Elves are an extremely long-lived race, living for five hundred years, it's no surprise that during such a long life, out of boredom, they might commit every form of depravity. Demonology, severe addictions, orgies, and other abominations are the daily bread of elves, of which most other races have no idea. Hidden in their forest cities and mountain fortresses where the eyes of other races usually do not reach, they take advantage of this longevity and very long youth.
Some elves and most half-elves live among humans, a rare sight, but in most towns, you might occasionally find an elf or half-elf. And sometimes, very rarely, someone like Tamira comes along.
Tamira was an elf who inherited only one thing from her human parent, a complete, absolute, and embarrassing lack of grace. Somewhere in the genetic lottery, she lost on all fronts. She lacked the elven grace that makes one move like a breath of wind, nor did she have a supernaturally melodious voice. Her movements were clumsy, and when she tried to dance, she looked like a thrashing victim of an epileptic seizure. Her singing, on the other hand, resembled the sounds of dying poultry, which, incidentally, was quite good comparison.
The half-elf, however, did not give up easily. Having inherited stubbornness from her human parent as well, she decided that her destiny was to be a bard. Perhaps not the kind who moves hearts with a beautiful voice and virtuosity, but the kind who, well, who endures. Her performances could not be called concerts, they were more like heroic acts on the part of the audience, who had to endure these auditory tortures.
Her 'career' began at the local tavern 'The Dead Griffin' a place where the standards were so low they lay in the ditch, and the taste of the beer was explained by a legend about a jealous god who punished the brewer. Tamira's luck was that the village had no competition whatsoever, making her the best. The last wandering minstrel had been in Larnwick Stream many decades before Tamira's mother arrived, meaning the local villagers could only hear music if they suddenly traveled back in time about 200 years.
On the first evening, when Tamira clambered onto the makeshift stage made of barrels, the audience consisted mainly of local farmers, their wives, and a few migrant workers. They were accustomed to the sounds of brawls, frog croaks, and cow moos, not to music. Tamira took a deep breath that sounded like an asthmatic roar, and began.
Her voice, which she had hoped would be low and full of elven melancholy, let out a shrill howl that made several older villagers instinctively duck, as if avoiding a blow. She sang a ballad of love and loss, an old elven masterpiece that in her rendition sounded like a market square brawl.
"O, my love, like a leaf on the wind…" she wailed, her fingers clumsily plucking the lute strings, producing sounds reminiscent of a cat caught in a door.
The audience froze in silent terror. One man, who had just been raising his mug to his mouth, froze, and beer slowly spilled onto his trousers. Another woman was unconsciously squeezing her husband's hand so tightly that he turned pale. It was a kind of focus, but not the kind an artist desires. It was the focus of a victim watching an approaching carriage.
Tamira, absorbed in her 'passion' closed her eyes, swayed dangerously on the barrel, and screeched on, completely unaware of the effect she was having. Her lute produced a particularly pathetic twang as she fumbled a chord.
"Is this all that art is?" whispered one villager to his neighbor, who just swallowed and wordlessly shrugged.
As the last pathetic chord of Tamira's lute faded into the tavern's stifled silence, a single, lonely, uncertain clap sounded. The half-elf opened her eyes, full of hope, but it turned out to be the bartender, Borin, slapping his thigh to shoo away a persistent fly. The rest of the audience collectively exhaled, as if regaining the ability to move after petrification. A murmur of conversation, throat-clearing, and bench-scraping arose. No one threw coins, no one asked for an encore. A few older villagers got up and left, shaking their heads with deep concern on their faces.
Borin, muttering under his breath, approached Tamira, who was still standing on the barrel, her lute hanging limply in her hand.
"Well..." he began, scratching his bald head. "That was... something. For sure."
"Thank you!" Tamira choked out, feeling the blush of shame burning her cheeks. "It's an old elven ballad about..."
"Yeah, yeah, I heard," Borin interrupted, looking at the puddle of beer spilled on the floor and the customer still wiping his wet trousers. "Listen, girl. You're energetic. That's for sure. But maybe, instead of singing, you could help me clean up here? Pour beer? Anything. Just please, not the lute."
Tamira stood on the barrel, and Borin's words washed over her like a bucket of cold water. The offer to clean or pour beer instead of playing wasn't an invitation to collaborate, it was a merciful alms, a way to take her in because he saw she was a musical disaster, but also a desperate attempt to protect his business from her 'art'.
For a moment, the elf felt hot shame turn into a cold, stinging bitterness. She opened her mouth to protest, to say that she was an artist, that her soul needed expression, that it was a matter of practice... but she looked at the faces of the patrons. She didn't see hatred there, only pity, embarrassment, and relief that it was over. And then she looked at her lute, a cheap, poorly tuned instrument that had let out one last pathetic twang as another string snapped.
A bitter cry rose in her throat, but from her human ancestor, she had also inherited a damned stubbornness. She didn't cry. She climbed off the barrel, her clumsy movements almost making her fall as she grabbed the edge of a table. She hid the lute in its case as if burying the corpse of her dream.
"Y-you uncouth louts!" she exclaimed. "Y-you should be herding swine, not discussing art!"