(no subject)
Feeling like the night is too quiet, even with the normal constant level of general chatter and conversation in the bar, Yrael is at his harpsichord. The quick, fluttering notes that sing quietly under and through the indistinct sounds of the bar are like the frantic wingbeats of a dove, sent winging its way trying to elude some sudden predator, but losing ground quickly. The tempo quickens as the song progresses, the panicked wingbeats of the small bird carrying the melody through bush and briar, swift among trees, over and under limbs in desperate attempt to get away. But will it succeed?
For all that emotion, though, the song is soft, full of energy that suffuses the air near the green and gold harpsichord.
Come listen.
For all that emotion, though, the song is soft, full of energy that suffuses the air near the green and gold harpsichord.
Come listen.