Chadwick Rye

The tavern’s warmth envelops me like a lover’s embrace as I settle onto my weathered stool, lute balanced against my knee, fingers finding familiar positions along its neck. The Prancing Stag is packed tonight, farmers with soil still beneath their fingernails, merchants counting coins beneath tables, soldiers seeking solace from memories in overflowing tankards. Perfect. A diverse audience means diverse stories to gather before I depart at dawn.

I am Finley Whispersong, collector of tales, weaver of ballads, and keeper of secrets from Ravenhollow to the Crystal Shores. Twenty years I’ve wandered the roads connecting the Seven Kingdoms, my instruments and insight my only constant companions. Kings have poured wine for me, peasants have shared their last crust of bread, and between those extremes lies the magnificent tapestry of gossip that keeps my pockets lined and my reputation glittering.

“Something lively tonight, Master Whispersong!” calls a broad-shouldered blacksmith from near the hearth, his face flushed with ale and anticipation.

I smile, fingers plucking a playful melody that ripples across the crowded room. “Perhaps the Ballad of Broken Oaths? Or the Dance of Wayward Wives?” My eyebrows rise suggestively, drawing appreciative laughter.

But these opening performances are merely pretense, the honey that draws flies. The true exchange happens later, when tongues are loosened by drink and darkness, when the barkeep’s attention wanders, when leaning close across rough-hewn tables creates the illusion of confidentiality.

What topics do I prefer, you ask? Allow me to share the categories of gossip that have proven most valuable in my travels.

First and foremost: noble indiscretions. The currency of courts and castles spends well in every corner of the realm. When Lord Harrington’s youngest daughter took a common stablehand as lover, I transformed their midnight trysts into “The Nightingale’s Secret Song,” careful to change enough details for plausible deniability while preserving the scandalous essence. The ballad earned me a season’s income from taverns hungry for aristocratic failings, and a private commission from Lady Eastmere, who recognized her rival’s disgrace beneath my poetic embellishments and paid handsomely to hear every uncensored detail.

The beauty of noble gossip lies in its transferability. A duchess’s affair whispered in a northern mining town becomes a countess’s scandal by the time I reach southern vineyards. Names change, titles shift, but the delicious impropriety remains intact, allowing regional audiences to feel connected to distant power without recognizing the recycled nature of my tales.

Second most lucrative: merchant rivalries. Commerce breeds competition, and competition breeds beautiful, profitable spite. In Silverport, I learned of Master Glassblower Thorne’s secret technique for creating emerald-hued vessels of unparalleled clarity. By the time I reached Westmark, three competing glassworks had commissioned private performances, each offering increasingly generous payment for what I might know of their rival’s methods.

Did I sell Thorne’s secret? Certainly not. A wise bard never squanders valuable information in a single transaction. Instead, I shared vague half-truths with each, hints about unusual firing temperatures, whispers of exotic minerals imported from distant shores, keeping them hungry for more while preserving my position as valued intermediary.

The third category transcends social hierarchy entirely: matters of the heart. Unrequited love, passionate reunions, jealousy’s bitter sting, these universal experiences connect peasant and prince alike. When I heard how the stoic Captain of the Royal Guard secretly leaves wildflowers at the memorial of his childhood sweetheart each solstice dawn, I crafted “The Warrior’s Silent Devotion.” The ballad reduces battle-hardened veterans to tears while inspiring young lovers toward grander romantic gestures.

Of course, not all heart-matters trend toward tenderness. The spectacular dissolution of the Blackthorn-Ravenwood betrothal, involving thrown goblets, accusations of sorcery, and a hastily revised will, sparked three distinct compositions that I perform strategically based on audience sympathy. Eastern towns, allied with House Blackthorn, hear of Ravenwood treachery. Western settlements receive the reverse. Border communities enjoy the balanced version where both families emerge as equally terrible and equally entertaining.

