Gypsy Bard Novels & Stories

“Or maybe I’ll get my money’s worth out of her when the Guard comes to fetch your whore.” The man in the green hat snarls, as a sound somewhere between a growl and a roar falls from his lips. The weaker man staggers, his face red with embarrassment. "If you want to keep your manhood and dignity intact," the bard threatens. "I'd leave this tavern now and never come back.” He takes a large step forward and the smell of urine rises to my nostrils as the drunk lord wets himself like a scared child. “If you ever so much as think of my lady wife again,” The bard grabs the drunk by the collar, dragging him out. “I will gut you like a fish and leave you for the harbor birds to pick apart."

"This is much more unique for a rogue city, don't you think? I promised you a ceremony your wolf would never forget." Well, that part is true. The volume of this fake bard's howling is inversely correlated to his actual talent. He is not only completely off-key, but the sacred melody is totally unrecognizable. His vocal range is hilariously limited—he can handle maybe four basic notes at best. Whenever his throat fails to hit a high or low note, he just swaps it for a screeching tone he can manage, then compensates by howling twice as loud. Where he is supposed to croon a tender mating vow, he bellows like a drowning omega screaming for a rescue boat. Rowan is staring at the stage with a mix

As I walk closer to the gypsy, she holds up her hand. "Stay away, Dragula! I am not in the mood for you tonight. I am here to have a few drinks and then go home. The cards told me you would come," The gypsy woman sees I hate it when they call me Dragula after the movie people made. The gypsies know that we do not like it. They taunt us that way. "The name is Vladimir, not Dragula. I bet you knew that. I want to talk to you. Please do one spell, and I will give you some gold," I say.

“After all, It's not every day that we have a Master Bard in our presence!” “All right, all right,” I hold my arms above my head. Carnelia is peering out from around her fingers, afraid to show her face. Smiling down at her before turning back to the audience I announce, “It just so happens that I do have a new song ready for you all, but I will need a lute and someone else who can play as well.” Gusto leans behind the bar and holds up a jeweled case that looks insignificant in his large, half-ogre hands. “You know I always keep your spare lute here, for emergencies.”

he laughed lightly. Ross stood and offered him the guitar. "Would you like to play?" Anna watched curiously as Angus accepted the instrument. Placing it over his knee, he strummed the strings, testing the tune. Then he began to play an uptempo song in a minor key. To Anna, it sounded vaguely Celtic. His voice was surprisingly smooth. "There were three old gypsies came to our hall door They came brave and boldly-o The one sang high and the other sang low

And look, if you’re not supposed to glance when a six-foot warrior leaps into the air with a war cry and zero underwear, then I don’t want to live in this realm. Somewhere to the side, Mr. Yellow had claimed a plaid cushion, an entire tart the size of a shield, and at least three drunk warriors who were rubbing his belly like he was the blessed creature of legend. His ears flicked as if he tolerated their worship, but his smug face said: Yes. Bow before me, peasants. A bard stood near the center, lit by firelight and lunar glow, her voice echoing through the glen. She sang a song—ancient and reverent, wild and raw—called “The Queen Who Walked Through Flame.”

Sought his daughter at great speed And the whistlin' gypsy rover. He came at last to a mansion fine Down by the river Claydee. And there was music and there was wine For the gypsy and his lady. "Have you forsaken your house and home? Have you forsaken your baby? Have you forsaken your husband dear For a whistling gypsy rover?" "He is no gypsy, my Father," she cried "but Lord of these lands all over. And I shall stay 'til my dying day