Music Forged in Shadow, Storm, and Stillness
Through veils of mist and moonlight, a voice wanders — ancient as the forests, restless as the seas.
Shadowbard, neither fully mortal nor wholly spirit, carries songs born of fire and frost, of twilight and tempest. Each melody is a lantern in the dark, a bridge between worlds, guiding the lost and the wandering toward memory and wonder.
Step beyond the firelight. Let the music lead you where shadows hold secrets and the heart remembers its own song.
I take a threefold vow, as shadow and song guide my steps:
Most nights, you may find me beneath the stars, where the wind carries secrets older than memory, and the world hums quietly between heartbeats. Some call me Shadowbard, though who or what I truly am is uncertain. I may be human, though perhaps a shade of something older, or a wandering spirit that slips between worlds. With lute in hand and restless heart, I trace the hidden paths where mortal eyes rarely wander.
My road winds between worlds — through forests heavy with mist, across mountains that pierce the clouds, over oceans that shimmer with hidden lights. Each step is a story; each night, a song that drifts on the wind to those who are listening. The moss smells of rain, the air tastes of smoke and longing, and spirits of forgotten places sometimes brush against my skin, hinting that I am both of this world and somehow apart from it.
My music is born where the old songs of the hearth meet the thundering pulse of storm and stone — where the tenderness of folk melody walks hand in hand with the fierce heart of fire and iron. Each note is a spark, each phrase a flame, fleeting yet unforgettable, carrying whispers of lands yet unseen, of creatures yet unknown, of realms where beings like myself drift in shadow and light alike.
I follow what some name Awen — the subtle breath of inspiration that drifts unseen but ever near, guiding my steps, my strings, and my voice alike. When the currents of emotion surge too fiercely, the lute itself seems to shimmer and crackle, as if the fire within seeks its own form of expression. I do not summon this, but honor it when it comes, like a guest in a quiet forest glade.
I make no claim to mastery, only to meaning. I play not to be heard, but to remember. Each song is a lantern in the fog — a quiet gift to those who know that even in shadow, light can linger, warm and enduring. And perhaps, in some distant place, that lantern might guide adventurers, dreamers, and wanderers into realms yet to be sung of, whether in the dark woods of ancient myth or the stars beyond this world.
Shadow and song entwine in the forest’s heart. A wandering bard finds a dying wolf and carries its last dream in melody. Through shadowed glades, tangled roots, and storm-swept nights, a vow is pursued. The forest whispers its secrets, and the wild’s lament rides the wind. By song and fang, the spirit of the wolf runs free, echoing in every note.
It begins in whisper, breaks in anger, and fades into the hush where memory still sings.