The Bard

For all our fear, we cannot lie to the bard. Speaking plainly, we tell her that we have never heard a worse caterwauling in all our days. As she listens, the bard’s smile wavers — then widens doubly into a grin.

“The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness
And time to speak it in: you rub the sore,
When you should bring the plaster.”

Then, with a loud strum of her lute, the bard is gone.