#fairy bard

[ink-pen-rat]

fairy bard duet

[eldrichseabunny]

art fairy

[proxycrit]

DAY 31- DUAL PEAKS STABLE

How did the fairy fountains move. Really. How. Zelda would poke and prod if she wasn’t so concerned with accidentally entering a pact with more ancient spirits. Link might have been able to get away with it, but he’s quite content splashing around in the fountain’s healing waters.

(This is a totk au called Familiar Familiar! It’s a what if zelda doesn’t go back in time and is actually just me reskinning botw with totk elements.)

((Want to support me? Check out my ✨ patreon ✨ for sketches and cut content! Please remember to use web or android— memberships via apple app eat an extra thirty percent of whatever purchase because we live in a dystopia ;0 ))

[abartworks]

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A sweet little fairy triptych. Bard, Guard, and Ranger. This daydreaming dancer is the Bard of the three. Guard and Ranger soon to come 🧚🏼‍♀️✨

✨Commissions are OPEN✨in case you’re interested in having your original character drawn to life.

[divorcedwife]

her music can kill you if you stand too close

[libanezink]

you’ll hear her drumming! 🥁

[whencartoonsruletheworld]

PERIWINKLE IS CANON TO THE LYDIA THE BARD-VERSE

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 103

Geralt keeps waking up miraculously healed from contracts. Witcher healing is good, yes, but not that good. And it doesn't work if he goes into towns. He's undoubtedly weary of the phenomenon, but he can't exactly do anything about it at the moment. One night, after a hunt was significantly easier than expected, he's hopped up on too many potions, and the world has blurred and everything is TOO MUCH. Except for the soft yellow light in the distance, moving closer to him. As it gets closer, so too do the soft twinkling sounds. The ball of light hums and sings to him, even as he can barely focus on it's presence. He feels warmth in his wretched shaking hands and spares a second to glance at them, watching in shaken awe as a wound heals before his eyes. Ever since the night where he saw the glowing ball, he begins looking for signs of someone or something following him. He's healed and sung to, but what could the creature actually want from him? Why bother with it all? So one night, when he's bandaged up a scratch wound on thigh, he pretends to sleep. He waits, waits, waits, until finally he hears the twinkling chimes. He springs up and forward, snatching it out of the air, and looking at what he's caught, ready to demand answers, only to see a very startled little winged man staring at him. A fairy? "Why do you heal me?" "Because I like you, obviously!" "You don't know me." "Oh, but I do! I've been watching you for a few months now!" "....Hmm." "You're my muse! I've written songs about your adventures, would you like to hear?!"

[bodhrancomedy]

The Bard Who Returned to Fairyland in Search of a Name by Bodhrán M.

It was the ferryman who met the bard first, a beardless lad in a ragged cloak, broadbrimmed hat, and carrying nothing save an iron knife and one small pack across his shoulders. He watched with mild interest as the bard picked his way down the grassy knoll and onto the black-wood of the small dock, coming to a halt directly before the little boat.

Neither of them moved for a long while. Somewhere in the distance, an eagle screamed. 

Finally, the bard spoke.

“I wish to cross the river,” he said.

The ferryman leant on his oar and regarded him with rheumy eyes, pushing a lank hunk of wire-grey hair from his face. “Is that so?” he replied. “Do you have payment, my boy?”

“Yes, I do.” The bard withdrew a coin purse from beneath the green cloak.

“Coin won’t do, boy. Not what I dabble in.”

“I know,” the bard said quietly. He had an odd voice, the ferryman noted, with no hint of fear or trepidation or awe. “I bring seashells from the coasts of Ireland,” he continued, “filled with the songs of the selkies. I bring spices from the borders of India and China with many healing powers beyond that which we can understand, and a trollish crystal gifted by the giantess-queen of Iceland. I deal as little in money as you do.”

The ferryman was impressed, even if he didn’t show it. He dug a filthy black pipe from a salt-encrusted pocket and stuck it between his teeth. He waited, but the bard made no move to light it for him. Finally, he took a tinderbox from another pouch (this one being an oilskin gifted many years ago by a Swedish princess) and struck a spark.

“So,” the ferryman said, his words curled about the billowing black smoke, “you know what is across this river?”

“I know.”

“And yet you wish to cross it.”

The bard shrugged, almost as if to say that the statement was obvious enough that it did not need to be said. “Have I brought enough to pay for passage?” he asked.

“Of course,” the ferryman said as he stepped aside to allow the man to board.

