(no subject)
Over the ebb and flow of conversations, the endless background static of the bar room, there is the soft sound of a violin being played. Its tone is is sweet, nearly to the point of pain: that ancient, deep yearning for something forever out of reach. The slow, winding half-tune insinuates itself among the sounds of the bar, as subtle and inexorable as the flow of time, each twist and trill like the minute, nigh-unnoticed changes of light as bright daylight slowly fades towards dusk.
Yrael's skill is great; that much is obvious, and the the violin is both well-made and well-kept. But it is not mere skill that nestles the sweet melody amongst the disturbing thoughts kept pushed to the back of the mind, the thoughts that remind you that every morning must have its night, that every life must eventually end. That every brightest day will have an equally dark night.
No, not mere skill.
If you've a mind to come and listen, please do. He might even sing to you, if you are very lucky, or perhaps if you are very unlucky.
Yrael's skill is great; that much is obvious, and the the violin is both well-made and well-kept. But it is not mere skill that nestles the sweet melody amongst the disturbing thoughts kept pushed to the back of the mind, the thoughts that remind you that every morning must have its night, that every life must eventually end. That every brightest day will have an equally dark night.
No, not mere skill.
If you've a mind to come and listen, please do. He might even sing to you, if you are very lucky, or perhaps if you are very unlucky.