One of the last stories I wrote about Lyryk found her camped on the outskirts of the city of Irewick. Biscuit, her companion through the mountains, had left her side some days before, and she was pining for company. This was one of those flash stories that turned out extra short only because that moment in time captured the essence of the story, and it didn’t feel like it needed more.

Luck of the Bard

The sky turned to gold as the sun peeked over the horizon. As a rule, Lyryk didn’t see the sunrise. Her duties as a bard kept her up until the taverns closed, then she slept until the noon meal. Traveling, she saw the orb begin its day with regularity. In villages, towns, and cities, however, she frequented the common room of whatever tavern hired her until late into the night. If she was lucky, the proprietor offered a corner of the storeroom to lay her bedroll. Otherwise, she paid for a room at an inn.

This morning, though, found the young half-elf in a lean-to near the road to Irewick. As she crawled from her bedroll, the first signs of spring greeted her eyes. Tiny green shoots poked out from the soil, promising warmer days to come. Gathering her gear, she watched as the yellow flower of a shamrock unfurled. She knew then that she would have a good day.