The truth

[tgrt 744]

 

The bard left to journey out and find the long lost love of his life. His heart pointed him Northwards, towards the Morsgradic mountain range. He didn’t know why, or how. He just knew. He knew he’d go there. He knew she lived there. He knew he’d meet her some day amidst that frigid valley. And he was right. She was there.

 

But he couldn’t make it. It wasn’t even the cold- His body was just much too frail. His sharp wit dulled, his strings off-tune. His age caught up to him long ago and a sharp pain at his side made him know his time was up. Such is the curse of being human.

 

As the snow fell onto him, he realized this is how he’d die. Alone. Sad. There was no one there. No wine. No song. Just him. Just him in that camp, with old wine and a lute. The bard sighed. He held his instrument up, his fingers shaking from the biting cold, and he just… giggled. “What a merde of an ending, eh?”. The wood did not respond.

 

He thought of his life and of when he was younger. The people, the running, the joy, the songs, the names. The countless, countless names. He remembers every single one of them. Is it fair he’d die before meeting his muse again? Well- Was life fair for the ones who died younger? For the ones forgotten? There was no justice in this world. The man knew it. All that mattered was the now. Why is now right now after all? Can we truly not alter the past? He reached for his journal.

 

He thought of his story and how it meant something. How everyone means something, even after death. People live on as long as you remember them, right? Memory is never the same as reality, of course, but the mere idea of someone, even distorted, is enough to make them go on. Thinning lines of previous lives always thin- but that stills when you bend them. When you create with them.

 

He wrote his own ending. One last song. One for joy. One for being free. For enjoying the moment. For altering endings, letting things change. It’s our duty to evolve the past for as long as you’re here. Now. With yourself. That’s what he lived by. That’s how he’d like to be remembered.

 

And he signed his name one last time for good measure. Will they remember him? How much longer would he live for? He didn’t care anymore. Timothée took a last long look at his journal before locking the chest and lying down. The pain was worse.

 

As the cold numbed out his senses and ushered him into dreamless sleep, the bard closed his eyes and felt no more. There was nothing else. He was no different, no better. His life ended there, amidst wine stained rags out in a gelid mountain range. He hoped for more.

 

He laid there forever. And his cold dead body never sang another song.

 

 

 

 

 

Spoiler

But his memory is here.
Somewhat.

With you!

 

Bard rp is great, you guys.