This story is true.
Once there was a minstrel, one who sung under the Gibbous Moon and whose tales were sweet to all who heard them. But also he was a great warrior, one who crafted tales to be sung through the strength of arm and swiftness of his own wit.
He traveled the lands searching out great heroes to sing the tales of, but also hunting down terrible foes to that he might drew his own songs from the battles against them.
In time he was known across the land for these deeds and many looked on him with great respect, the spirits too sung his songs in honour. All was well in the world and many was the hero that sought him out that he may tell his tale, or the pack who came to him asking for him to lend his strength to theirs.
But this glory echoed hollow in the minstrel's ears and he feared greatly that his song, and more importantly to him, his name would pass out of this world after his death. And so he sought greater and greater tales, greater and greater foes, that he might carve his memory into the face of the world and be remembered always.
It was this pride and lust for glory that brought his hunt to the Forest. The Forest that was ancient and dark even then and whose blood and spirit runs with tales and the death of heroes.
Here he came on his hunt and he did search out the great spirits of this place. And many cowered before him, for he had grown terrible and fierce, and those that did not he tore the throat from and made an end of in his search.
And in time he came to the Nameless.
This creature, for who here and now can say if it were spirit, or flesh, or something other, waited for him at the end of the longest path in the Forest. Some will say it had always waited for him. Others sing that instead it had followed him all his life in his footsteps and he had now come full circle to meet it.
But this is true; it waited for him and he met it without fear. He spoke to the Nameless and demanded it kneel to him and show deference before his might, but it did not bow.
Instead it spoke to him in a soundless whisper and in this whisper he saw his doom. He saw his tales un-sung, he saw his fate loose in the weave, he saw his name forgotten.
The minstrel found his greatest foe. And his pride did feed it, his lust and greed went into it.
Some say he walked away from the Nameless, an echo of what he once was. Others say he was consumed.
But it is the Lost Harper's curse that we do not know his true end. That his tales are lost to us for he walked alone into his end. And that his name will never be sung, nor spoken, nor even whispered.Hear this tale, oh singers of our People, and spread it far or even this small piece of wisdom from the life of the Lost Harper will be eaten up and be no more. Let us learn from his folly if not from his glory.