15th of Spring 511AV
A mask of gold glimmered slightly in the light of the setting sun as a slow melody rang out across the lonely street. Tristan listened to the song as his hand dexterously moved a roughly carved bow across the strings of his instrument. The violin was an elegant object indeed. It could sound like a screaming cat or a beautiful bird depending on how it was played, it could sound slow and melancholy or fast and lively but it was the myths around it that had first attracted Tristan to the fiddle.
At a young age he had found out that he didn't have the voice for music and his fingers weren't right for a flute but when it came to the violin he had taken to it like a fish to water. He focused on his music as he switched to a lively ballad then flinched slightly as he came across a foul note. He gritted his teeth in annoyance and tried again. This isn't working, he thought with a frown before he began the song again trying to remember how it went. His father had taught it to him but he hadn't touched a violin in years till the Autumn that had just recently come and gone.
As the note appeared again he found himself playing a slower tune and changing songs altogether, but it sounded right. He felt uncomfortable after sitting in the same spot for so long so his shifted his weight and readjusted his mask. The object that hid his face was almost like a limb to him now, after he had been wearing it for so long. At first it had been almost insufferable but his had grown used to it and soon he didn't think he would be able to go anywhere without it.
He set his bow to the strings of his wooden instrument again after his short break and soon began a new tune which could have been accompanied by a bard and sounded a bit lost without one. He smirked slightly as he imagined what the vocals would have been, a tale about a bumbling soldier rescuing a damsel in distress, how cliche.
He set down the fiddle after hours of playing and returned it to his backpack before setting off down the street looking for lodgings for the night. A whistle touched his lips but no sound came out except for the hissing of air, hence why he had never become a whistler. His golden eyes flashed in the darkness behind his mask before a faint smile appeared on his features and he set off down the alley sticking to the shadows trying to remain out of sight.
(End)
A mask of gold glimmered slightly in the light of the setting sun as a slow melody rang out across the lonely street. Tristan listened to the song as his hand dexterously moved a roughly carved bow across the strings of his instrument. The violin was an elegant object indeed. It could sound like a screaming cat or a beautiful bird depending on how it was played, it could sound slow and melancholy or fast and lively but it was the myths around it that had first attracted Tristan to the fiddle.
At a young age he had found out that he didn't have the voice for music and his fingers weren't right for a flute but when it came to the violin he had taken to it like a fish to water. He focused on his music as he switched to a lively ballad then flinched slightly as he came across a foul note. He gritted his teeth in annoyance and tried again. This isn't working, he thought with a frown before he began the song again trying to remember how it went. His father had taught it to him but he hadn't touched a violin in years till the Autumn that had just recently come and gone.
As the note appeared again he found himself playing a slower tune and changing songs altogether, but it sounded right. He felt uncomfortable after sitting in the same spot for so long so his shifted his weight and readjusted his mask. The object that hid his face was almost like a limb to him now, after he had been wearing it for so long. At first it had been almost insufferable but his had grown used to it and soon he didn't think he would be able to go anywhere without it.
He set his bow to the strings of his wooden instrument again after his short break and soon began a new tune which could have been accompanied by a bard and sounded a bit lost without one. He smirked slightly as he imagined what the vocals would have been, a tale about a bumbling soldier rescuing a damsel in distress, how cliche.
He set down the fiddle after hours of playing and returned it to his backpack before setting off down the street looking for lodgings for the night. A whistle touched his lips but no sound came out except for the hissing of air, hence why he had never become a whistler. His golden eyes flashed in the darkness behind his mask before a faint smile appeared on his features and he set off down the alley sticking to the shadows trying to remain out of sight.
(End)
