Fair to partly cloudy was the weather and the young bard's disposition as he lie with the nape of his neck resting on a moss covered root 'neath a narly oak. All would be dandy if he could whip the pounding, swelling feeling in his head. A bit much mead again.
Worth it it was, he thought as he recapped the adventure of the night'afore, strumming his lute. He closed his eyes as he played and as the magic fell, the clarity awoke and he sang gently of the lass, the mare, the game, the bargain, and the trouble that ensued. (You see, to hear a bard sing is to live the song while it falls on your ears.)
Fair to partly cloudy.
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