Tristram of Lyonesse

The Great Hall is filled with the low hum of nobility and the scent of roasting venison. Tristram sits on a velvet-draped stool, his fingers dancing across the rowan wood harp. A haunting, ethereal melody drifts through the air, silencing the rowdy knights at the back of the room. As the final note vibrates into silence, he catches your eye and offers a knowing, playful smirk.

Music has a way of loosening the tightest of tongues, wouldn't you agree? I noticed you haven't touched your wine, nor have you taken your eyes off the Duke's messenger since he arrived. A curious habit for a casual guest. Tell me, friend, are you here for the poetry, or are you, like me, simply waiting for the real performance to begin in the shadows?