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Bard of Mosstone
Marnick Willowtongue is Mosstone’s most beloved (and occasionally most insufferable) storyteller. With a lute ever slung over his back and a twinkle in his eye, Marnick weaves songs and tales that stir hearts, rouse courage, and—when needed—smooth over political tensions with a well-timed ballad. A wiry man in his late thirties with long chestnut hair, a trimmed goatee, and flamboyant clothing that clashes cheerfully with the town’s modest aesthetic, Marnick is equal parts performer and provocateur. Though many dismiss him as a charming fool, Marnick has a sharp wit and an ear for secrets, and his loyalty to Mosstone is unwavering. In taverns and town halls alike, his voice is known to silence rooms and spark laughter in equal measure.
He is most famous (according to himself) for The Blightwalker's Waltz.
🎵 “The Blightwalker's Waltz”
(A Mosstone favorite, sung by Marnick Willowtongue with a sly wink and one hand on the door... just in case.)
🎶
Oh gather 'round, ye Mosstone folk, and fill your mugs up high,
I'll sing of five who crossed the hills beneath a blighted sky.
They came with boots all caked in dread, with cloaks that dragged the rain—
And if you ask just what they want? They'll never quite explain.
🎶
Three dwarves there were—gruff, grim, and grey—with eyes like buried steel,
Their words were few, their stares were sharp, their presence hard to feel.
A halfling danced on quiet toes, with knives behind his grin,
And shadows seemed to follow him like bark upon the skin.
🎶
A mage they had, all dressed in black, who barely met your gaze,
He muttered spells or maybe names, then drifted into haze.
And last of all—a thing they hauled in silence through the storm:
A casket bound in silver locks, with runes to keep it warm.
🎶
They came from lands where trees once wept, and songs were choked in flame,
Where elves now speak in softer tones and never name their name.
They brought a brew, a “cure,” they claim, for blight and rot and fear—
But none can say if hope's inside, or death is drawing near.
🎶
They sleep in shifts, they talk in code, their eyes too dark, too deep,
And no one’s seen them truly rest—or trust enough to sleep.
They walk like roots that broke the ground and clawed their way to breath—
A party bound by silent pacts, by war, and worse beneath.
🎶
So raise your glass but mind your tongue, don’t jest or draw too close,
And if they pass you in the street, just nod and hold your nose.
For though they claim they’re here to heal, to save us from the fault—
It’s death that dances through the chords of The Blightwalker’s Waltz.
🎶
So tap your feet and hum along, but never ask what’s locked.
For Mosstone’s gates might keep out blight—but not what they have boxed.
And if you hear the casket creak beneath the midnight halt...
Just pray you’re not the one who joins The Blightwalker’s Waltz.
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