(Untitled)

[tragic_mask]

So Melpomene's in the bar. Nothing new. She's sitting in the corner, boots propped up against a neighboring chair; a cigarette butt smoulders in the ashtray by her side. As always.

But, the strange thing? She's got a harp-like instrument set up on an end table, and she's polishing it meticulously with a cloth and slim bottle of something greasy-

Comments

[tragic_mask]

Of course, Melpomene only knows about the small and curious part. Narration, after all, can only go so far.

"I played, a long time ago." A reminiscent smile plays on her lips before being snatched abruptly away.

[tragic_mask]

"Actually, it's a lyre," she says, giving him a sharp eye.

"I've been other places. Been away from my home-- and most outside don't appreciate the music."

She flicks the cloth across the top of the lyre, and a small speck of dust flutters down.

[tragic_mask]

Melpomene runs a finger along the middle string, making a sszing noise that vibrates quietly through the bar.

"I would not waste this on those who do not appreciate it," she says quietly.

[tragic_mask]

Melpomene raises an eyebrow at him.

"I do not see what that might be."

... Though she doesn't seem like she'd need much persuasion, one hand on the strings and the other tapping out a new cigarette.

[tragic_mask]

Melpomene narrows her eyes. It's hard not to notice the not!smirk.

"I only brought the lyre here because it cried out to me in neglect. I never planned to play it. Call on Euterpe for that."

[tragic_mask]

Oops. She hadn't meant to let that out. I'm slipping...

"No one important. And yes, I am. But the sound coming out will not be anything pleasant, as it has not been played in a thousand years."

Her fingers belie her words, moving over the thrumming strings.

[tragic_mask]

ooc: I'll assume that's just the mun-journal and that you logged in by accident.

Melpomene heaves a breath, and shrugs-- blinking dark eyes-- and begins.

The notes she plays are primitive, drawing back from the beginning of the time the sound of beating hooves and echoing voices in the wood. They are like drops of water in the desert, falling from the sky down to where stamping feet raise their hands and shout to the gods for water.

Melpomene plays, and the notes fall over that quiet corner of the bar. Then her lyre falls silent, and she lies still.

[tragic_mask]

ooc: zomg! I could sob. Not really.

Melpomene shrugs, lightly.

"It has no name. Or many. It is all that I can remember from the songs we used to play long ago."