Aura of disrequiet

[Nyyark]

The bard’s hands crept along the guitar, plucking out deep resonant tones, sliding on the edge of darkness. The chord was slowly played and yearned to be filled. Inside the sound a sense of disquiet and adventure filled the hall of the tavern. The vastness of the world unseen echoed each note, and in the souls of the audience. Slowly their eyes became filled with cool mountain summers in the shade of pine trees. The feeling of movement rocked their bodies. They were traveling, to a place long forgotten. Thousands of memories played by like threads of a faded tapestry. The colors of aged tales passed, and they were but one in the clockwork of eternity. The yearning and longing to see the sky, the ruins of ages past, hear the wild birds play their songs. Then the bard’s deep voice hung in the layers of music, "And so it began that the spirit of the wild entered our young hero, and he could not more live as he did."

[Ayshela]

slips in and sits quietly on the edge of shadows to listen, to hear, to see..

[Jareena Faye]

*Jareena is at the far end of the room, leaning tiredly against her lance, thinking to herself*

 

What beautiful music. That is what music should be... something that appeals to the soul. How talented is the bard who makes it so.

 

*AWESOME description, dude!*

[Nyyark]

"It was in the third moon of spring. The air held new the pines scent, and the birds were beginning to wing. In the town of Timath Kanoal eyes opened as always to the sky. It was a clear blue, and colors abounded, free of winter's harsh eye. In morning chore he strode to the well, and the face he saw revealed forever fates will."

 

The lulling sounds of the guitar began to form a patterned beat. Rhythm now rocked the bodies of the tavern, the chords ominous but unavoidable. Fate and all her patterns were rendered inviolate in the hearts of the patronage. Too the footfalls of Time's march the bard began to chant:

 

"Will and a well, the heart of the barb, sight doomed Kanoal, Wearer of Fates Garb. Times past and present, the futures to be, he alone seeks, what should be history. Times past and present, the futures to be, he alone seeks, what should be let be."

 

Slowly the rhythm lulled back into the chords of the story, but in each listener bore an unbearable weight of foreknowledge. The chords changed of longing to hope. It couldn't be that he was doomed already. Each was addicted with denial.