25th of Fall, 513AV - morning
A peek outside showed the weather to be simply awful. The rain that had battered her casinor most of the night continued and seemed delighted to do so. More's the pity, Opal thought, dejectedly. The rock garden, artfully spotted with strings of bells, was a sleek and shiny, rainy mess as the already wet land beneath rejected the additional water falling from the sky. Muddy rivulets wound their way through her carefully maintained landscape - a landscape designed not for obsessive care, but exactly the opposite. Opal had chosen the rocky design for its more... Independent... Attribute. Which was to say, she could entirely ignore it and still the ground would maintain its appealing aesthetic.
In a nod to her patrons' other senses, Opal had installed collections of bells throughout, cleverly hidden behind rock sculptures and potted native plants. But, though she knew the bells were there, tinkling away merrily through the storm's onslaught, she could hear nothing from them. The sound of wind and splattering raindrops drowned out the music entirely.
So, if the music wasn't loud enough to drown out the storm, then the solution must be to make more music!
Secretly, Opal was pleased that the weather was unwelcoming; it was rare that she had time, uninterrupted, to do nothing but pursue her music. Whichever music she chose to pursue. And the shop was the perfect spot to do just that. Shelves were filled with every instrument Opal had heard of; some she'd had the pleasure of seeing firsthand only when unpacking the merchandise boxes at store set-up.
Quickly scanning the shelves and cases, Opal's eyes lit up when they landed on the banjo - she had precisely zero experience playing the instrument, but the strings and circular body... Intriguing. But, on the off chance that someone else should decide to come out in this weather, they might walk in and hear her making a wretched noise. Deciding that scenario would be undoubtedly bad for business - shouldn't the owner of a music shop be musical? - she regretfully gave up the idea of banjo playing. For today, anyway.
So, what then? The lute, she supposed. It was always the lute. Opal might occasionally stray to another instrument, and did have aspirations to master them all, but she always returned to the lute. Since the age of 10, Opal had been drawn to the instrument. The clear notes, the graceful body. Yes, it would be the lute. Lifting the instrument, she crossed the room to sit by the hearth, glad of its cheery flames and crackling warmth.
Seating herself in one of two solid-looking armchairs, Opal positioned the lute on her lap and plucked idly at the strings, staring into the flames. She'd heard a tune a few days ago, at the midnight market, and it had been running through her mind in the days since. How had it gone, exactly?
Concentration puckered Opal's forehead, and small white teeth clamped onto her bottom lip as she puzzled out the proper notes, or a semblance of them, and put them into just the right tune. The song had had words, she thought, but she hadn't heard them. It just seemed that there should be words. Playing slowly, thoughtfully, lent itself to multitasking, however, and she decided to attempt to make some up. Maybe a song about the weather? Ick, no. Immediately she chased the thought from her mind. No one liked songs about weather; no one loved songs about weather. Love! That would be perfect. A good, torrid love song, or maybe a song about love unrequited? But definitely about love.
Feeling more confident now, having picked out notes that sounded passably like the song she'd heard, Opal ran through them over and over again, while she put her brain to the task of words. All the time she'd spent playing various instruments, and she'd never once tried her hand at writing up the words to go with the music. Softly, and slowly as she thought of the words, she recited them. It was a futile attempt, the recitation while she played, when she was familiar with neither words nor tunes, but Opal was never one to go halfway.
Flow, oh tears, o'er cheek and chin,
Sorrow is my friend;
This red bird sings in a city of sin,
Empty depths of pain without end.
A stuttering accompaniment on the lute kept the words from flowing smoothly, but Opal was undeterred. It didn't sound perfect, to her ears, but it didn't sound that bad. Most of the problem, she felt, was that the words didn't seem to fit the lute. The lute had always seemed like a happy instrument, meant for happy tunes. But this had all the hallmarks of a hit: drama, drama and more drama. Opal was quite pleased with the imagery her words inspired. Who knew she had this lyrical artist lurking inside her just waiting to be unleashed?
