The village square of Silverhill unfolded like a tapestry in the morning sun. It was a modest crossroads at heart, no larger than a well-aimed stone's throw, yet it brimmed with color and movement. Cobblestones, worn smooth by decades of wagon wheels and wandering feet, gleamed faintly beneath a film of dust.
Around the square, an assortment of vendors shouted their wares. A dwarven blacksmith, his bristling beard tucked behind a soot-streaked apron, pounded rhythmically at his forge. The sound rang out over the murmured clamor like a hammer shaping the day itself. Across from him, a halfling baker perched on tiptoes behind his stall, hawking loaves of bread shaped like laughing suns, the scent of spiced crusts mingling with the earthy aroma of fresh herbs from an elven apothecary's cart nearby.
The diversity of Silverhill's residents was as much its charm as its peculiarity. Here, a dragonborn with scales like polished copper argued spiritedly with a tiefling trader whose curling horns were bedecked in gleaming silver chains. There, a gnome tinkerer bent over an assortment of tiny contraptions, each whirring and clicking as if alive. Overhead, a streak of shadow passed—a courier griffon, its elven rider scanning for their next delivery as villagers instinctively cleared paths below.
At the heart of this orderly chaos was the clock tower, its age-worn spire topped with a celestial mosaic depicting the gods of many races intertwined in unity. It was a fitting symbol for the town's patchwork population.
Near its base, a weathered fountain trickled with enchanted water, said to never run dry—a remnant of a mage's service from generations ago. Children splashed their hands into its basin, chasing the small, darting fish visible through the crystal-clear depths.
And then, he arrived.
The bard stepped lightly into the square, his green cloak swaying like an emerald banner as he moved through the crowd. His boots kicked up little puffs of golden dust, which the early sunlight turned to sparks in the air. Villagers noticed him almost immediately, drawn by the shimmer of his presence. He had the look of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere—an adventurer but not a warrior, a wanderer but not aimless.
Settling himself on the edge of the fountain, he unslung his harp from his back. The instrument was a masterpiece, its body carved from rich golden wood that caught every glimmer of light, its strings faintly humming as if eager to be played. The bard began to tune it, plucking a single crystalline note that sent a ripple through the already bustling square.
"You're in for a treat today," murmured the dragonborn merchant, pausing mid-argument to elbow a nearby dwarf.
The dwarf snorted. "A treat, is it? More like a thief 'bout to sing me out of a silver." But he didn't move. No one did.
The bard smiled at the hush that settled as he placed nimble fingers on the strings. And then, he began to sing.
The first chords from the golden harp were soft but magnetic, drawing the ears before the eye. Then the bard's voice flowed, rich and melodic, a tone that wrapped itself around the crowd like the first sip of honeyed mead on a cold evening.
As he sang, his fingers danced over the strings, each note infused with subtle, shimmering magic. Around him, the dusty square began to transform. The cobblestones brightened, the fine haze of dust coiling upward like a misty curtain to reveal an illusionary stage.
Villagers murmured in wonder as images bloomed in the air. A figure materialized—a younger bard with a simple lute and a threadbare cloak, standing beneath the clock tower in some distant past. As the bard wove the story, the illusionary figure moved, strumming its ghostly lute as petals of light seemed to scatter with each note.
A great tree of light sprouted from the ground before the bard, its leaves shimmering with golden threads of music. Around it danced scenes of far-off places: kingdoms wreathed in snow, deserts vast and shimmering, and seas alive with ships navigating rolling waves. The villagers gaped as if they'd glimpsed the world beyond Silverhill for the first time.
The images weren't merely seen; they were felt. The hiss of desert winds prickled skin, the salty tang of the ocean carried on invisible breezes. Even the fountain water seemed to glimmer brighter in response.
A halfling baker let out a low whistle. "That ain't just songs he's got—it's sorcery, that is."
"Not just sorcery," an elf corrected softly, "storytelling magic."
The crowd grew larger. Conversations faltered as all attention turned to the bard, his hands now coaxing rippling arpeggios from the harp. Children pushed to the front, their wide eyes filled with wonder at the images flickering in the air.
An older halfling, his hands still dusted with flour, leaned against his stall and sighed. "Reminds me of the festival days when I was a lad," he muttered wistfully.
A gnome woman beside him tilted her head, watching the illusionary bard bow grandly. "Festival days don't conjure up trees out of nothin'. I call it showing off."
"But it's beautiful," breathed a tiefling girl, barely more than a teenager, her fiery red hair framing horns still capped with her family's protective bronze tips. She clutched her satchel like a lifeline. "Do you think he's been everywhere? Seen all those places?"
"Hmph," rumbled a copper-scaled dragonborn, his arms crossed. He stood behind his stall, rows of carefully polished brass fittings and mechanisms gleaming in the sunlight. "A bard sings to distract you, take what coin you have, and leaves none the wiser. Good business. Terrible honesty."
"Yet here you are, still listening," teased the dwarf standing next to him. The dragonborn didn't answer, but his tail twitched in mild irritation.
As the bard played on, skepticism faded under the sheer magic of his storytelling. The villagers were a tapestry of differences, yet in that moment, every gaze was fixed on the same performance, and for once, no one seemed inclined to mind their differences.
Under the eaves of the clock tower, away from the dazzled crowd, a shadow moved.
A figure, cloaked and hooded, lingered in the periphery. While others watched the bard, they watched the crowd, their focus sharp and unrelenting. Beneath the cowl, amber eyes glinted with the sharpness of a dagger's edge.
The bard's illusions reflected dimly in those eyes, yet they seemed unimpressed. The figure muttered under their breath, the language ancient and harsh, as if cutting through the magic with mere syllables. A faint shimmer of green flashed at their fingertips before it disappeared.
Down near the stalls, the dwarf blacksmith tugged at his beard and spat on the ground. "It's pretty, aye. But there's always somethin' hiding beneath a bard's smile. Mark my words."
But the gnome tinker at his side only chuckled, adjusting her glasses to get a better view. "Beneath or beyond, it's still worth watching. You're too suspicious, stone-head."
The final chord hung in the air like a thread of silk. Slowly, the illusions began to dissolve, the golden tree fading first, its leaves unraveling into shimmers of light. The crowd exhaled collectively, like waking from a shared dream.
The bard rose, bowing low and sweeping his green cloak with exaggerated drama. "Thank you, fine people of Silverhill," he called, his voice as smooth as a polished gem. "I trust I earned a coin for my trouble? Or at the very least, the applause of such a noble crowd?"
There was laughter, followed by scattered applause. A few stepped forward hesitantly to drop coins into the worn leather pouch he offered, while others shuffled back to their stalls, sheepishly pretending they hadn't stopped to watch at all.
"A fine show," the dragonborn merchant muttered, grudgingly dropping a coin.
"Worth the coin!" chimed the tiefling girl with stars in her eyes, placing two coins into the pouch.
As the bard gathered his earnings, a chill swept through the square—so faint it went unnoticed, except for the swift and silent departure of the cloaked figure. By the time the bard looked around again, the sunlit square seemed unchanged.
He slung his harp back over his shoulder and stretched lazily. "Another song tomorrow, friends!" he called, making his way toward a nearby tavern, leaving the crowd to buzz with lingering excitement—or quiet unease.
———…———
In the sleepy square where dust would lay,
A bard once sang one fateful day.
With cloak of green and harp of gold,
He wove the air with tales untold.
———…———