The Bard

As the armies walked towards the gates of the city, the bard stood with fiddle in hand atop the gatehouse. His instrument clutched in one hand, the bow in the other, he started to stomp one foot to a steady rhythm. Dancing fingers and a graceful bow brought rousing song from his fiddle, his eyes closed as he lost himself in his craft.

The youth of the armies before the city scoffed at the song as they readied their attack.Those older men with more wisdom gained through the years knew better than to mock a troubadour. With loud voices they cried for the archers to take him out.

They were too late for that though.

Immersed in music, he kept stomping even as he twirled and danced through the hail of arrows. The strings of his instrument glowed as he poured his soul into the piece, letting the notes work their magic.

From the craggy lines of gravestones around the main gates, the dead started to rise to defend their city once more. Skeletons burst forth from the ground, their bones a mix of hues from bleached white to a pale yellow. Cadavers hauled themselves to the surface, their bodies tattered but their armour intact. The ghosts of those with no body appeared in shimmering mist, their hands cloaked in deathly cold.

With a cry of risen might, the undead defenders charged, even as the bard kept playing. And only when the last foe had fallen, when their morale had broken and they had been completed routed, did he stop the ancient tune of the eternal defenders.


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