The Price

It's said of old that he who passed the night
Asleep upon some eldritch fairie mound
Would awaken touched by power come the light,
Enchanted by those hidden in the ground,
Touched by bardic fire to his tongue
Unleashed within his music or his pen,
Or driven mad, by elvish spells undone;
That is, if he could even wake again.
The presents of the Sidhe carry a price.
A penalty extracted from the soul.
If carelessly received they would suffice
To utterly consume the gifted whole.
Before you risk the magic, please regard:
The price to be a bard...is be a bard.