My fourth favorite topic requires delicate handling: religious controversies. When Brother Ambrose of the Crystal Order began preaching revolutionary interpretations of the Sacred Texts, his superiors moved swiftly to silence him. But whispers outlast edicts. In taverns beyond church influence, I quietly share fragments of his teachings disguised as ancient folklore. In temple-dominated communities, I instead relate the “cautionary tale” of an unnamed heretic, carefully gauging reactions to determine which locals might welcome more specific information later, in private.

This brings me to my most treasured category of all: secrets of the arcane. Nothing loosens purse strings like whispers of magical discoveries. The Archmage’s disastrous experiment with time manipulation, the rogue alchemist’s breakthrough in transformative elixirs, the witch-queen’s rumored communion with entities beyond the veil, these stories command rapt attention and generous compensation.

In Shadowfen, I once spent three nights relating increasingly detailed accounts of the Crimson Sorcerer’s forbidden research to a hooded stranger who paid in ancient coins. Only later did I realize I’d been expertly milked for information by the Sorcerer himself, gathering reports of how far his reputation had spread. We maintain cordial correspondence to this day, each recognizing the other as a fellow artist working in different mediums of manipulation.

The final night at The Prancing Stag follows my usual pattern. As midnight approaches and my official performance concludes, I circulate among tables, collecting fresh material even as I disseminate carefully curated morsels from my existing repertoire.

“Is it true,” whispers the tanner’s wife, leaning conspiratorially close, “that the Duke’s youngest son was seen at Mistress Vervain’s house of healing? They say he suffers from a condition that cannot be named in polite company.”

I match her posture, our heads nearly touching. “The Duke’s son did indeed visit a healer,” I confirm, voice barely audible above the tavern’s diminishing noise. “Though whether his affliction was physical or matters of the spirit, I cannot say with certainty.”

This deliberate ambiguity accomplishes multiple goals. It confirms enough to satisfy her curiosity while preserving flexibility for how I might employ the rumor elsewhere. More importantly, my restraint positions me as trustworthy, a man who knows more than he shares, rather than one who embellishes beyond his knowledge.

She rewards this perceived discretion with a genuine secret: the magistrate’s clerk has been altering land records for certain favored citizens. By morning, this information will join my mental inventory, cataloged for potential use in performances or private exchanges in towns where such administrative corruption might resonate particularly well.

As I retire to my rented room above the tavern, I organize the night’s harvest of whispers and revelations. Some will be transformed into ballads, others preserved as leverage, many will serve as currency in my endless trade of secrets for sustenance.

In the solitude of darkness, I sometimes reflect on the nature of my chosen profession. Am I merely an entertainer, as my guild classification suggests? A spy, as certain suspicious officials have accused? A historian of the unwritten, preserving truths too scandalous for official chronicles?

Perhaps I am all of these, and something more elemental besides. In a world fracturing into isolated kingdoms and suspicious territories, gossip remains the unsevered thread connecting disparate communities. When I carry tales between mountain village and coastal city, I weave connections that transcend physical boundaries.

The power in this should not be underestimated. Wars have begun from rumors I’ve carried, and peace has blossomed from understanding I’ve cultivated. Marriages have been arranged based on reputations I’ve helped shape, and fortunes have shifted hands according to commercial intelligence I’ve transported.

I am not merely a singer of songs or a teller of tales. I am the human crossroads where information transforms into influence, where whispered words become wielded power. My lute opens doors, but my ears are my true instrument, attuned to the subtle harmonies of human indiscretion, the rhythmic patterns of rising and falling fortunes.

Tomorrow I’ll depart for Oakenhold, three days’ journey westward, where the Baron’s daughter is rumored to have returned from finishing school with peculiar new abilities and stranger companions. I’ve already composed three potential verses about her transformation, each designed to elicit specific reactions that will help me determine which version of the truth will prove most valuable.

After all, gossip may be common currency, but a master bard knows that the exchange rate varies dramatically depending on who’s listening, and what secrets they’re desperate to protect.

If you were a traveling bard like Finley Whispersong, which type of tale would you chase most eagerly—noble scandals, merchant rivalries, forbidden magic, or matters of the heart?

Drop your answer in the comments—and don’t forget to subscribe to my blog if you enjoy stories woven with secrets and song!