But the bard did not. Instead, he gripped the brim of his hat and pulled it further down over his eyes. His voice was as steady as before, but lower and intertwined with steel. “Both ways?”

The ferryman’s eyes narrowed.

The bard stood there, waiting for an answer, one small hand on his knife.

Hemming and hawing, the ferryman felt a sting of disappointment and suspicion in his gut. He had ferried more hopefuls across this river than he had ferried back and there was almost nothing which he liked more than the faces of those who had returned to his boat having not taken the first precaution. They had thought ahead enough – many of these wanderers and seekers of mysteries and gold – to have gotten his word not to throw them into the cold water or have their treasures taken before they reached human land again, but they had not thought about payment for the return journey.

But seashells and spices were twice the payment for a crossing – and he had never owned a troll-crystal before. He’d heard that they could outshine the sunrises even in the frozen northern plains, that they were rainbow stars from deep within the ground. It would be something to treasure in the dark.

It was through gritted teeth, therefore, which he gave his answer. “Yes,” the ferryman said.

The hat bobbed as the bard nodded. “And I will reach each shore in the same condition as I board your boat, sir? Each way.”

“Yes,” the ferryman agreed sullenly. Then he thought and tried to not brighten in anticipation.

The bard either did not notice or did not care, but he stepped aboard with the ease of one used to the pitch and swell of river boats. He sat in the prow, half-turned so he could look across the water and still see the ferryman.

Clever, that.

Carefully, the ferryman untied the mooring rope and then pushed off the knoll with his oar. He began to pull through the water with broad, powerful strokes and so it was a matter of minutes before they reached halfway.

It was then that the ferryman felt safe in speaking again. Too soon and sometimes the young fools would see the error of their ways and pitch themselves into the water. Once you reached halfway, you were falling into enchantments rather simple cold. It did make him laugh, sometimes, to see them flail and splash their way back to safety. He liked to wave at the ones who lived, standing sopping wet and humiliated on the dock, and sing mocking laments at those who did not.

But he did not think that this young man would do so. Still, he waited.

“You off to fairyland, boy?” he asked cheerfully, “Here to see for yourselves the wonders your bardic forefathers taught you? To see if they’re as real as they say?”

The bard tilted his head and the ferryman saw a flash of white teeth from beneath the hat brim, bared in a savage grin.

“No, sir,” the bard said, “I am not merely going to fairyland, sir ferryman. I am going back.”

“Well, that’s a thing!” the ferryman exclaimed. He rubbed his chin with his free hand and added, “Not many people wish to test their luck twice.”

The bard shrugged again.

“And why have you returned?”

The hat tilted back and suddenly the ferryman saw the bard’s face clearly for the first time. It was even younger-looking than he’d expected, suntanned and heavily freckled, but harsh and set in furious determination. “That is my business and my business alone, sir ferryman,” the bard replied in cold tones. “For I know what you are as we have met before, and you told me in the mistaken belief that we would never cross paths again. And I know that changelings would do what they can to gain favour in the eyes of fairyland’s mistress. I would not give up my slightest advantage to satisfy your curiosity.”

Knocked back a little by the intensity of this speech and suddenly slightly afraid of why he would not remember this young man, the ferryman opened and shut his mouth a few times and said nothing in reply. He rowed on in silence, feeling sweat prickling on his brow. Either this passenger was a grand sorcerer of some great power, or he was an overconfident boy with a head full of stories. But he could not place a finger on either option without some unease. Neither felt right.

“It was curiosity, nothing more,” the ferryman mumbled. “I meant no harm in asking.”

“But you did mean harm in knowing,” the bard replied lightly. “And you could make harm in telling. I am no child, sir ferryman, and I understand how this all works.”

[rbillustration]

In our Witchlight campaign, Sydni got the chance to perform in front of everyone at the carnival 🎵 Thank you to my supporters who voted for this for January's illustration!

[biveta]

Week 2: Fairy Bard :] 🍄

[eldrichseabunny]

fairy bard, performer

[drewpicturesani]

The Traveller

So Chants of Sennaar is a good game-

[love-conditioner-he-he]

Why are you so quiet?

me:

ok though seriously this song is called “Tinkerbells Villian Song” or “Fall Wendy Bird Fall” by Lydia the Bard , plz go listen to it it’s amazing.

[dishbug]

older memes i made

[lookslikethatsallthetimewehave]

Kidnapping the king squad 💜💚