Sparrow Scribe Says: I Stalked the Father of Bard

I love to scribble about everything I witness around me. With my round investigating eyes, they might not be as piercing as the Hawk's, but they easily absorbed in an investigation of the birds and bards.

It's rather subjective, I would say.

As I was perching, scanning for my missing lyrics, I saw the Father of Bards. He's an interesting soul. His chiming laugh paints conversations bright. Even the father could not avoid my investigation, I guess.

What he loves doing is writing about birds and bards. As he finishes, he rolls those writings up into little scrolls and puts them in a jar of hope and happiness. He has very keen eyes in observing everyone.

But those keen eyes lost their power toward himself. The magic vanished to nothing in front of the mirror. He wrote a little something about himself, a writing that he never tells the world about. He should be digging deeper but he keeps worrying about all those glasses and binoculars pointing at him. Thinking that maybe they would see his fear; that they would examine his story as amiss.

It is.

According to my observations, he certainly is more than what he thinks he is, what he writes he is. What more evidence would you need? His hands and his minds build an orchestra that would buzz and fuzz with harmony to miles away until all the crickets and trees sing along to the tune. No matter happy or gloomy the tune is.

I know... I know... He would brush this evidence away. However, he wouldn’t have the power to change the verifiable truth we are aware of, that he was the one who gathers the songs.