Never was a cornflake girl
Thought that was a good solution
Hanging with the raisin girls
(Tori Amos)
Thought that was a good solution
Hanging with the raisin girls
(Tori Amos)
Summer 58, 515 AV
The Fool’s Errand
Stories came in all shapes and sizes. Generally, Gwin thought of herself as a storyteller, but she was also aware that story didn’t simply mean story. Her violin was perfect for grand tragedies, drama and solemn requiems. In other words, her music told of emotions and each tale her fingers wove into strings held more emotion than thought or idea. It was what she knew best.
There were other stories. Ballads relied on synthesis of music and word, weaving and knotting them together until untangling them meant destroying it all. Traveling Svefra had taught her sea shanties, rough melodies interwoven with hearty praise of the sea and its gifts. It seemed that a lot of bards connected music with words and enriched instrument play with song. It wasn’t that Gwin never sung, quite on the contrary, but the music she heard and shaped into pieces of her own was never accompanied by song. She didn’t know the reason, but she’d vowed to change it.
However far she flew, despair was at her heels though. Her music was flowing at every time of day and night, but when it came to words she ran dry. She’d been sitting in a corner by the fire (for the light rather than the warmth) for over a bell and produced nothing. For experimental reasons, she’d taken the song inspired by the Stone Gardens and sketched it in a few hasty notes on parchment. Next she’d tried to create a contrasting melody, humming to herself, and noted that down over the original one. She’d polished it until it complemented the sad and haunting melody with a lighter and slightly mocking tone.
After that, however, her work had come to a frustrating halt. The ale mug on her table had grown lukewarm. Thankfully, she wasn’t planning on drinking it. The limited menu at the town tavern didn’t list fresh water, so a clever barmaid had talked her into ordering another drink (apparently she looked like an ale person) and requesting a glass of water at the side.
Reaching over the violin in her lap, Gwin picked up said glass and emptied it. For the first time in a while, she looked up and over the small afternoon crowd. Turquoise eyes locked on a different barmaid, this one with hair bleached by the sun and way too many freckles in her face. Lifting one hand, Gwin tried to attract her attention. The other hand held her violin so that it didn’t slip out of her furry lap.
The Fool’s Errand
Stories came in all shapes and sizes. Generally, Gwin thought of herself as a storyteller, but she was also aware that story didn’t simply mean story. Her violin was perfect for grand tragedies, drama and solemn requiems. In other words, her music told of emotions and each tale her fingers wove into strings held more emotion than thought or idea. It was what she knew best.
There were other stories. Ballads relied on synthesis of music and word, weaving and knotting them together until untangling them meant destroying it all. Traveling Svefra had taught her sea shanties, rough melodies interwoven with hearty praise of the sea and its gifts. It seemed that a lot of bards connected music with words and enriched instrument play with song. It wasn’t that Gwin never sung, quite on the contrary, but the music she heard and shaped into pieces of her own was never accompanied by song. She didn’t know the reason, but she’d vowed to change it.
However far she flew, despair was at her heels though. Her music was flowing at every time of day and night, but when it came to words she ran dry. She’d been sitting in a corner by the fire (for the light rather than the warmth) for over a bell and produced nothing. For experimental reasons, she’d taken the song inspired by the Stone Gardens and sketched it in a few hasty notes on parchment. Next she’d tried to create a contrasting melody, humming to herself, and noted that down over the original one. She’d polished it until it complemented the sad and haunting melody with a lighter and slightly mocking tone.
After that, however, her work had come to a frustrating halt. The ale mug on her table had grown lukewarm. Thankfully, she wasn’t planning on drinking it. The limited menu at the town tavern didn’t list fresh water, so a clever barmaid had talked her into ordering another drink (apparently she looked like an ale person) and requesting a glass of water at the side.
Reaching over the violin in her lap, Gwin picked up said glass and emptied it. For the first time in a while, she looked up and over the small afternoon crowd. Turquoise eyes locked on a different barmaid, this one with hair bleached by the sun and way too many freckles in her face. Lifting one hand, Gwin tried to attract her attention. The other hand held her violin so that it didn’t slip out of her furry lap.
