The Tavern Bard
Half your songs are stolen, all of them are crowd-pleasers. You hear everything. You remember most of it.
You can defuse or detonate any social scene with a song, a joke, or a well-placed lie. Sometimes all three at once.
Your Story
You are [name], and half the songs in your set you wrote, and the other half you stole, and the audience cannot tell the difference — and neither can you, anymore. The crowd at [hometown]'s best inn knows your name. The crowd at the worst one knows it better. You tip generously. You cheat at dice in ways that keep the game going. People like you more than they should.
You hear everything. The gossip, the whispered deals, the names of the wives who aren't supposed to be in the room with the husbands who aren't supposed to be in the room. You remember most of it. You write down what might be useful. Your notebook is worth more than your lute, and you keep them both under the bed.
Lately you have been getting work from a patron whose name is not on any contract. The coin is better than it has any right to be. The gigs are oddly specific — play at this inn, on this night, and keep an eye out for a man in a green cloak. You stopped asking questions. You started asking different ones.
The green cloaks are always there. Different inns, different towns, different faces — but the same cloak, the same pin, the same little star-shaped clasp. You were told to point them out. You've started not pointing them out. You want to know who wants to know.
Click below to draft Andreas an email — you can edit it before you send, or just skip the fields you're not sure about and we'll fill them in together.
This one is me →A week before we play, a letter will arrive at your house. Open it alone. Do not compare notes with the others until you reach the Trade Way.