Godric drifted in and out of himself, lost in the shadows. Most days, he barely remembered his own name. Trying to puzzle it out was too difficult, and he would succumb to the waiting mists again; sinking down, unresisting, into their depths.
Occasionally, the mists would part, giving him freedom. Often music was the hook that pulled him out, especially when he was performing. He welcomed those moments when he awoke with his fingers on the strings, the melody a sweet siren that called him back to life.
Which is what happened one night. Notes danced through the mist, teasing him, growing louder, and then he suddenly felt the lyre under his fingers. Awareness crashed over him in the blink of an eye, bringing with it a cacophony of sensations: a riotous crowd; the smell of ale, smoke, and
