Fian and the White Queen of the North stood face-to-face as his glassy eyes slowly darkened. Her claws were buried deep in his throat, and warm, crimson blood spilled over the vivid green moss.
Traveler, we tuned the lute and whistle for you:
The Red Tribute by Fian the Bard
She whispered softly against his ear:
“I claim the tribute and take your soul-debt upon myself. By the pale moon, your journey ends, and your burden is mine.”
His body went limp within her iron grip. The last thing he felt was the brush of her breath against his muzzle. Then, the world collapsed into silence.
A single heartbeat later, something shifted.
Unaware of the silent body left behind on the moss, Fian rose to his feet. He casually brushed the forest dust and dried pine needles from his fur, picked up his beloved lute from the earth, and adjusted the strap over his shoulder. The wound was gone; the pain had vanished like morning fog.
A few paces away, the great white wolf paused, watching him with eyes like glowing, frozen glass. In her mind, the ancient pact was fulfilled, the debt collected, and his spirit set free to rest within the roots of the Mistwood Forest.
She took in his scent one last time before turning away, vanishing into the heavy mist like flowing water.
Fian merely smiled, blinded by the uncanny lightness in his chest. He looked up at the silver moon, convinced she had granted him mercy—convinced he had survived. With quiet, weightless steps, he slipped between the ancient trees, humming a forgotten tune as he disappeared deeper into the forest.
The White Queen believed she had done everything right. The ritual was complete. The soul was meant to sleep.
Years later, the forest calls her again and she followed the call. She rose her nose in the wind and the scent was the tribute of the night by her decree.
She lowered her prey and found the soul of a bard, so deeply anchored in his live by a lute. When he saw her, he played a last tune, and – by the moon – the magic awoke.
She entered a fire circle filled with grace and peace, and it seems to her the nature itself was present to watch at her. And she found an inner peace she had never found before. It was whether the time nor the place to fulfill this call. She took the scent and decided to hunt this bard again. And simply left him alone with his lute.
She remembered him, but the forest did not call her again.
Everything seems all right with the world until fateful evening weeks later, when she sat in the shadowy corner of a crowded roadside tavern, the scent of ale and wet timber heavy in the air. The heavy oak door swung open, accompanied by a gust of autumn wind.
A bard walked in.
He shook the rain from his cloak, ran his claws across the strings of his lute, and stepped into the warm glow of the hearth fire to sing.
It was him.
Not a ghost seeking vengeance, not a phantom of malice—merely a wandering soul that had never understood it was dead. A bard so tethered to his songs and his strings that he had completely failed to find his eternal peace beneath the trees.
And now I ask you, travelers…
What if…
… Fian had never lied?
… he had been singing the truth all along?
… it was merely his living understanding that was broken?
… and her arrival at the tavern was never a coincidence but her unfinished hunt?
And maybe…
… Why should he leave?
Fian loved songs, stories, warm taverns, laughter, companionship and the scent of mead. The White Queen offered him endless tales, tireless concern, impossible mysteries and enough drama to fill a hundred ballads.
Maybe he simply did what a Fian does:
- In the beginning, he followed her not because he was bound.
- But because he simply liked her.
Maybe Fian is nothing more than a wandering shadow of the past. And maybe the greatest irony of all is that her efforts to bring his soul to peace and rest gave him everything he ever wanted. Sometimes, the truth does not hide between the lines; it stands right out in the open, singing to a room full of strangers.
And yes, maybe both folk songs you will find along this path describe the same story, yet mix different meanings. Or perhaps they merely sing about different chapters of the same tale.
Thy start is right here:
Part 1 – The Echo of the Night
Part 2 – The Echo of the Night
About Different Points of View
From the Chronicles of Tavern “The Old Paw”
… From there, it is up to you to find a path.
Traveler, not all stories told can be found right here, so follow the call, explore, and find your path.
