adventchallenge 2010: 3/25 (for iriththedreamer)
Prompt from iriththedreamer: A vampire(or vampires), an elf(or elves), samurai, and music. Feel free to just pick two of the four if that is too much weirdness.
It didn't turn out quite how I expected, but I hope it pleases nonetheless. You will note the date is "for December 3rd." I'm way behind, but once school is over I shall catch up..and likely let this spill over into January to do so.
Warnings: none.
for December 3rd, 2010 (iriththedreamer)
The sky was bright with moon and starlight, but the grass beyond the dimly lit pavilion was dark with fidgeting shadows.
It wasn't often anyone performed for the ghosts of Samurai Hill.
The pavilion was lit with candles and paper lanterns that swayed, that flickered, but never went out or set the stage alight. The drummer alone was there. He sat quietly behind his drum set, as if praying. Then he crossed himself and picked up the sticks in his lap. Waited.
Soon a shadow with a violin stepped onto the edge of the stage, seemingly from nowhere. The ghosts had felt the blood-presence as he approached, but he appeared as if the wind had carried him, soundless and invisible until it deposited him where it wanted him to be seen.
Next came the guitarist and bassist, stepping out of the hill itself and waving to the fae still inside. Cool blue light bathed their rounded faces-moon elves whose hair, in hundreds of long silver braids, swayed at their hips as they walked.
The pianist took his place next, appearing in a flourish of black that he swept over the back of the bench, revealing a white military uniform beneath the coat from a regiment the ghosts did not recognize, and suspected did not exist.
The band began to play.
Haunting music-the twining of elf songs inspired by the serene moon, and blood songs from the vampiric dead-seeped off the stage and into the field of kneeling ghosts. The samurai, their battle and names long forgotten, began to weep. The emotion pouring into them was a balm to their bitter souls. Their tears were quiet as the whispering grass, black with their captivated spirits.
The music had filled the valley and crept up the hill of ghosts like water flowing in reverse. When it reached the top of the hill, the sound-and the ghosts with it-seemed to hang in the air, quivering with anticipation.
The voice that sang in response came from the hill top. The ghosts turned as one to see who it was that sang with a voice of blood-longing and praise for the moon.
A myth, an abomination: a blood moon elf stood at the top of the hill. Hair silver as a moon elf's, eyes red as the two vampires' onstage, and smile as sharp as a katana as he took in the samurais' shock-and sang through it. He walked like royalty through the field of recoiling ghosts and stepped lightly into the stage. Then he took the microphone, though he clearly had no need of it, and sang the last note of a song the ghosts had not realized was ending.
The music stopped. The blood moon elf spoke. "If you will but follow the music," he said, voice as full, and strange, and beautiful as a harvest moon, "we will be your guides into a better place than this."
The field of fallen samurai grew still. And then the first bowed, face pressed to the ground and hands folded in front of him. And then the next, and the next. The field was dark with the shifting of ghosts, and then entirely still.
The singer smiled, and the band grew watchful.
The music began again, and rang into the night.
By dawn, the band was gone, the pavilion once again the empty, broken-down place it had been for decades. But Samurai Hill was empty too-its bitter ghosts had walked a track laid down by music to a better place.
The Hill, though without ghosts now, remains haunted. On full moon nights, the sensitive hear music in the air: echoes of the psychopomp, leading unquiet dead to peaceful rest.
It didn't turn out quite how I expected, but I hope it pleases nonetheless. You will note the date is "for December 3rd." I'm way behind, but once school is over I shall catch up..and likely let this spill over into January to do so.
Warnings: none.
for December 3rd, 2010 (iriththedreamer)
The sky was bright with moon and starlight, but the grass beyond the dimly lit pavilion was dark with fidgeting shadows.
It wasn't often anyone performed for the ghosts of Samurai Hill.
The pavilion was lit with candles and paper lanterns that swayed, that flickered, but never went out or set the stage alight. The drummer alone was there. He sat quietly behind his drum set, as if praying. Then he crossed himself and picked up the sticks in his lap. Waited.
Soon a shadow with a violin stepped onto the edge of the stage, seemingly from nowhere. The ghosts had felt the blood-presence as he approached, but he appeared as if the wind had carried him, soundless and invisible until it deposited him where it wanted him to be seen.
Next came the guitarist and bassist, stepping out of the hill itself and waving to the fae still inside. Cool blue light bathed their rounded faces-moon elves whose hair, in hundreds of long silver braids, swayed at their hips as they walked.
The pianist took his place next, appearing in a flourish of black that he swept over the back of the bench, revealing a white military uniform beneath the coat from a regiment the ghosts did not recognize, and suspected did not exist.
The band began to play.
Haunting music-the twining of elf songs inspired by the serene moon, and blood songs from the vampiric dead-seeped off the stage and into the field of kneeling ghosts. The samurai, their battle and names long forgotten, began to weep. The emotion pouring into them was a balm to their bitter souls. Their tears were quiet as the whispering grass, black with their captivated spirits.
The music had filled the valley and crept up the hill of ghosts like water flowing in reverse. When it reached the top of the hill, the sound-and the ghosts with it-seemed to hang in the air, quivering with anticipation.
The voice that sang in response came from the hill top. The ghosts turned as one to see who it was that sang with a voice of blood-longing and praise for the moon.
A myth, an abomination: a blood moon elf stood at the top of the hill. Hair silver as a moon elf's, eyes red as the two vampires' onstage, and smile as sharp as a katana as he took in the samurais' shock-and sang through it. He walked like royalty through the field of recoiling ghosts and stepped lightly into the stage. Then he took the microphone, though he clearly had no need of it, and sang the last note of a song the ghosts had not realized was ending.
The music stopped. The blood moon elf spoke. "If you will but follow the music," he said, voice as full, and strange, and beautiful as a harvest moon, "we will be your guides into a better place than this."
The field of fallen samurai grew still. And then the first bowed, face pressed to the ground and hands folded in front of him. And then the next, and the next. The field was dark with the shifting of ghosts, and then entirely still.
The singer smiled, and the band grew watchful.
The music began again, and rang into the night.
By dawn, the band was gone, the pavilion once again the empty, broken-down place it had been for decades. But Samurai Hill was empty too-its bitter ghosts had walked a track laid down by music to a better place.
The Hill, though without ghosts now, remains haunted. On full moon nights, the sensitive hear music in the air: echoes of the psychopomp, leading unquiet dead to peaceful rest.