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This Is How It Goes [Open]

Posted: Tue Jul 12, 2022 7:51 pm
by Euripides
9 Searing 122
Time had been good to her.

No — Lyra had been.

A roof over her head and food on her table had made Euripides a very happy woman. Well, about as happy as she could be given the circumstances for which she still drew breath. The final wraith parted from her, and with it a tiny smidgeon of the ghost held close to. A measure of her insanity, perhaps. Not that Euripides would be so sure of that, or know that that was what had happened. Just that something had happened, and she was supposedly all the better for it.

Fresh clothes that didn’t stink of the sewer and death was a nice touch — clean fabric against skin that had been scrubbed clean countless times over by now. To regularly bathe was a luxury she was beginning to enjoy. But not too much. Not as much as being able to do what she’d favored most: play a guitar. Not necessarily hers, at first. Coin dropped in her hand and told to whatever she wanted with it and the bard — she could call herself that, she was aware now — had dallied. Stuck to loaning from the less fortunate bards. Would toss coins at them for a few minutes to play on their broken fiddles, their dented two-strings. Harried, rushed selections that had not been refined in years joined by vocals that had not been spread to the open air in over an arc.

But today — there was a determination to change one of those things. The air of Searing already set in hot. The heat unforgiving as she pulled at the top buttons of her shirt,tugged at her collar to produce a breeze. A much healthier shine to her skin, cheeks full; well, no one that might have known her before would recognize her now. Not when she almost looked perfectly normal — almost. A falter to her gait and a murmur on her tongue, she’d marched into the nearest craftsman’s shop to look at whatever instruments were available. Guitars picked up and placed back down. Strings plucked and tuned, then plucked again. A measure of annoyance had been extended to her as she moved through the shop, until she was forced to keep the last thing she touched.

Didn’t that thick-headed elf know you had to feel the guitar to know if you wanted it?

Some were not always the right fit, and she walked out of the shop, she decided she would make certain if this was the one. And if not — she cudl trade it for another. Euripides stationed herself at the nearest bench, trace marks of anger diminishing as she found the shade. Fingers passed over the rosewood guitar, lifted it to gauge the weight a bit better. Not too heavy, but not too light. But, still — not quite right.

Maybe.

It was not meant to be a performance, and thus the first slides of her fingers over the strings were tentative. Experimentations, at best. Until they weren’t.