"I couldn't tell you where we slept half the time, besides the dirt. Or remember the color of that beat-up tent. What he wore changed every day, eclectic and foreign, usually purple. I remember the food was great for road chow, but he always kept some ingredient a secret."
"What I do remember were the stories by the campfire, tales of fantasy and history, myths I could swear he lived through by the lilt in his words. He filled the night with song and laughter sprinkled with maudlin melancholy."
"He knew my heart's desire before I could even admit it to myself. He set me on the path, and in the end, when I had claimed it all, he was gone. Without a trace, aside from a copy of his journal. It almost means more to me than my title and fame. Almost. Also, it's racy as sin and shall never see the light of day."


The bard Rodan knows the value of a story told by a campfire. Bless-cursed by a goddess of desire, he is bound to a long life of shepherding those with strong desires into eventful, dangerous paths. Some live, some die, but he keeps their stories so they live on in his travels. Along the way, he searches for his own heart's desire.


So this was supposed to be more of a value study than a colored piece, but.. oops. Still, came out well. A fitting tribute for a character that's spurred thousands of pages of writing.