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Kit's mouth quirked at the mention of Rhysol's 'love,' just subtle enough to be mistaken from some reflex or nervous twitch. As the girl finished her boast she lifted the float to her lips and again began to play. The girl knew enough songs to draw them out of a hat whenever she had need of them, it seemed. Which was, all told , a good thing.
Kit had been born far from Ravok or any other place that had told this story with this tune. But she remembered a song without about the same beat of a man and a woman who never stopped, never waited, and always searched for one another in the places the other had just gone. In the end, the tragedy had been them giving up the chase, convinced that their love was never meant to be. But perhaps that was an Alvad tale that shared the same notes. The flute, Kit had always thought, was a thing designed for good cheer and fortune, especially with the way it sang so high and bright. But Ireth gave the high voice of flute the space it needed to be long and solemn, the notes measured just so.
While Ireth played, Kit watched, tilting her head a little to the side as the world reacted around her. When at last Ireth was done Kit frowned, shook her head, sighed and tucked the silver into her pocket. "No . . ."
She pulled two out of her pocket, winked and grinned like a thief caught but not sorry. "'Twas sadder." She threw them both at the musician's bowl and the mizas both landing with a satisfying thug and settling to its bottom. If her years of busking had taught Kit anything, it was that a little generosity could go a long way in improving someone's day. These acts of kindness were about all that Kit could afford.
Kit had been born far from Ravok or any other place that had told this story with this tune. But she remembered a song without about the same beat of a man and a woman who never stopped, never waited, and always searched for one another in the places the other had just gone. In the end, the tragedy had been them giving up the chase, convinced that their love was never meant to be. But perhaps that was an Alvad tale that shared the same notes. The flute, Kit had always thought, was a thing designed for good cheer and fortune, especially with the way it sang so high and bright. But Ireth gave the high voice of flute the space it needed to be long and solemn, the notes measured just so.
While Ireth played, Kit watched, tilting her head a little to the side as the world reacted around her. When at last Ireth was done Kit frowned, shook her head, sighed and tucked the silver into her pocket. "No . . ."
She pulled two out of her pocket, winked and grinned like a thief caught but not sorry. "'Twas sadder." She threw them both at the musician's bowl and the mizas both landing with a satisfying thug and settling to its bottom. If her years of busking had taught Kit anything, it was that a little generosity could go a long way in improving someone's day. These acts of kindness were about all that Kit could afford.
