Post by Sevanstarre on Jun 4, 2012 5:12:49 GMT -5
Sevanstarre sits quietly in this new, unknown land, lute on his lap, Letter of Affection in his hand, drifting between rampant homesickness, happiness and annoyance.
Two days ago his old mentor, Smilin' Jack, finally tracked Sevan down at his house in Bree-land. The Strolling Players, that group of musicians who snapped up Sevan less than a day after he got 'gently pushed' out of the Shire, have broken up. Jack has been tracking Sevan down for the past week to deliver the news, but Sevan gently assumes that his old mentor is feeling a bit lonely and wants some company, which Sevan is very happy to provide.
But why couldn't they have done that at home? True, Sevan's no stranger to travel and Jack knows that he loves to wander. But now Sevan has a good reason for wanting to stay close to Bree. Every step he takes away from the Bree homesteads is one step further away from Morninglorie - from her face, her voice, her hugs, her laugh... He wishes, not for the first time, that he had the words to do her justice.
Instead, Jack contacts Sevan with news of 'utmost urgency', and pausing only long enough to take Morninglorie's letter and write one quickly for her himself, Sevan sets off with his old mentor once again. Now the weekend is over, and though he'll be sad to leave his mentor behind, he'll be seeing his friends, and Glorie, very soon. Besides, hopefully Jack will do a better job of staying in touch this time.
For now, Jack has gone off on his own business to give Sevan a bit of space, then meet with him tomorrow and take him home. And so, as time ticks away and night well and truly falls, Sevan searches his mind, desperately trying to find a distraction for his bored brain. When finally, he settles down and turns his mind to an old problem, an unanswered question, one which has been preying on his mind every single day since he left the Shire in the first place.
How does he actually DO the stuff he does?
Sevan has killed raging orcs with his voice. Stopped brigands in their paths with a single, powerful chord from his lute. Kept dangerous animals at bay with a simple, pounding drum rhythm. He shouted a wild bear to death on his first day out of the Shire. He can bend musical notes, concepts and patterns to have almost any effect he desires, on the target of his choice.
And he has no idea how.
Sevan raises his hand, idly flicking a mental switch and watching as his hand becomes wreathed in a menacing, glowing red light. He knows now, instinctively, that his music will damage whomever he plays it for, possibly even killing them. But... no-one else, until he plays it for them. He knows that it only seems to work against hostile creatures, too - not that he's ever tried to harm one of his allies the same way.
He flicks the switch again and the light fades from his hand, and now he knows that the exact same melody will revive and restore his allies while having absolutely no effect on a monster who hears it. He knows this. He knows exactly what he's doing.
But he has no idea how.
He thinks back to the things he's seen his friends and allies do over the past few weeks. Faral, the Alliance leader who first extended the hand of friendship to Sevan some months ago, the man he affectionately refers to as 'boss'. He's seen Faral drop an arrow straight between an orc's teeth from two hundred paces, while barely even looking. Erulise, one of his first friends, whom he's seen suck the energy and power out of an enemy and then release it in a terrifying, magical storm of lightning and wind. He's seen his allies doing amazing things through their own mediums of power - concentration, magical energy. But he uses... music.
And he has no idea how!
And then, suddenly, the answer pops into Sevan's mind. It's so simple, it has to be true. He's a Hero! Just like the heroes in his stories, taking mundane things and making them heroic. Archer, the elf from his favourite story who could bend arrows in mid-flight and never miss her target. Hyran, the human who could turn things to gold just by touching them. Bosworth, the dwarf who crystallised raw power from the very air around himself and, according to legend, farted thunderstorms.
Sevanstarre pauses for a moment to consider how Hyran managed whenever he had to...
No, that can't be it. Sevan's not a hero. Ridiculous. Music is just too... un-heroic for that. So... what does that leave?
A God. After all, he slays with his voice, so logically...
No, that's not it either. If Sevan really was a god, that meant that at some point he would have had to actually choose his face. Sevan's never been very fond of his particular face, which he privately considers to be upside-down and inside-out.
He thinks hard for a while longer, flicking his mental switch over and over again and watching the light glowing and fading around his hands, before a brand new conclusion, filled with dread, fills his little mind.
Someone else is controlling it.
That's why he never has to think hard about controlling the effect he wants his music to have - someone else is doing it for him. Through him. Oh, gods. Someone else is choosing where his music goes, what effect it should have when it gets there, when it should effect other people and when it shouldn't. Oh, hells.
It makes more and more sense the more he thinks about it! That's why the exact same melody can have different effects, and why a completely different melody on a different instrument can have an identical effect. The melody doesn't even matter! Someone's just choosing the effect they want. Oh no, it can't be.
But, hang on, if that's the case, then why does the control need to stop there? What if there's someone out there, maybe even in a different world, who's just controlling everything? Every step he takes in every direction, walking or running. Every salute, every hug, every bow, every kneel, every dance, every wave!? Woah. Everything, right down to the choice of what he's got in his bags at the moment. Every song he plays, every word... But...
Hang on... oh my, it gets worse. Ohhhh, noooo. That means every thought he has, too. So, hang on, what? Someone else is making him sit down with his lute, and think about himself sitting down with his lute thinking about himself sitting down with his lute thinking...
Luckily, Sevan never did get to finish that particular thought because, at that point, the pub closed.
Smilin' Jack found Sevanstarre the next day, passed out in the long grass behind the pub, muttering something indecipherable about never, ever, ever going to the toilet again. He smiled, shook his head in amusement, and carefully nursed his star pupil back to sobriety - but not before gently drawing a moustache on his upper lip with a lump of charcoal.
