage, set off to reunite two lost siblings and make all good again with the world. Little was he to suspect that in doing so, he would find the perfect place to found a lair, a clan of love and happiness and music, wherein they could spend the rest of their days singing to the trees and the sky. Bard left his first family, as well as his old life behind when he left the musical conservatory he’d grown up in, and went seek his vocation elsewhere. It took longer than he’d care to admit, before he understood the gravity of what he’d done. Leaving his children behind. Leaving their mother, alone, to raise them- or so he’d hoped. She was an independent she-tundra, had outright demanded he follow his calling, travel the world and bring music and joy to all- and they’d always had a tumultuous partnership, arguing ferociously about serving the deities, the honour of exaltation to greater purpose. She was a devoutly religious individual; bordering on fanatical, he could see in hindsight. He'd fiercely argued that there could be purpose, could be meaning, here on the ground of Sorneith- but she was firm, and encouraged all their children to follow the path of the devout, against his wishes. When he left the musical conservatory’s religious compound, he said his goodbyes to her and other friends, but could not bring himself to give a single backward glance in her direction, and he is still ashamed of his pride in denying her that much acknowledgement, not even for all the years they spent together.
Later, much later, he tried to contact them. Of his partner, there was no news- the enclave she’d entered since had cut itself off from the world. Or perhaps she even got his letters, but did not deign reply, and he couldn’t blame her. Instead, he tried to find his children, by sending letters across Sorneith, to the places he’d last heard they’d been. He wrote often, trying to track down so much as a thread of hope that his family weren’t completely lost to time- but the letters back came thinner and fewer, farther between, and never written by the hand he’d hoped for. It seemed every child he had ever borne, had been sent to serve the deities, or had never been heard from since. He wept anew when the last letter came back with an apology, that he was just too late, and when he tried to play that night, no song came. His heart was silent, his fingers idle, his eyes dull and red with tears. He put down his lute carefully by the fire, and walked away from Oakheart that night alone, but the night air around him thronging with his ghosts.







Thankyou to lopika for this beautiful sushi form baby Bard!

idlewildly created this pair of adorable fluffs, couldn't decide between them!!!






Bard in his element- performing music to a chorus of unwilling backing singers, caught up in the moment by the uplifting and entrancing power of his voice.