RESONANCE
ACT II, SCENE III
ACT II, SCENE III
An interlude, in an inn in Mor Dhona.
In some other place, the first signs of dawn might be showing.
The mage and the bard had been in Thanalan but a couple of days and nights before. The weather had been precisely and unsurprisingly dry, but they'd brought abundant water and supplies, and it had made for pleasant camping under perfectly clear skies. Even the more aggressive fauna had avoided them, as if fortune were scouting ahead for the pair. At night, there had been talks of stars and their meanings, and whether they truly had any.
By the time they had reached Mor Dhona, however, the clouds seem to have begun to follow them, and massed in the sky until there was no sky, only a rumpled, uneven grey to accompany them. While the bard was accustomed to difficulties in camping, it seemed odd to insist on roughing it when there was an inn, and good food, and even a measure of local enthusiasm and cheer to be had in the settlements around the Rising Stones. They had not come to Coerthas, yet, so there was no reason, not quite yet, to be grim for its own sake or any other, and so a pleasant evening was had under the canopies of the growing town.
Perhaps the Twelve simply had a taste for drama, however, or perhaps the clouds care not for the whims and feelings of god or sentient beings, for even as the pair enjoyed the succor of the bustling town, the skies continued to darken, and by what may or may not have been sunset - for there was no way to confirm it - the rains came, fast and strong enough to wash clean the stones and send traces of the passing of feet and dust flowing away in rivulets.
The night, though it simply became a lesser darkness flowing into greater, had been passed in such ways as travelers were wont to pass, but whereas the bard might once have taken note of the dalliances and discussions, his body and voice simply went through their motions, practiced and instinctual as if they were indeed but a long-remembered song. His thoughts were more akin to the cloud cover; his concerns were as the rain, washing away the moments even as they happened.
In this way did the night pass, and while other parts of the world might be experiencing the first golden kiss of dawn, naught but rain fell inside and outside of the bard's sense of fleeting time. Soon, he would come to Coerthas; soon, he would find the entrance to Natalan, as it was called, and soon, he would visit his musical gift upon the dirty birds' treasure, and shatter it, and thus complete this errand, assuaging curiosity, a need for closure, and the lingering, tingling sense in his gut.
It was that tingling, and shaky dreams of faces and voices lost, that finally stirred him. With the other of the pair still asleep, he dressed quietly, and seized the comfortably familiar instrument case. He wandered from the room, closing the door softly behind him, and wended his way from hall to the outside, to the inn's common balcony, where guest tables sat unattended, protected by rain from hanging banners, but still somewhat damp from the rain that still drove into the stonework, making the air a thing of mist.
He did not heed the moisture in the air, or even the light sheen on the chair and table as he sat down; it infused his shirt, leaving it chilly, but even this was simply registered in his thoughts as fact, no more worth reacting to than the slight pangs of hunger in his gut. The water was everywhere, as if there had never been any sort of air but the most humid, but it did not fall directly upon the chair and table, and perhaps his strings might become dampened if he stayed. He did not heed that thought, either, as he brought the instrument to place in front of his chest, and stretched out to a languid lean.
Calloused fingers reached for the strings, and plucked out a tune. The drone of the rain swallowed it but a few yalms from the table, and yet, he played on. It was not meant for any but himself and the clouds, anyway, and thus his voice raised only slightly above a whisper.
If a song had a spirit, an expectation of its own use, it might have been offended to have been so quiet and muted by the elements, when it would be more used to a shouted, booming presentation. But the clouds cared no more for such a thing than it did for the bard himself, and thus he sang on.
♪ No stars in a rainstorm, and last night, it brought me down
For I knew they were there, but now it's me who's lost and may never be found
Compelled by the magic, I feel it lure me to the fight;
Now it's cold, and I'm losing my hold, stumbling through a starless night
This could be the last morning, coming, to find an ending to the pain,
Like seeking starlight in the rain.
Shoulders weighed by demons, I thought that I had let them go
When I tried, found they hide deep inside, in every lyric that I know
Are we only puppets, cavorting to repeating times
Is it all just a lie; are you and I simply a fugue without a rhyme?
If this is the last morning coming, have all our efforts been in vain,
Like seeking starlight in the rain?
There's power in the lightning, but tonight it only brings me down
'Cause it's power that's free, unlike me, after a peace that can't be found
Relying on the magic; I feel it gather in the air
Is it fear that I'll hear in my voice, or will we even make it there?
There's no sign of the morn that's coming, no hint of dawn to sustain
Will there be aught left of us, more than starlight in the rain? ♪
( With respect to Dio for the inspiration: )
"But in the laugh there was another voice. A clearer laugh, an ironic laugh. A laugh which laughs because it chooses not to weep."