Everything has rhythm. Everything dances.
[The earth moves deep and slow within Death Mountain, but there is a rhythm there. A power. The drummer feels it beat in him in the darkest nights, asleep in the village below. There's a kinship there, with that old power, or at least a familiarity. When he feels that beat he thinks of the days long past of the great beasts that roamed Hyrule freely and the time of tribes and chaos. Where did they all disappear to, beasts and gods, while he roamed the worlds out of time? Perhaps they became one with the elements, one with the ebb and flow of this newer Hyrule.]
[The starlight is just beginning to fade as the drummer ascends the mountain, his usual canvas bag slung over a shoulder. The burnoose over his tunic and leggings flaps in the wind that grows stronger the higher he climbs; the feather in his hair might be blown away, if it were possible for him to lose it.]
[He stops on the ledge below the final sheer ascent to the mountain's peak and makes a place for himself, lowering the canvas bag to the dry soil, spreading the burnoose on the ground as a blanket. He pulls off his gauntlets, loosens the ties of the tunic at his collar and shrugs his arms from its sleeves, pushing the garment to his waist. On his chest, a red tattoo of a bird of prey spreads its wings in flight.]
[He draws the feather from his hair, the golden-brown ridges turning to silver steel at his touch. A delicate swipe across his palm, and a red line of blood wells from the skin. What a cosmic jest, that he can bleed but not die. He stretches out his hand and lets his blood run from his hand to the dirt, soaking into the mountain, an offering.]
[The sky is pale, touched with early streaks of gold. His back to the stone warmed by the fire in Death Mountain's core, the drummer begins to play.]
((EDIT: now with bonus art! this is the drummer when he was younger. ...many centuries ago. it really has nothing to do with the thread but I drew it so I thought I'd toss it up))
[The starlight is just beginning to fade as the drummer ascends the mountain, his usual canvas bag slung over a shoulder. The burnoose over his tunic and leggings flaps in the wind that grows stronger the higher he climbs; the feather in his hair might be blown away, if it were possible for him to lose it.]
[He stops on the ledge below the final sheer ascent to the mountain's peak and makes a place for himself, lowering the canvas bag to the dry soil, spreading the burnoose on the ground as a blanket. He pulls off his gauntlets, loosens the ties of the tunic at his collar and shrugs his arms from its sleeves, pushing the garment to his waist. On his chest, a red tattoo of a bird of prey spreads its wings in flight.]
[He draws the feather from his hair, the golden-brown ridges turning to silver steel at his touch. A delicate swipe across his palm, and a red line of blood wells from the skin. What a cosmic jest, that he can bleed but not die. He stretches out his hand and lets his blood run from his hand to the dirt, soaking into the mountain, an offering.]
[The sky is pale, touched with early streaks of gold. His back to the stone warmed by the fire in Death Mountain's core, the drummer begins to play.]
((EDIT: now with bonus art! this is the drummer when he was younger. ...many centuries ago. it really has nothing to do with the thread but I drew it so I thought I'd toss it up))
