Mann mit ins Gesicht gezogenem Hut, der auf einer verzierten Laute spielt und entspannt auf einem Kistenstapel sitzt.
Modell wahlweise mit szenischer 25 mm Base verfügbar
„Music is the strongest form of magic. It’s the only language that needs no translation. It speaks truth to our hearts, it resonates deeply in our souls. Those were the words of a young bard named Ian Bluesong, a traveling poet who has always put his heart into his songs. Whether he was performing in a crowded tavern or at the court, never did he leave his audience untouched. His voice was as smooth as silk, his poetry melted еven the most hardened hearts. As he was singing, it was as if he and everyone around him were reliving the most vibrant experiences in their lives. Always cheerful and vivacious, eager to share happiness, an occasional spectator would never think that this bundle of sunshine could ever, in his whole life, have experienced anger, or sadness, or grief.
People who knew him, however, mostly his friends and family from the Caravan, could see at the end of each performance, a shimmer of deep, profound sorrow behind his radiant smile and lustrous eyes. No one knew for sure as the bard never told anyone his real story, always avoiding direct questions with a new tangle of dreamy rhymes, telling the truth and hiding it at the same time. No details about his past would never have filtered through his dazzling mask if not for one chatty soaker who once nearly jeopardized the Caravan’s whole performance, yelling that bards are the true scourge of the earth and inciting the crowd to punish the would-be culprits. The guards quickly grabbed him but, while being pulled away, he managed to throw in a few words about how his village got burned down due to one bard’s actions.
The bard’s fiancée betrayed him, and in a pitch of fury, he poured his infinite wrath and outrage into the song, calling for vengeance. The call brought unspeakable horror into this world, devastating the whole village. Appalled by his actions, the poet ran away, only to be followed by the very same thing he created. No one would believe a word of the drunkard’s fable if it wasn’t for Ian himself. The bard was trembling in every limb, speechless for once. Behind the flamboyant poems and endless stream of music, a face of a self-tortured man was concealed.
Was he singing to escape from the horrors of his actions or was every performance a cry for forgiveness?„
Model and renders without scale by Great Grimoire