Post by Reyn on Apr 12, 2022 19:09:44 GMT
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🜚 Grace Upon the Stage of Swift-Water
One of the nicer things about Praach was its weather; as mild and impassive as its nobility, at least compared to the soul-sapping frost of L'avrynn. It meant that, on most days, Alaric could retreat outside when the vast vaulted ceilings of his manor weighed too heavily upon his ill mind, and not be forced back indoors by a sudden turn of aggression from the heavens.
It was a notably pleasant evening. The sun was still out, but the faint wind-chill of the easterly breeze prevented it from scorching the bard as he walked beneath its dwindling rays towards the outskirts of town. He was alone, of course. He always was, when he could help it. One does not easily receive a title like Gilded Hermit from being particularly extroverted; though, even if he were, he would still deny company on this particular occasion.
Alaric didn't often practice to an audience, you see, for a great many justifiable reasons. On the dull, psycho-emotional side of things was his fraught history with imperfection; for all his worth, the bard still flinched every time he made a mistake, lest any ill-meaning ears be standing in the doorway. Much more recognised, however, was the practical concern that inevitably arose when practicing certain melodies: his music, you see, was armed. Should anyone hear it, even in its developing, imperfect form, there was a high likelihood that they would be inflicted with its (often outlawed) afflictions. Alaric didn't like having to explain himself like that, easy as it might be, and he didn't much care for showing his hand, either. These songs were practiced strictly behind closed doors, and performed strictly when necessary...
Or... well, or when Alaric was getting fed up with someone.
That wasn't the case now, of course. Neither of them were. Now, he was outside, in the open air, resting his back against an old oak tree by the river and staring absent-mindedly into the sky. Siren's Echo needed work, he thought, and the riverbank seemed as empty as it could ever be. Pushing himself away from the tree with his boot-heel, he took a few paces towards the water and nestled the violin beneath his chin. After a moment's pause, he began to play; quiet as a whisper, so that only he and the water before him could hear its alluring tone.
It was a notably pleasant evening. The sun was still out, but the faint wind-chill of the easterly breeze prevented it from scorching the bard as he walked beneath its dwindling rays towards the outskirts of town. He was alone, of course. He always was, when he could help it. One does not easily receive a title like Gilded Hermit from being particularly extroverted; though, even if he were, he would still deny company on this particular occasion.
Alaric didn't often practice to an audience, you see, for a great many justifiable reasons. On the dull, psycho-emotional side of things was his fraught history with imperfection; for all his worth, the bard still flinched every time he made a mistake, lest any ill-meaning ears be standing in the doorway. Much more recognised, however, was the practical concern that inevitably arose when practicing certain melodies: his music, you see, was armed. Should anyone hear it, even in its developing, imperfect form, there was a high likelihood that they would be inflicted with its (often outlawed) afflictions. Alaric didn't like having to explain himself like that, easy as it might be, and he didn't much care for showing his hand, either. These songs were practiced strictly behind closed doors, and performed strictly when necessary...
Or... well, or when Alaric was getting fed up with someone.
That wasn't the case now, of course. Neither of them were. Now, he was outside, in the open air, resting his back against an old oak tree by the river and staring absent-mindedly into the sky. Siren's Echo needed work, he thought, and the riverbank seemed as empty as it could ever be. Pushing himself away from the tree with his boot-heel, he took a few paces towards the water and nestled the violin beneath his chin. After a moment's pause, he began to play; quiet as a whisper, so that only he and the water before him could hear its alluring tone.
