The 23rd of Glade, 121
Late evening, Karling Inn
The day had broken this eve in Karstein. The warmth of the day had begun to recede behind the earth, the only evidence of its passing were violet and red streaks upon the sky. Ice gripped at every building, every cobblestone, offering only the refracted colorful light in recompense for the cruel disposition nature itself forced upon the residents. The faintest flurry of snow had started to paint the land, with only the distant threat of worse later in the night. It was as though nature itself had decided that all must remain indoors, yet it was too lazy to hammer such a prerogative into the denizens of the town. Clouds had just begun to fill the sky down the horizon, their presence washed away the once vibrant colors into a dull, muted grey.
Music, a singular break in the monotony, swelled from an inn just due east of the town square.
The Karling Inn was a relatively new establishment. Wrought from fine bricks, its high vaulted architecture was surprising for a town such as this. The windows were thick, but not as much as the curtains that surrounded them at all sides. An open hearth at the center provided a consistent source of warmth, as well as a space for the preparation of food in front of patrons. The drinks were more than mere mead and ale, with a varied selection which was only limited by how much farthings were offered in return for the finer brews. It was a place where the wealthy gathered. However, these folk had little clout, as the actual nobility had far better locales to play their large games of deception and propriety. Life was slower here, even for the upper class.
No more than a dozen patrons milled at this hour. In truth, not even this many would have even remained had it been any other day. It was different, in these last few dying hours of the day, as all grew still and silent. Men and women who wore silk and finery that glittered shared drinks and meals to a stranger occasion. Yet, the refined airs of the establishment was like a corset that had been drawn too tightly upon the waist. It threatened to suffocate all, even in the presence of the sound that emanated from the corner of the Karling Inn. The natural responses to dance and perhaps sing and make merry were suppressed in favor of the cruel mundanity of civilized society. Even so, the embers of interest remained, focused upon a singular point.
Johana's fingers slowly slid across the harp's strings. Sat upon a chair that was propped up against one of the windows, she leaned her chin in against the bow. With half lidded eyes and languid movements, she brought to life a melody that maintained an even tempo. The chords favored heavier notes despite this, which provided an almost longing sensation that swelled with time, before it finally was brought back down to its normal speed. It was enough to inspire the vague inkling to dance, but not much more. There were no complex notes in its patterns, and even then, to a trained ear: there were several notes that were ad-libbed or forgotten from the prior rotation. However, for something in Karstein, it served its purpose well.
Pale skin brushed the silver leaf upon the harp's bow. Raven black hair draped down the side, which gave the illusion that half of the harp had some kind of painted backing. Thin, nimble fingers plucked at the strings in a methodical manner, wrapped in fine suede gloves that laced up to the forearm. Johana's silhouette was altered by the cloak that had been drawn to the neck, plush with dark brown fur of what appeared to be a bear. A loose dress of pale fabric beneath only brought attention to the thin body that wore it, a relaxed assembly of clothes that still maintained an odd amount of decorum. One of the more obvious signs of class in the harp's player, however? The signet ring upon the index finger, whose polished silver glistened.
A mediocre performance in such a locally high profile locale could only mean one thing: whoever was playing that harp, was someone that people wanted to see. Hints were scattered upon Johanna's form, but no answers gave. No one dare approach for a myriad of strange reasons, though the glances shared by those who spoke in hushed whispers at the bar seemed quite apt to shift their gazes towards the harp player. Rumors which dripped with curiosity filled the air in hushed tones. Not a single chaperone in sight. Who would be able to afford clothes, and an instrument such as that, without having the mind as to bring a retainer? So distant was Johana's relationship with commoners, that they did not notice the familial resemblance of a local lord.
And so, the performance continued. Johana spared no mind to the faces that watched, her fingertips only placed upon strings, gaze only upon the harp. Her existence was a mystery, and it was perhaps preferred to just remain as such. There was nothing here that would be gained by flaunting who she was.
So instead, she allowed the music to fill the air, and speak for her. A distant, melancholic tune became adapted into the cycles. Had it not been for the gloves, Johana's fingers would have surely bled by now by how much practice was had on this day. And yet much to the unspoken, unseen displeasure of Johana herself, progress remained at a standstill.
Though there were no actual boundaries that stopped them from approaching Johana, there was nothing that encouraged it. No hats placed out for tips, not even the innkeeper seemed willing to speak on behalf of what exactly was happening. He was paid handsomely by the Fairwyne family to allow her to practice here, after all.
