She was pampered. That much was true.
Since arriving to Bree's prancing heart, coin seemed to come easy.
A strum or two - some coppers and a grin.
A song or a tale - some silver, slid into her pocket.
All things considered, it was the one large group of patrons that truly spoiled her. A grin and sharp exchange of witty remarks was quickly returned with gold. Two large, genuine gold coins, deftly turned to red. Red ale, red jacket, red vest. A red scarf, soft and warm.
A Bard had to stand out after all.
No heed was paid for shelter. She was pampered on that front too by a well-meaning maiden, claiming to be an elf. The Bard admittedly believed her, what with the way that she carried herself - grace and poise, much like the elves in tales of old.
She had paid for the Bard's room at the inn - two, three months' pay.
Perhaps the Bard was lucky. Bards can get lucky, or perhaps bring good fortune to others. She could not recall how that saying went, but surely in her favour - she cannot deny that.
Cruelly broken fingers were quickly cared for, by salve and means for music. The Elven maid did not spare coin nor skill in acquiring the Bard a finely crafted harp, the likes of which was never seen among mortals.
Lû nin gilin, the Sindarin engraving read. "Sing to me of stars". The choice of words was not lost on the Bard.
And so the Lutist became a Harper.
Slowly, patiently, Bree ate away at her.
Gratitude is a double-edged sword, and the Bard has finally felt its sting. Perhaps pride was the true culprit. Or that her gratitude was marred by naivety. A longing for companionship? She was unsure herself. Regardless, every kindness needed to be repaid in her eyes. She did not stop to consider the motive of the kindnesses, and sought to repay the more she was given, pulling her deeper into Bree's intricate webbings.
Her forsaken lute was a well-loved instrument, but not nearly as exquisite as the harp. Engraved with horses, birds, stars, likely with the Bard's own hand. Yet there it sat for months aside, quiet, patient, waiting for its time to sing once more.
She was blinded by the brightness of the acts of kindness. Blinded by the shine of patrons' coin, blinded by ale and song and masks. All were wearing masks, and she was no different.
All served as a slow poison, dulling her senses, dimming her smile. All was Bardly and charming. Pleasant. Complacent. Her fire died, her sorrow grew.
Until luck, or perhaps fate, decided otherwise.
Harper she is no more.
The singer at twilight has made it to dawn.
