Today's no different than yesterday, The usual hustle and bustle inside the Nomad goes on as usual, Where adventurers, merchants and foreign visitors pass through. It's the usual day, with the usual patrols that skim and talk away the day that has been, of rising prices of wheat, or the Goblin and Kobold wars at the northern outskirts. And as many has before, and many will after, an entertainer took up his lute, and strode up on the tavern floor, taking tone.
-"Mercs and Merchants, Ye old and young. I am Simon Penaali, And I shall foretell you a story, Of love and despair, Tragedy and hope, Where a man lost in translation becomes the prey of the hand."
Here is how it sounded.
His wings lay torn and tattered where they fluttered to the ground,
Where once there was a song of joy there was no more sound.
The air was filled with silence for there was no song to sing,
Gone was the love that lifted him, The wind beneath his wings.
Gone the inspiration, The laughter in his soul,
He lay in broken promises with no one to make him whole.
For when the wind beneath his wings, so suddenly was gone,
The angel spiralled to the ground, falling broken and alone.
Madrik Street he is, The man and legend alone,
Broken, shattered and forgotten, in blood, dust and bone.
He took up arms and he took up heart, Against the darkness of their art,
But so his luck, It just got stuck, Avast! The darkness now his heart.
Each man walking upon this prime, Leave a print of their acts inside,
The men and women in daily life they meet, some just briefly, some with longer respite.
But what of the trust given the angel's you meet, A web of lies, mayhap of deceit?
Who is the angel behind the mask, One to trust, or another to unmask?
Perhaps you were there, Perhaps you weren't. Perhaps the song caused a rouse, perhaps it didn't. But the singer climbed off stage, and went towards griff for a point of lager once he was done, His turquoise hat laid upon the bar, as he sighted and thought about the poor angel-man and what he had lost.
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