Ah, I knew a bard once. A blue - haired bard, that is, and before you will all say 'Jansen, you old liar!' I will tell you that this colour was of course not natural. This poor lad used to dye them when he thought nobody saw him. Poor thing, indeed, lying to everyone and saying he was a tiefling, not a mongrel with colorful hair dyes and powders. Sad, very sad. But, it is not this blue haired liar of a bard I would like to tell you. No, not at all, for someone who did not like turnips is not worth remembering.
What I wanted to tell, my good people, is a story about the one that this bard resembled. It is a very scandalous tale, so all proper nobles and rich merchants should cover their ears. Ready? Good.
It all began on a rainy day (all grand stories begin on a rainy day, actually) in the Slums of Athkatla. A young gnomish beggar used the opportunity - water falling from the sky is nothing ordinary! - to clean himself up. After that, he knocked to my mother's sister's cousin's door, planning to ask for some coins, and then leave.
This good gnome, however, did not want to hear of such a thing. "I don't want to hear such a thing, my lad, he said, come in, and I will treat you as a son I never had." He must have been toasting this fine morning with a fair share of turnip ale, if you ask me. But, apart from the liquors and their influence on my poor kinsman, the beggar gnome - named Bongo - moved in and got a job on my mother's sister's cousin turnip farm. Since he could not do many things right - or I guess I should say he could not do ANYTHING right - the poor farm owner occasionally allowed him to sing. You see, when people feel useless, asking them to sing a song is the best way to put them out of their misery... and, as a result, to put yourself in even greater misery. I guess priests of Ilmater would approve. Anyway, after half a year or so, my kinsman gave Bongo a broom and asked if he would clean the house once a day. The ex - beggar was delighted, and his new job gave him much satisfaction. He danced with the broomstick as if it was a comely gnomish lass, and proclaimed himself a Broomguard. Moreover, he used to say that every turnip will rot in it's time, and that no one can save it, no matter what. My poor kinsman was very tolerant... until Bongo started to hit on the innocent elvish lass whom my mother's sister's cousin wanted to marry. The farm owner flew into a rage when he found out - and that was spectacular, for the only thing this good gnome flew in before was a ballon, and the trip was not very long - and threw Bongo out.
There is, of course, a moral to this story, as there is a moral to any good story, and this one was certainly such. First, give beggars money, not care, as they become gentlemen only in the books. And secondly, some things should stay where they belong. Turnips should stay in the ground... and some blue haired bards should stay in the sewers. And some Avariels in the air. You know, how it goes.