3rd of Spring, 515 AV, 8th Bell
Vard blinked awake, a stiff breeze blowing through his battered tent. His fire, or what was left of the pile of sticks and driftwood he'd gathered had died in the night. Still he felt odd, as though the air tasted different. He put on his clothes and involuntarily shivered. His cloak didn't protect him from the cold as much as would have liked. Despite this he would brave the cold if he had to, which he did. Or did he? Vard pushed the tent open and stepped out into a damp but markedly warmer clearing. Starlight he saw to his amazement, was drinking eagerly from a stream that wasn't there hours ago. Spring it seemed, had come to Mizahar.
Vard eyed his mare with worry, even though she now had plenty of water. The relief of the horse's ribs stood out with a macabre definition. Deciding that the newly flowered grass would taste best in the morning, Vard set out for Alvadas on foot. Ocarina, cloak and rapier were all accounted for. Those three things served him faithfully, and would prove their worth again he predicted. Especially if I prove successful this morning. He'd combed his hair, though the last time a bath had proved an non-lethal option was a while back. Still he probably smelled more of wilderness than anything. His business would not be dependant on his patron's sense of smell.
A half-bell past before Vard reached the Bizarre. He thought back to when he'd come here seasons ago to purchase his books. He hadn't written in them in ages, even though when he'd bought them income had been the furthest thing from his thoughts. Perhaps later... He appraised the market and searched for an ideal place to position himself. There were a handful of contenders but finally he settled on a clean-looking spot near some benches. Hopefully, some individuals would pass by and pause to appreciate his music. Yes, he had decided becoming a Busker would be the quickest way to earn some much-needed coin. After all, a gentleman sticks to his strengths.
Once Vard had settled himself, with his cloak set before him to catch any earnings he might receive and his rapier hidden beneath that, he brought his ocarina up. It was in splendid condition and it was not lost on Vard that his instrument had had better care than himself. Taking some deep breaths to warm up his lungs, Vard summoned a song to mind. It was a tune he had picked up in the streets of Kalinor long, long ago. He had doubted whether it would be a worthy choice, but the locals were used to all sorts of oddness. As long as he played it correctly, he would certainly be appreciated. Putting his fingers in position, Vard closed his mind to the world around him and began to play. The tune itself was universal, a children's song that any Krova knew practically from birth! No, his challenge was to bring his own touch to the song.
As Vard's breath quickened with the tempo, he drew his fingers up and down along the ocarina. He added a high cadence here, and a trill there. Using his improvisation, he transformed the song from a tragic minuet into a melancholic tarantella. From middle C to High C and back, he began to see how... Symenestran the song was. As if his piping breaths and quick fingers weren't spider-like enough, the notes themselves played like the legs of an arachnid crawling along somewhere wet and dark. He fumbled at a particularly fast chord but recovered well enough, using the decrescendo as a way to escape the mistake. The song did have a refrain, and other verses besides but he lacked the extra mouth to voice the lyrics. Only a Krova would be able to sing along, and he'd seen few enough of his kind in the city to begin with. To everyone else the song was just a quietly introspective piece that moved along with a spider's gait and even then, Vard couldn't open his eyes lest he break his focus.
He passed the bridge with the greatest speed and then the song slowed to its archaic crawl. In the last few verses, Vard rose in pace and volume until he was belting out the final phrase. As the high and low notes mingled, he thumped his boot down and the song's ending echoed off. When did I stand up? With his eyes open, he saw that a score of people, either seated on the benches or idling at stalls were loosely applauding. Vard felt a swell of pride which was followed by a smattering of relief when two thirds of them dropped some mizas onto his cloak. "Thank you! Let me play some more!"
For another bell or so, Vard played songs he'd picked up all over. But even though he made no more errors, and he played respectably, he could not shake the children's song from his head. The Canticle of Esteria, Vard remembered. That was why it was so familiar yet so foreign to his ear. It was seldom sung in the heart of Kalinor, where many shunned the ideas that Esteria had put forward. And so, Vard played. Coins fell.
Class can determine one's wealth, status and rank. But class alone cannot define one's beliefs.
Vard eyed his mare with worry, even though she now had plenty of water. The relief of the horse's ribs stood out with a macabre definition. Deciding that the newly flowered grass would taste best in the morning, Vard set out for Alvadas on foot. Ocarina, cloak and rapier were all accounted for. Those three things served him faithfully, and would prove their worth again he predicted. Especially if I prove successful this morning. He'd combed his hair, though the last time a bath had proved an non-lethal option was a while back. Still he probably smelled more of wilderness than anything. His business would not be dependant on his patron's sense of smell.
A half-bell past before Vard reached the Bizarre. He thought back to when he'd come here seasons ago to purchase his books. He hadn't written in them in ages, even though when he'd bought them income had been the furthest thing from his thoughts. Perhaps later... He appraised the market and searched for an ideal place to position himself. There were a handful of contenders but finally he settled on a clean-looking spot near some benches. Hopefully, some individuals would pass by and pause to appreciate his music. Yes, he had decided becoming a Busker would be the quickest way to earn some much-needed coin. After all, a gentleman sticks to his strengths.
Once Vard had settled himself, with his cloak set before him to catch any earnings he might receive and his rapier hidden beneath that, he brought his ocarina up. It was in splendid condition and it was not lost on Vard that his instrument had had better care than himself. Taking some deep breaths to warm up his lungs, Vard summoned a song to mind. It was a tune he had picked up in the streets of Kalinor long, long ago. He had doubted whether it would be a worthy choice, but the locals were used to all sorts of oddness. As long as he played it correctly, he would certainly be appreciated. Putting his fingers in position, Vard closed his mind to the world around him and began to play. The tune itself was universal, a children's song that any Krova knew practically from birth! No, his challenge was to bring his own touch to the song.
As Vard's breath quickened with the tempo, he drew his fingers up and down along the ocarina. He added a high cadence here, and a trill there. Using his improvisation, he transformed the song from a tragic minuet into a melancholic tarantella. From middle C to High C and back, he began to see how... Symenestran the song was. As if his piping breaths and quick fingers weren't spider-like enough, the notes themselves played like the legs of an arachnid crawling along somewhere wet and dark. He fumbled at a particularly fast chord but recovered well enough, using the decrescendo as a way to escape the mistake. The song did have a refrain, and other verses besides but he lacked the extra mouth to voice the lyrics. Only a Krova would be able to sing along, and he'd seen few enough of his kind in the city to begin with. To everyone else the song was just a quietly introspective piece that moved along with a spider's gait and even then, Vard couldn't open his eyes lest he break his focus.
He passed the bridge with the greatest speed and then the song slowed to its archaic crawl. In the last few verses, Vard rose in pace and volume until he was belting out the final phrase. As the high and low notes mingled, he thumped his boot down and the song's ending echoed off. When did I stand up? With his eyes open, he saw that a score of people, either seated on the benches or idling at stalls were loosely applauding. Vard felt a swell of pride which was followed by a smattering of relief when two thirds of them dropped some mizas onto his cloak. "Thank you! Let me play some more!"
For another bell or so, Vard played songs he'd picked up all over. But even though he made no more errors, and he played respectably, he could not shake the children's song from his head. The Canticle of Esteria, Vard remembered. That was why it was so familiar yet so foreign to his ear. It was seldom sung in the heart of Kalinor, where many shunned the ideas that Esteria had put forward. And so, Vard played. Coins fell.
OOC :
Class can determine one's wealth, status and rank. But class alone cannot define one's beliefs.
Class is remaining true to yourself
No matter the cost
No matter the cost