Of course, she seemed to have left out any mention of love. Opal frowned a moment, considering; but, surely she could work that into another verse? Of course. Problems happily solved, Opal spent nearly half a bell practicing the first verse over and over again, until she could play and sing it almost simultaneously.
OoC Notes:Song a hacked and butchered version of 'Flow My Tears', from John Dowland
In a nod to her patrons' other senses, Opal had installed collections of bells throughout, cleverly hidden behind rock sculptures and potted native plants. But, though she knew the bells were there, tinkling away merrily through the storm's onslaught, she could hear nothing from them. The sound of wind and splattering raindrops drowned out the music entirely.
So, if the music wasn't loud enough to drown out the storm, then the solution must be to make more music!
Secretly, Opal was pleased that the weather was unwelcoming; it was rare that she had time, uninterrupted, to do nothing but pursue her music. Whichever music she chose to pursue. And the shop was the perfect spot to do just that. Shelves were filled with every instrument Opal had heard of; some she'd had the pleasure of seeing firsthand only when unpacking the merchandise boxes at store set-up.
Quickly scanning the shelves and cases, Opal's eyes lit up when they landed on the banjo - she had precisely zero experience playing the instrument, but the strings and circular body... Intriguing. But, on the off chance that someone else should decide to come out in this weather, they might walk in and hear her making a wretched noise. Deciding that scenario would be undoubtedly bad for business - shouldn't the owner of a music shop be musical? - she regretfully gave up the idea of banjo playing. For today, anyway.
So, what then? The lute, she supposed. It was always the lute. Opal might occasionally stray to another instrument, and did have aspirations to master them all, but she always returned to the lute. Since the age of 10, Opal had been drawn to the instrument. The clear notes, the graceful body. Yes, it would be the lute. Lifting the instrument, she crossed the room to sit by the hearth, glad of its cheery flames and crackling warmth.
Seating herself in one of two solid-looking armchairs, Opal positioned the lute on her lap and plucked idly at the strings, staring into the flames. She'd heard a tune a few days ago, at the midnight market, and it had been running through her mind in the days since. How had it gone, exactly?
Concentration puckered Opal's forehead, and small white teeth clamped onto her bottom lip as she puzzled out the proper notes, or a semblance of them, and put them into just the right tune. The song had had words, she thought, but she hadn't heard them. It just seemed that there should be words. Playing slowly, thoughtfully, lent itself to multitasking, however, and she decided to attempt to make some up. Maybe a song about the weather? Ick, no. Immediately she chased the thought from her mind. No one liked songs about weather; no one loved songs about weather. Love! That would be perfect. A good, torrid love song, or maybe a song about love unrequited? But definitely about love.
Feeling more confident now, having picked out notes that sounded passably like the song she'd heard, Opal ran through them over and over again, while she put her brain to the task of words. All the time she'd spent playing various instruments, and she'd never once tried her hand at writing up the words to go with the music. Softly, and slowly as she thought of the words, she recited them. It was a futile attempt, the recitation while she played, when she was familiar with neither words nor tunes, but Opal was never one to go halfway.
Flow, oh tears, o'er cheek and chin,
Sorrow is my friend;
This red bird sings in a city of sin,
Empty depths of pain without end.
A stuttering accompaniment on the lute kept the words from flowing smoothly, but Opal was undeterred. It didn't sound perfect, to her ears, but it didn't sound that bad. Most of the problem, she felt, was that the words didn't seem to fit the lute. The lute had always seemed like a happy instrument, meant for happy tunes. But this had all the hallmarks of a hit: drama, drama and more drama. Opal was quite pleased with the imagery her words inspired. Who knew she had this lyrical artist lurking inside her just waiting to be unleashed?
Of course, she seemed to have left out any mention of love. Opal frowned a moment, considering; but, surely she could work that into another verse? Of course. Problems happily solved, Opal spent nearly half a bell practicing the first verse over and over again, until she could play and sing it almost simultaneously.
OoC Notes:Song a hacked and butchered version of 'Flow My Tears', from John Dowland
