[h1]Bard[/h1]


	Somehow, the three soldiers had managed to tiredly stagger into the only tavern in this poor French town that could afford a musician- or at least one that was any good. The bard stepped up to the stage. “For all the fighters out there,“ he said, and the tavern fell deathly silent. A stringed instrument began to wail from the stage. His voice was rich and full of life as he began his song. The three men recognized it instantaneously, as everyone had been singing it when they realized that the men were soldiers. 

“Wee be soldiers three, 
pardona moi je vous en pri, 
lately come forth from the low country 
with never a penny of money.

Here good fellow I drink to thee,
pardona moi je vous en pri:   
to all good fellows where ever they be,
with never a penny of money.

Here good fellow I'll sing you a song,
sing for the brave and sing for the strong
to all those living and those who have gone
with never a penny of money.

And he that will not pledge me this,
pardona moi je vous en pri:   
pays for the shot what ever it is,
with never a penny of money.”

	The tavern exploded in applause for the song. The bard and his company bowed, and then the bard nodded to the three males sitting in the darkest corner. He lifted a glass and took a swig before beginning again. As if on cue, the three left the room, completely synchronized. On their way out, they nodded to the man. The door opened and closed harshly. “Until we meet again,” the tallest said. “Aye,” chorused the other two. They rode through the night as fast as they could. By morning, they were all dead.
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Lyrics are improvised from a 16th century song. The improvisations were done by Owain Phyfe. I own nothing except the small amount of storying.

~Arya