A Ballad of Wandering Bard

The frost of winter began to yield, and Suntails Hollow woke to the morning of the yearly Festival of Unity. This cherished celebration marked the end of the Calamity centuries ago, a tribute to the Twelve Gods and their unity that restored peace to the lands.

Children lined the village streets, each clutching small pouches filled with the ashes of their family's first firewood, lit on the first snowfall. The ash symbolized resilience, warmth, and hope—treasured values of the festival.

Leading the children this year was none other than Dorian. His lute slung across his back, he strode confidently at the head of the procession, his fingers coaxing a joyful melody as the group marched.

"Keep step, little heroes!" Dorian called, his playful grin drawing laughter from the children. To add to their delight, he punctuated the song with wisps of magic—a flicker of sparkling leaves here, a glowing mist there, weaving a sense of wonder into every note.

The procession made its way to the Brightstream River, a gentle, winding body of water that had long been the heart of Suntails Hollow's life and lore. The song grew louder, the children's voices rising in celebration as they approached.

At the riverbank, the procession came to a halt. One by one, the children stepped forward, scattering their ashes into the flowing water and voicing their wishes for the coming year.

Dorian, ever the showman, knelt down and handed his pouch to his little sister, Selia. The two-year-old clutched it with both hands, her wide eyes filled with innocent curiosity.

"Now, Selia," Dorian said softly, holding her tiny hands. "Toss the ashes into the river and make a wish."

Selia giggled, shaking the pouch a little too enthusiastically. When the ashes spilled out, Dorian added a touch of magic, transforming the ordinary gray particles into shimmering golden dust that danced as it sank into the water.

Selia clapped her hands, her laughter filling the air. "Abababa!"

Dorian smiled and stood, his own voice steady and clear. "I wish for health for my family, and life without worry."

Nearby, other families listened as their children made wishes—some sweet, others earnest:

"I wish for Papa to get better!"

"I wish for more milk for baby Jonas!"

"I wish to catch the biggest fish next winter!"

As the wishes flowed into the river, their hope mingled with the water, carried onward as part of the festival's enduring tradition.

Amid the happy clamor, Tyrn leaned against a distant tree, watching the scene with an unreadable expression. He didn't acknowledge the children's laughter or the shimmering wishes; his gaze seemed far away, lost in a place no one could see.

To the casual observer, it might have seemed like quiet contentment. But to anyone who looked closer—if anyone dared to—it seemed as though he wasn't watching the moment but rather staring through it, his eyes fixed on something long gone, something that no longer existed.

As the children and their families began the walk back to the village for the grand feast, the group of friends lingered under the tree where Tyrn stood. Dorian, Ryssa, Lucas, and Bogo approached him with wide smiles.

Dorian raised a hand in greeting. "Merry Reflections, Tyrn! Or should I say... Festive Greetings from the little piglets?"

Tyrn's gaze shifted back to reality, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Merry Reflections to you, piglets," he drawled, his tone as lazy as ever.

Lucas folded his arms, grinning. "You're not celebrating this year? I mean, you've got to have some kind of tradition for a day like this."

Tyrn's expression darkened slightly, though he masked it with a shrug. "The Twelve Gods," he said softly, "aren't as benevolent as you think they are."

The friends exchanged uneasy glances, startled by the weight of Tyrn's words.

"But," Tyrn continued, straightening slightly, "this is a festival, and I'm not here to ruin your mood. No boring lessons today—just enjoy yourselves."

Without waiting for a response, Tyrn waved lazily over his shoulder and began walking away, his steps as casual as ever. "Go on. Celebrate the day, little piglets."

Dorian watched him retreat, a knot forming in his chest. "What was that about?"

Lucas tilted his head. "He says strange things all the time, but this... felt different."

Ryssa crossed her arms, her golden eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "It's almost like he... knows something. About the gods, or about this festival."

Bogo shrugged, though his curiosity mirrored theirs. "Whatever it is, we won't find out unless he decides to tell us. Come on, let's get back. We've got a feast waiting."

The group made their way back to the village, where music, laughter, and the aroma of roasted meats awaited. Despite Tyrn's cryptic remark, the mood in Suntails Hollow remained jubilant, the warmth of community shining brightly against the chill of winter's end.

For now, they chose to let Tyrn's words linger unanswered, embracing the fleeting joy of the festival and the bonds they held dear.