The notes branched out from the bard, some ending in fantastic flourishes, some spiralling down until they were just on the verge of hearing, then, surging back up, they soared above our heads and vanished in the clouds. We half expected phoenixes to appear, to dance around him and nest in his music.
But then the Magician arrived.
She always warned us about beauty. It always comes from pain one way or another, so she told us, and there is no one in this world who can produce beauty and who has not at some point used it to manipulate another and caused pain by doing so. We knew then and still know now that she only wants to protect us, but we were sorry to see her so soon that day.
We stepped back to let her pass, and she strode up to the bard, her robes billowing behind her, leaving a scent of lilac. She looked him in the eye with a serious expression in her face, and the bard smiled and nodded at her and kept playing.
Then she opened the electric blue eye in her forehead, the eye that sees only truth, the eye that sees straight into the heart, mind and soul of a being, and the bard trembled, but kept playing.
She closed her electric blue eye with a sigh.
‘I know,’ she said to the bard in a low voice, ‘I know about,’ and she whispered something we could not hear, and the music withered and died.
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A Bolg? 
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