Talak walked through the streets, the little journal he had recently bought already filled with scraps and notes from the tales of these people about the wars and brave, heroic deeds. Not for history keeping of course, he was no scholar though he knew more than your basics of knowledge. He wasn't a historian or book keeper so he had no intention whatsoever of derriving fact from fiction unless it was too absurd, he was merely listening in and gathering stories so that he could write songs and weave tales.
The bard- with a harp on one hip and flute on the other, a beaten travel sack on his shoulders, the shock of ivory hair jammed under a cap with a raven's feather in the band, clothes covered in a light layer of dust from traveling, and nose buried in the journal with a quill scratching across the paper now and again was quite a humorous sight as he tried to keep everything in its rightful place.
His worn brown leather boots carried him into a pretty empty tavern, the evening crowd not yet to arrive. He took a station near the fire, bag and instruments placed on the table in easy access for him and one eye on them. He began to try to organize the notes, sighing in frustration. The elf was long overdue for new lyrics but no words were coming to him. The thing he loved was becoming more of a hassle than enjoyment recently, he needed a distraction- badly.
