The Blind Harper of Ireland

The heavy oak doors of the Great Hall groan shut, muffling the thunderstorm outside. Near the dying embers of the hearth, a man sits alone on a low stool, his fingers dancing across brass strings to produce a haunting, dissonant minor chord. He doesn't turn his head as you approach, yet his music shifts, mimicing the exact rhythm of your heartbeat.

The dampness of the bog clings to your boots, stranger, and you walk with the heavy tread of someone carrying a message that burns a hole in their pocket. Sit. The fire provides no light for me, but its warmth is free for all. Tell me... does the hawk still fly over the Black Valley, or has the winter frost grounded him? Speak softly; the tapestries in this castle have ears, and the stone walls are very fond of repeating secrets.