Welcome back to the Dystopian Inn, weary traveler. Tonight’s tale is about Lark – a Tiefling bard who walks the razor’s edge between spotlight and shadow. A wanderer with a voice like velvet and a past full of broken chords, he survives by wit, charm, and the hush before applause. In every tavern he enters, danger follows… yet so does the music.

Lights rise on a lonely, dimly lit tavern deep in a crooked port-town harbour. The smoky air is thick with the scent of salt and spilled ale. Flickering torchlight dances across tired faces and weather-worn beams. And then the door creaks – a figure enters. He moves with measured confidence, a slight tilt in his head, lips curved in a wry half-smile. A Tiefling, eyes glinting with secrets, a lute strapped behind his back, a crossbow slung casually at his side. This is Lark.

Lark is not a hero. He is a performer. A survivor. At 29 years, chaotic in alignment, he carries the scars of a past he refuses to show. He left his old band of traveling minstrels under cover of darkness – no fanfare, no announcement, no trace. Rumors whisper: jealousy among fellow bards. A betrayal. Or perhaps horrors better left unspoken. Whatever the truth, he vanished. His laughter, once bright and loud, was muted; his songs became whispers in the night. But the hunger for applause, for a spotlight, never died.

He wandered alone, footsteps echoing in empty inns and silent streets. Then one night, chance or fate brought him to a ragged group calling themselves the Fallbacks. Rough around the edges, perhaps – but strong. Fierce. Loyal. For a man such as Lark, hunted by phantom enemies he will not name, the Fallbacks offered protection. A shield against the shadows that trailed him. He expected simple security. Instead, he found belonging – a fractured family bound by necessity rather than blood. And, as uncertain and fragile as it is, he clings to it.

Because even in the deepest darkness, light draws eyes. Lark rediscovered the power of his voice. Not just music now, but survival. He learned that words can wound sharper than steel. That a well-placed insult fractures courage. That a melody can stir hope – or despair. He became a bard once more, but not as he had been. This time, with purpose.

The world can be cruel to Tieflings with tongues sharper than gunshots. Lark knows that better than most. His reputation grew slowly – whispers in taverns, hushed chatter among patrons, glances filled with equal parts awe and suspicion. He courted attention, but never safety. Standing in the light means the shadows gather. Every cheer is a reminder: someone watches. Someone waits for him to slip.

And slip he almost did, more than once. He favors words over weapons, but he did not forsake arms. At his side rests a small crossbow – “Last Resort”, he calls it. A name heavy with resignation and threat. When mockery fails, when the laughter dies down and foes draw close, Last Resort speaks in silence and death. But Lark rarely draws it. His art is subtler, more insidious. A flick of the tongue, a mocking refrain, a whispered promise – then retreat into darkness before eyes widen in fear or pain.

He has learned to keep moving. Never stay in one place long after the performance ends. The applause fades quickly; the danger remains. Sometimes he vanishes at dawn, footprints lost in alleyways. Sometimes he sneaks away during a city’s night watch, slipping into crowds. The Fallbacks help – flank him, shield him, watch his back. But only he knows the fear when silence follows laughter. Only he knows the echo of footsteps that are not his own.

In the heart of the Fallbacks he found more than protection. He found purpose. A reason to keep singing. Because the show must go on. And sometimes, the show is the only shield you have. He learned to use his art like armor, his songs like weapons. And the city’s sordid taverns became stages for survival. For survival with style.

Lark never asks for forgiveness. He does not beg for understanding. He demands attention, for in that fleeting moment beneath candlelight, within the hush before the first strum, he is seen. Alive. Dangerous. Unconquered.

There are nights when he stares at the strings of his lute, fingers hovering as if expecting ghosts to answer. He wonders how many he left behind. How many enemies wait for him in the crowd. Sometimes he hears whispers – not from enemies, but from memory. A soft voice of regret. A sharper one of guilt. But he silences them. With a tune. A joke. A drink… or a bolt from Last Resort.

Lark does not believe in redemption. Not for him. Not yet. He believes in survival. In escape. In the next performance, the next laugh, the next hush before applause. Because every stage reset is a promise to himself: I survived another night. I outran them. I remain free.

His eyes flick toward the horizon, toward the next tavern, the next crowd, the next set of ears to charm. He walks that tightrope between light and shadow – and loves the danger. Not because he seeks glory, but because he respects truth: the world owes him nothing. The world will spit at Tiefling bards, laugh at songs sung in hellish tongues, and draw cruel knives in gilded halls. Lark accepts that. He thrives on it. Because he knows fear, and fear sharpens performance like a whetstone.

In the gloom before the crowd gathers, he breathes deep. Fingers find lute strings. His voice – rough, soft, melodic – glides through silence. Just one note. A beginning. The drums of ale mugs. The rustle of cloaks. The shifting breath of strangers. And then the hush. That sacred hush before the first chord rings out.

And in that hush, Lark feels alive. Every laugh, every sigh, every silence – a pulse in the dark. His audience leans in. His eyes shine. The spotlight warms him like fire. For a moment, he is not a hunted Tiefling. He is not a fugitive. He is not broken. He is something else. Something dangerous. Something unforgettable.

When the song ends, the applause rises – a wave that threatens to drown him, but also lifts him. He bows. Softly. A mock flourish. Then he vanishes. Into the crowd. Into the night. Into the unknown. Always one step ahead. Always on the run.

Because for Lark, every farewell is temporary. Every stage a refuge, every performance a lifeline. And every note a promise: so long as he draws breath, he plays. He survives. He endures.

The show goes on. So must he.

And somewhere, in the shadows of taverns and nightmares, the hunters wait. But tonight – tonight the only thing that moves is the melody.

As long as the lute still hums, as long as his lips still smile – Lark remains free.

Lights fade. Curtain falls. The echoes linger.