There was once a great Bard.  He spun songs and poems of the highest quality.  No area was beyond his musing.  Indeed, he thought himself to have quite the muse, always singing a new song in his head, a sweet melody of nearly constant inspiration for his wondrous works.

  Thanks to his muse, this Bard was quite prosperous at his work.  Many people sought him out to commission a song, poem, or perhaps a play for their needs.  He gladly forged every request he received, seeing each as a unique and wondrous challenge for his chattering muse.  He was very happy with his life.  Until that fateful day.

  The day he came across a Sgrios priestess.  One who had a score to settle with this Bard.  It seems that a coalition of Gramail worshippers had commissioned several jingles and other works that denounced Sgrios' religion.  Apparently these works of the Bard did not sit well with this priestess, and she sought vengeance for her god's besmirched honor.

  The crafty Bard tried to calm her with words from his muse, but the priestess uttered a curse before he could weave a compelling argument and struck him dumb.  She then called the Bard a fool for using his muse to mock an ally of the god of inspiration itself, Deoch.

  Calling upon both of these gods of her trinity, the priestess wove a powerful black curse and cast it upon the hapless Bard.  The rush of dark magics caused the Bard to collapse.  When he awoke, he instantly noticed something was missing.  His muse no longer sung her sweet songs in his head!  He was without inspiration!  For one who lived to craft wonders with words, this was the greatest of calamities.

  Moons passed, and the Bard found himself reduced to a beggar.  His once glorious works were now replaced by a pathetic jig he danced in hopes to coax a few coins from passerbys.  What few coins he did manage to get with his ungraceful steps barely kept him fed.  And he had a new mouth to feed, too.  A small urchin girl, who had taken to the fanciful nature of his rags. She hung around him like a puppy.  He did what he could to keep himself and the child alive.  It was a bleak existence with little hope.

  Then, one day, the small urchin girl came running up to him.  She danced about him, merry as can be.  She told him that she had heard tell of a mystical fountain that could inspire anyone, and that with it he could get his "pretty words'n'stuff" back and she could see him smile, at last.

  The Bard was skeptical, but since a mystic curse had stolen his muse, perhaps another mystic secret could restore it!  The two journeyed for weeks to reach the fabled grounds where the font of inspiration was said to be.  When they finally arrived, they found it a most impressive sight!

  The exquisitely detailed three tiered fountain was made of pure marble and shone like a beacon from a distance.  Water sprayed from the top several feet into the air before it rained back down into the the basins of the fountain.  Behind it was a structure, a finely detailed pillared structure of some kind.  A temple to inspiration, the Bard surmised.  He paid it little heed, the fountain was all his eyes cared to see.

  The pair ran to the structure, both wide-eyed and full of hope.  The girl ran into the temple, and the Bard stood before the fountain.  Tears welled up in his eyes.  At long last, he would hear once again the sweet songs of his muse!  With reckless abandon, the Bard dove into the waters of the fountain, and drank deeply.  His hope overflowed along with the fountain.

  When he emerged, however, he found the only thing that had changed was his rags were now wet, and somewhat more colorful for being washed.  His mind still rang only with the hollow echo of his own thoughts.  Dejected, the Bard slumped into a heap on the steps of the temple.

  The urchin girl came running up to him, carrying something.  She sat down next to him, and begged him to read her what the pretty squiggles on this paper meant.  The Bard sighed, and read to her the story that was contained upon the scroll she had brought.  It was quite a well crafted tale, one he might have himself written, a lifetime ago.

  The child's eyes lit up as he told the tale.  She constantly interrupted the reading with questions.  The Bard tried his best to answer them, telling her to shush and listen, for all the good it did.  When he finally finished, the urchin smiled, got up, and ran back into the temple, returning shortly with another story for him to read.  And so it went.  He read to her for hours and hours.

  With each story read, he found himself answering the child's constant queries and wondering about things himself.  Before long, he noticed he had once more the beginnings of a  melodious song of inspiration in his head.  Only now, it was not his old muse's voice, but that of the young street urchin's.  She had rekindled his spark, and the Bard learned a lesson as old as time:

 Inspiration is never truly lost, only found.