The next days in Suntails Hollow turned into a flurry of imagination and melodies as Dorian began mimicking the bard wherever he went. The pendant on its leather cord rested securely around his neck, its weight a reminder of his newfound purpose. Every task became an excuse to hum a tune or spin a tale, much to the villagers' amusement.
While delivering eggs to Mistress Hearthcrown at the bakery, he leaned against the counter and began his performance. "Oh baker's hands, so deft, so true!
They mix and mold, they knead and brew!
The dragon's oven, fierce with heat,
Would envy bread this fine to eat!"
Mistress Hearthcrown nearly dropped her flour scoop. "Dorian! You'd better hope your barding skills keep improving, or you'll be doing this in a tavern full of drunks someday," she teased, though her chuckles betrayed her fondness for his antics.
Later, at the open-air market in Silverhill, Dorian turned a slow sales day into a theatrical spectacle. Perched atop the wagon with his friends flanking him dramatically, he cupped his hands around his mouth. "Apples sweeter than honeyed dew!
Corn as bright as morning new!
Come all ye hungry, far and near,
The finest crops you'll find right here!"
Ryssa leaned into Bogo and whispered, "If he starts making us wear costumes, I'm out."
But the customers trickling in laughed and cheered, buying most of their leftover goods just to keep the show going. Dorian beamed with pride as coins clinked in the pouch, his voice ringing through the market one more time.
"Come one, come all, and seize this chance!
Before these treasures vanish fast!"
Dorian's growing antics didn't go unnoticed. Suntails Hollow was a tight-knit village, where news traveled faster than the chickens that often escaped the coops. One day, Old Master Gresham muttered to Jenni Fenbark as they watched Dorian chase Bogo with a makeshift sword fashioned from a wooden broom.
"You seein' this?" Gresham asked, scratching his head.
"Oh, I see it." Jenni laughed, her puffhound barking excitedly as the scene unfolded. "Honestly, it's not even a bad show!"
Before long, word of Dorian's "performances" spread throughout the village. Tired farmers would take a break from hoeing rows or hauling produce, laughing as they watched Dorian and his friends stage impromptu skits.
One sunny afternoon, Yara Tulls leaned against the fence while her lumberbeast grazed nearby. "This isn't so bad," she remarked as Dorian clashed an old pot-lid "shield" against Bogo's broomstick sword, narrating the fierce duel.
"Oh noble warrior, stand and fight!
Defend the Hollow with all your might!"
"Enough of that," Ryssa interrupted with mock impatience, dashing between them. She spread her arms dramatically. "The real battle is with the dragon!" She pointed to Lucas, who threw his hands in the air and let out an exaggerated roar.
Children cheered, farmers chuckled, and for a few precious moments, the whole of Suntails Hollow seemed brighter with shared joy.
Every morning since the bard had handed him the pendant, Dorian woke early and made his way to the old oak tree behind the barn. There, he sat cross-legged, holding the pendant gently in his hands as if it might shatter. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, the cool dawn air refreshing his mind.
The bard's words replayed in his head: "Meditate every morning, and one day the hollow circle may fill with a red gemstone."
The circle remained empty, and Dorian felt no grand epiphany, no magical spark coursing through him. But the act itself—of sitting still, imagining himself as part of something greater—became a comfort.
During one of these sessions, Bogo passed by on his way to the market. "What're you doing?"
"Meditating," Dorian replied without opening his eyes.
"For what?"
"For the world to show me its story," Dorian answered solemnly.
Bogo scratched his head. "...You've lost it."
But Dorian only smiled, feeling his mind sharpen with each passing morning.
One crisp evening, as the last embers of sunset painted the farm in warm orange light, Dorian approached his parents by the hearth with trembling excitement.
"Mama, Papa," he began, clutching his pendant tightly, "I've been working on something… and I want to share it with you."
Gorlan paused his sharpening, his brow rising with interest. Elira set aside her sewing with a small smile. "Go on, Dorian. We're listening."
Dorian stood before them, clearing his throat nervously. Then, in a voice tinged with both trepidation and determination, he began his tale, delivered in the rhythm of an ode:
"There once was a mouse, so small, so spry,
Who faced a beast with fire in its eye.
The dragon roared, its maw agape,
Yet the clever mouse found his escape.
A bridge of stone, cracked under flame,
The mouse knew well the beast's great claim.
He squeaked aloud with defiant wit,
'Your treasure lies just beyond this pit!'
The dragon leaped, its pride too large,
To see the danger of its charge.
The stones gave way, the bridge collapsed,
And into the depths the dragon was trapped.
The mouse then stood, though weary and worn,
And claimed his prize: a single kernel of corn.
For wisdom and wit oft win the day,
When swords and strength are swept away."
By the time Dorian finished, his parents were both laughing and clapping.
"That was brilliant, lad!" Gorlan exclaimed. "A mouse besting a dragon… now there's a story worth hearing."
Elira reached for her son, pulling him into a warm hug. "Keep writing, Dorian. You have a gift."
Dorian's face turned bright red, but his heart soared. The firelight reflected in his pendant as he settled back into his chair, dreaming of what stories might come next.
As the days stretched into weeks, Dorian's dreamy haze deepened. Every bit of work, every laugh with friends, every quiet moment seemed imbued with potential stories waiting to be told.
But along with his excitement came doubt. Could someone from Suntails Hollow—a farm boy, not noble or wealthy—ever learn magic? Could he truly become a bard like the green-cloaked figure who changed his life?
Even as the questions gnawed at him, the fire that had been lit in his heart refused to dim. Whether the world awaited him or not, Dorian was determined to be ready for it.
———…———
The days then passed in a dreamy haze,
The boy would mimic, he'd sing, he'd praise.
In evenings soft, by the fire's glow,
His family heard the songs he'd sow.
———…———