Music is what emotion sounds like.
[It's a cold afternoon, but not an icy one. The snow falling gently on the Lost Woods makes the world seem muffled in white. The notes of an ocarina drift faint and husky through the trees, from the Forest Temple clearing where Zelda plays seated in an old, gnarled tree, bent with weight and age nearly to the ground. Wedged snugly between a thick branch and the old trunk, she's practicing with the simple clay instrument she was compelled to seek out after a conversation with the warrior.]
[She's out of practice, running through the simplest tunes she knows, yet plays them with assurance anyway. Who will hear her but the trees and the Skullkids? She plays her own lullaby that Impa once sang to her, the Song of Storms, the Song of Time, the Sun Song, the Minuet of Forest and others--always cycling back to another, unfamiliar tune as though practicing. She's discarded royal paraphanelia for layers of warm clothes--a blue wool dress over a cotton shift, a blue-gray cloak trimmed with fur, thick boots. The Triforce on her hands hidden beneath long gloves, she could pass for any woman.]
((ooc: no dream post here, just some good old fashioned hanging-out-in-the-Lost-Woods.))
[She's out of practice, running through the simplest tunes she knows, yet plays them with assurance anyway. Who will hear her but the trees and the Skullkids? She plays her own lullaby that Impa once sang to her, the Song of Storms, the Song of Time, the Sun Song, the Minuet of Forest and others--always cycling back to another, unfamiliar tune as though practicing. She's discarded royal paraphanelia for layers of warm clothes--a blue wool dress over a cotton shift, a blue-gray cloak trimmed with fur, thick boots. The Triforce on her hands hidden beneath long gloves, she could pass for any woman.]
((ooc: no dream post here, just some good old fashioned hanging-out-in-the-Lost-Woods.))