Two days ago his old mentor, Smilin' Jack, finally tracked Sevan down at his house in Bree-land. The Strolling Players, that group of musicians who snapped up Sevan less than a day after he got 'gently pushed' out of the Shire, have broken up. Jack has been tracking Sevan down for the past week to deliver the news, but Sevan gently assumes that his old mentor is feeling a bit lonely and wants some company, which Sevan is very happy to provide.
But why couldn't they have done that at home? True, Sevan's no stranger to travel and Jack knows that he loves to wander. But now Sevan has a good reason for wanting to stay close to Bree. Every step he takes away from the Bree homesteads is one step further away from Morninglorie - from her face, her voice, her hugs, her laugh... He wishes, not for the first time, that he had the words to do her justice.
Instead, Jack contacts Sevan with news of 'utmost urgency', and pausing only long enough to take Morninglorie's letter and write one quickly for her himself, Sevan sets off with his old mentor once again. Now the weekend is over, and though he'll be sad to leave his mentor behind, he'll be seeing his friends, and Glorie, very soon. Besides, hopefully Jack will do a better job of staying in touch this time.
For now, Jack has gone off on his own business to give Sevan a bit of space, then meet with him tomorrow and take him home. And so, as time ticks away and night well and truly falls, Sevan searches his mind, desperately trying to find a distraction for his bored brain. When finally, he settles down and turns his mind to an old problem, an unanswered question, one which has been preying on his mind every single day since he left the Shire in the first place.
How does he actually DO the stuff he does?
Sevan has killed raging orcs with his voice. Stopped brigands in their paths with a single, powerful chord from his lute. Kept dangerous animals at bay with a simple, pounding drum rhythm. He shouted a wild bear to death on his first day out of the Shire. He can bend musical notes, concepts and patterns to have almost any effect he desires, on the target of his choice.
And he has no idea how.
Sevan raises his hand, idly flicking a mental switch and watching as his hand becomes wreathed in a menacing, glowing red light. He knows now, instinctively, that his music will damage whomever he plays it for, possibly even killing them. But... no-one else, until he plays it for them. He knows that it only seems to work against hostile creatures, too - not that he's ever tried to harm one of his allies the same way.
He flicks the switch again and the light fades from his hand, and now he knows that the exact same melody will revive and restore his allies while having absolutely no effect on a monster who hears it. He knows this. He knows exactly what he's doing.
But he has no idea how.
He thinks back to the things he's seen his friends and allies do over the past few weeks. Faral, the Alliance leader who first extended the hand of friendship to Sevan some months ago, the man he affectionately refers to as 'boss'. He's seen Faral drop an arrow straight between an orc's teeth from two hundred paces, while barely even looking. Erulise, one of his first friends, whom he's seen suck the energy and power out of an enemy and then release it in a terrifying, magical storm of lightning and wind. He's seen his allies doing amazing things through their own mediums of power - concentration, magical energy. But he uses... music.
And he has no idea how!
And then, suddenly, the answer pops into Sevan's mind. It's so simple, it has to be true. He's a Hero! Just like the heroes in his stories, taking mundane things and making them heroic. Archer, the elf from his favourite story who could bend arrows in mid-flight and never miss her target. Hyran, the human who could turn things to gold just by touching them. Bosworth, the dwarf who crystallised raw power from the very air around himself and, according to legend, farted thunderstorms.
Sevanstarre pauses for a moment to consider how Hyran managed whenever he had to...
No, that can't be it. Sevan's not a hero. Ridiculous. Music is just too... un-heroic for that. So... what does that leave?
A God. After all, he slays with his voice, so logically...
No, that's not it either. If Sevan really was a god, that meant that at some point he would have had to actually choose his face. Sevan's never been very fond of his particular face, which he privately considers to be upside-down and inside-out.
He thinks hard for a while longer, flicking his mental switch over and over again and watching the light glowing and fading around his hands, before a brand new conclusion, filled with dread, fills his little mind.
Someone else is controlling it.
That's why he never has to think hard about controlling the effect he wants his music to have - someone else is doing it for him. Through him. Oh, gods. Someone else is choosing where his music goes, what effect it should have when it gets there, when it should effect other people and when it shouldn't. Oh, hells.
It makes more and more sense the more he thinks about it! That's why the exact same melody can have different effects, and why a completely different melody on a different instrument can have an identical effect. The melody doesn't even matter! Someone's just choosing the effect they want. Oh no, it can't be.
But, hang on, if that's the case, then why does the control need to stop there? What if there's someone out there, maybe even in a different world, who's just controlling everything? Every step he takes in every direction, walking or running. Every salute, every hug, every bow, every kneel, every dance, every wave!? Woah. Everything, right down to the choice of what he's got in his bags at the moment. Every song he plays, every word... But...
Hang on... oh my, it gets worse. Ohhhh, noooo. That means every thought he has, too. So, hang on, what? Someone else is making him sit down with his lute, and think about himself sitting down with his lute thinking about himself sitting down with his lute thinking...
Luckily, Sevan never did get to finish that particular thought because, at that point, the pub closed.
Smilin' Jack found Sevanstarre the next day, passed out in the long grass behind the pub, muttering something indecipherable about never, ever, ever going to the toilet again. He smiled, shook his head in amusement, and carefully nursed his star pupil back to sobriety - but not before gently drawing a moustache on his upper lip with a lump of charcoal.
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