Post by kajeayn on Jun 29, 2019 0:57:47 GMT -6
= J O E L =
"When troubles want to find me, I ain't hard to find.”
WC: 450 | Post 1
The still air shivered, plucked by strings.
High notes sang gently, rising and falling in a plaintive tune to carry through the air, falling onto the air like footsteps climbing high only to sink back down with soft, echoing steps. The music passed through the dark like a live thing, a dance of sound, notes twirling around each other in perfect harmony, sometimes rising faster only to descend again into a slow, melancholy waltz. The music was soft, and didn’t carry far, only able to be heard at a distance when all other sound faded away.
It had been a while, since Joel’s music played in the Bunker. Longer still since he had allowed it to sound this sorrowful, each note a mournful sound. Sometimes it crept into his playing anyway, but he consciously fought against it. Tonight he embraced it.
He’d long lost track of time, playing quietly as the night wore longer, leaning back against the rough palett. He hadn’t quite made it onto the bare bed, instead laying on the floor beside it, back pressed to the base. One of the communal spaces, a few pallets laid out to work on, and Joel the current only occupant. He didn’t mind; he’d come here to think after all.
The mandolin pressed slightly against his chest, intricately carved wood gleaming in his soft blue teke, roses curled along the wood and blooming at its base. The paint had faded in places but had been carefully maintained otherwise, the dark wood polished to a lavish shine, not a scuff or scratch to be seen along its surface. It was a work of art, and utterly out of place here in this dark room of dirt and rough wood, held in the careful embrace of a ragged, dark eyed horse who wasn’t even looking at it as he played, unfocused eyes staring down at the floor as the strings quivered.
He didn’t like to think about the situation with Amadeus, but the thought had plagued him for days. It sat heavily on him, her face flashing behind his eyelids whenever he blinked, sometimes replaced by her companions but it was the young king who plagued Joel the most.
He remembered when she had been crowned. He remembered when she’d been killed.
Once again, raw emotions bubbled up to the surface of his mind, burning and tangled and sharp at every edge. He couldn’t even begin to untangle them, could only desperately push down the rising storm lashing him from inside and pray it would go away on its own.
The air rang with a sharp, discordant note, the music faltering for a few beats before the song resumed, slower this time.
High notes sang gently, rising and falling in a plaintive tune to carry through the air, falling onto the air like footsteps climbing high only to sink back down with soft, echoing steps. The music passed through the dark like a live thing, a dance of sound, notes twirling around each other in perfect harmony, sometimes rising faster only to descend again into a slow, melancholy waltz. The music was soft, and didn’t carry far, only able to be heard at a distance when all other sound faded away.
It had been a while, since Joel’s music played in the Bunker. Longer still since he had allowed it to sound this sorrowful, each note a mournful sound. Sometimes it crept into his playing anyway, but he consciously fought against it. Tonight he embraced it.
He’d long lost track of time, playing quietly as the night wore longer, leaning back against the rough palett. He hadn’t quite made it onto the bare bed, instead laying on the floor beside it, back pressed to the base. One of the communal spaces, a few pallets laid out to work on, and Joel the current only occupant. He didn’t mind; he’d come here to think after all.
The mandolin pressed slightly against his chest, intricately carved wood gleaming in his soft blue teke, roses curled along the wood and blooming at its base. The paint had faded in places but had been carefully maintained otherwise, the dark wood polished to a lavish shine, not a scuff or scratch to be seen along its surface. It was a work of art, and utterly out of place here in this dark room of dirt and rough wood, held in the careful embrace of a ragged, dark eyed horse who wasn’t even looking at it as he played, unfocused eyes staring down at the floor as the strings quivered.
He didn’t like to think about the situation with Amadeus, but the thought had plagued him for days. It sat heavily on him, her face flashing behind his eyelids whenever he blinked, sometimes replaced by her companions but it was the young king who plagued Joel the most.
He remembered when she had been crowned. He remembered when she’d been killed.
Once again, raw emotions bubbled up to the surface of his mind, burning and tangled and sharp at every edge. He couldn’t even begin to untangle them, could only desperately push down the rising storm lashing him from inside and pray it would go away on its own.
The air rang with a sharp, discordant note, the music faltering for a few beats before the song resumed, slower this time.