Guslar, a relic of the ancient Slavic pagan tribes, is a man whose age is lost to time, rumored to surpass a century. His presence in the village is marked by the deep wrinkles that carve his face like the crevices of an old tree, and his eyes, clouded by cataracts, reflect a life lived long and hard. Mute from the ravages of old age, Guslar's voice was taken from him, leaving behind a silent figure who communicates through the language of his one-stringed wooden instrument. This instrument, worn and weathered like its master, is clutched in his lap as he sits on the village square, his fingers, gnarled and slow, coaxing melodies from its single string. The attempt to sing along, now a mere whisper of breath, is a poignant reminder of the melodies that once filled the air with his voice, a voice that, according to village lore, was as grating as a crow's caw.

Despite his inability to sing, Guslar's music holds a strange, compelling power, drawing the villagers out of their homes and into the square, where they gather to listen, some out of respect for his age, others to mock the old man's efforts. Yet, Guslar remains a figure of peace and kindness, untouched by the derision that surrounds him. His non-aligned nature keeps him apart from the village's petty squabbles, and though he is often the subject of the villagers' jests, he is never the target of their malice.

In his heart, Guslar yearns for the days when his songs could unite the tribe, when his voice was a beacon of joy and sorrow, a conduit for the stories of their people. But the world has moved on, and his music, once a source of communal strength, now serves as a reminder of times long past. Yet, he persists, playing his instrument each day, a silent guardian of tradition, hoping against hope that his melodies might once again stir the hearts of those who listen. His story is one of resilience, of holding onto the past with a gentle grip, even as the world around him changes, indifferent to the old man and his songs.