The hands that hold this quill are stocky and rough from tilling the family's fields. My shoulders are broad, my body is sturdy. Such is the fate of my family line, born to work the soil until we drop. Alas, I could never escape the allure of adventure.
Once when I was young and sowing seeds near the edge of our lot, I heard a whistle from the forest. I snuck through the rickety fence and followed the melody. Eventually, I found a young bard leaning against a tree stump, Whistling and carving a flute. When I returned to the empty fields in the dead of night, I was met by my father's disapproval.
He could put me back to work, but he couldn't keep me from humming that mesmerizing tune...