Treading on a path that not many boots have tread,

Leaves all around; all gold, orange and red,

Exhaustion washes over you, though where to rest your head?

And as you lie down, in your temporary bed..

Songs start to play; loud and clear,

At the same time, it is both far and near,

How strange, songs, truly very queer,

A horn blowing like a bleating deer,

A voice singing out promises of beer,

Now it is time to peer,

You grab your spear,

Along with your gear,

You are careful not to slip on your rear..

There he stands, upon an old tree root,

plucking the strings of a fifteen stringed lute,

occasionally swapping out to blow upon a flute,

even giving a long horn a quick toot!

Dressed in green and brown,

a smile on his face, though not like a clown!

Unlike the men in the nearest town,

this man would never frown!

So come closer, have a sit down,

and listen to this man, who sings of a crown!

He spoke, “I! Am the Wandering Bard!,

a friend of yours, perhaps even a guard!

No, to understand it is not hard!

Have a pork chop, slightly charred!

Now listen, to a tale about a certain lard..”

This man stands at close to six foot high, perhaps over or under. His hair is black or brown, depending on when you see him, it is usually always tied back in a tail of sorts. A beard stretches across his jaw and above his red lips, which conceal a white smile. Over one of his grey eyes a scar drags across, hard to tell what from though.He dresses in browns and greens, blending in with the lands he walks in. On him nearly all the time are his instruments, his lute strung over his shoulder and a flute or clarinet tucked into his belt. A horn like a bow on his shoulder.