The day the music died

Woe and despair, the world is a little less lovely. The Bard, that infinitely talented player of music, singer of songs, and poet extraordinaire is dead.
Cruel is this world now, and dark are the nights, and none know this more than Thrisk, nearby where his body was found.
Savage wounds, as those of a wolf numbered past what any sane man could count upon his corpse. The land weeps, the sky sighs, and the stars shine a bit less fervently.

Good bye, sweet Bard, you shall be missed.