GLADE 1ST, 121
EARLY NIGHT
THE SILVER CANARY, Karnstein
It was the small hours of the night. The sun had long since receded, and the crowds had all but been lulled into their homes. Lorien was a cold place, and Karnstein was decidedly rural. There was little reason to be out at this hour, where not even the heat of the sun touched skin. The night seemed darker, with not even the streetwalkers of the cities present. Each shadow deeper, each flame brighter, it had become a world of contrasts within mere hours. Such was the life of those that lived here.
There were no fields to sow this night. No hay to pile into bales. The caravans were slated to leave during the early morning, the distant promise of agriculture the only such boon that this place offered. A pulse of sorts, where one might not expect it, resounded from one establishment. A distant, soft sort of sound. Along the cobblestone streets, there were few shops and public venues that burned lantern light at this hour, yet only one or two had their first floors burn with such a light. Within one, lay the origin of the strange sound.
A sleepy melody filled the air. It was the strumming of light, yet full bodied strings. Slow in tempo, it was at home with the crackles which softly churned within the hearth. The Silver Canary was wrought of hardwood, paneled and planked, nailed tightly together. The floors were clean, and there were plenty of lanterns this night. Not a single soul was in sight, as the slum strum of chords meandered forth. The barman behind the finely sanded counter had long since nodded off at his post, hands folded at his chest as he sat.
Leaned back upon a chair of wood, upholstered with only a cushion of wool, a long-haired figure sat before the hearth. Pale fingers softly gripped the neck of the stringed instrument, made of wood almost as blanche as the flesh its wielder. Orange light danced from this side of the room, its warmth still radiated out. There was no sense in keeping a place like this open at such an hour, and yet here it was: warmed and welcoming as though it were the middle of the day. The common room only shared by two.
Johana's teal eyes were kept at a half lid. Darkly hued gloves, which traveled up to her bicep, protected her fingers from the endurance run her performance had become. Her heeled riding boots had come unlaced as a matter of comfort, and the corset beneath her finely brocaded dress had been loosened. Her hair, which now fell down to the small of her back, had long since came free of the braid it was kept within. It was not by the hands of a man, however. No one had succeeded at their attempts at wooing Johana today.
Instead, that wearied attention had been focused upon the sounds which softly pressed upon the air itself. Fingers slowly strummed, pressed, and allowed the notes to halt. Johana had found a tune, one that inspired something very peculiar. It was a strange, phantom sensation of tiredness. Something she had only heard during the oft forgot minutes in the dark, or during the softest of winters. It was nostalgia. Yet, it was not aimed towards any one thing that truly existed: it was for a time that, indeed, had never.
There was no need for lyrics. At least, that was what Johana had told herself. The energy from which such a thing could be derived simply wasn't present. There wouldn't be anything that could be came up with at this hour, let alone anything good. She knew when to hedge her bets and simply allow the creative juices to flow rather than be too experimental. It had been hours since she had last stopped playing. Her teacher had long since packed his bags. The messenger from her father had long since been told to leave several times over. Time had flew.
A soft breath had escaped Johana's lips. A slow flutter of the eyes. A careful lean back into the chair in which she sat. Though her fingers moved, she could begin to feel the strain ease from her body. The melody which filled the air with this strange, distant nostalgia was enough to allow Johana's mind some freedom in its wandering. The sensation was there, but what was it that she felt nostalgic for? If things had gone different, what would be changed, as the sands of time slipped through her fingertips and onto the floor, never to be scavenged again?
A small home. A small family. A quiet life upon somewhere cold, where a warm fireplace was always near. Where the vignette of one's eyes were always tinted a warm sepia. Expectations, none.
Yet, it was not enough to bring a smile to Johana's lips. If there were lyrics to such a song, would it help the visualization? The concept of the feeling was present, those were indeed the images that had made their home within her mind, and yet, that was not enough to spark the muse within to do anything than what it already did. The dull comfort was a sensation that proved to be a double edged sword. In its simplicity, one could simply imagine what they wanted. What then, would it serve to someone who was raised to think only of what others wished?
Paramours had to be rejected, for the noble line forbade it. Johana could not sleep in this tavern's common room, propriety forbade it. It was only in this hour that she could do whatever she wished, alone, surrounded by the distant souls which slept in buildings of their own. There would be no whispers of Johana's actions, outside of her insistence on playing this instrument for so long. Perhaps it would only fuel the suitors and their desires for a match, intrigue and mystique like firewood to a flame. Her father's decision overriding her own choice.
Her eyes pressed closed for a moment. A soft breath escaped her lips, index finger stretched and pressed, formed a new chord. The song was slowly being changed. With the mood grasped between fingertips, it was being explored. Just how many times could the feeling arise from these notes, until it comes from something completely unrecognizable? The musical grounds in which Johana tread were by no means experimental, but they were perhaps one of the only means of feeling anything genuine.
