A Broken String

16th of Flamerule, De Gryphon Villa

Written by Ophidimancer

As the wee hours of dawn gave way to the early morning, Fiego returned to his family’s manor and bade his coachwoman to her rest. After driving the noble and his compatriots through the city and their harrowing adventures, she deserved the day off. Wearily making his way to his room, the bard eased his boots off and slumped onto his bed only to stand back up again as something twanged discordantly in his bag. Rustling around for a moment, he retrieved his violin from within and winced at the broken E string. He absentmindedly unstrung the the broken catgut from the peg and shuffled toward his dresser. Hanging the instrument up on it’s wall hook, Fiego was resolving to take it into the luthier to get it restrung when he caught sight of himself in the mirror above his dresser.
There was nothing out of the ordinary about his reflection, his face was as handsome as usual and even the exhaustion writ across his frame was becoming familiar for as many adventures as he had been party to, but something still caused a pang of discomfort in the nobleman’s heart. He found his hand reaching up to his left temple of its own accord as if by long habit.
Now why would that make his heart thump with loss? What could ..
oh
There ... used to be … something silver? A strand of silver hair, yes. Fiego frowned and stared into the silvered glass. Why would he have silver hair? He wasn’t that old .. why?
oh yes
There was a woman. She was .. beautiful … was she not? What was her name? He had told this story to his friends many times, why could he not ..?
yes her
Eilistraee! That was her name. She had … she looked like … she said .. Fiego’s breath was coming fast now, his face twisted in distress. He knew he had known something, and that it was important, but it was slipping away from him like the wisps of a dream. With a heavy thud, his hand hit the dresser top and he leaned forward, hanging his head so his hair covered his face. His breath came in shuddering gasps and sweat broke out along his brow from seeming exertion.
His mind twisted itself into knots trying to remember. Her face? Blank. Her touch? Nothing. Her voice? Vague murmuring impressions. A forgotten note that soured a composition. A missed step making a dance come to a stumbling halt. A fumbled riposte that destroyed a defence.
He could still remember everything he had learned about the goddess in his waking hours, but the dream! The dream that had been more real to him than his daylit life was gone!
In desperation he threw himself onto his bed, heedless of his traveling clothes, stained with sweat and other things best left unidentified. If he had found her in his dreams once, he might find her again. Sleep eluded him for hours, but between one restless thought and the next, he slipped away. Only to toss and turn the day away, no dreams gracing his slumber except random imagery and the sounds of the fight with the raging beast in the Shadowfell.
On the wall, where it would be forgotten, was his violin, hanging there with a broken string … incomplete and voiceless.

Themes

Loss

Plot type

Off Table Scene