The further North Malcear traveled, the
louder the music became.
The question that plagued him was whether the music was in his mind, or he was actually hearing it?
Malcear never complained to his friends about the long nights he spent awake, wrapped in a cold cloth of Arcane magic that Gasadriel had draped on him. (Arcane magic had always felt cold to him, like bare skin against steel) A spell to keep him feeling rested, but it also kept him from falling asleep. He was the best choice for a night watchman. He could see in the dark, he had keen eyes, and if anything snuck up on him, he could handle it long enough to wake up his allies. It was an honor to protect his friends. That being said, a week without sleep did things to his mind. The constant awareness. The heightened sense of time passing. No darkness. No closed eyes dreaming and forgetting reality. Not even for a moment. And the music.
The source of the music was difficult to pinpoint. The style of the music was near impossible to describe. It seemed to drift downward all around him, like a soft snow of tinkling bells, and a light wind of choral voices. The percussion came from within his chest. The campfire danced to the beat. He could swear it was burning silver tonight.
It felt as though he had heard this music his whole life. It had always been there, swirling and arching, even when he was a child. The thought seemed slightly mad, but he couldn't shake the truth of it. It was only now in his life he became aware of it. He could identify the changes. Read into the meaning.
“It's coming from the stars.” He decided one night. “Each one has a voice, and their choir compels me.”
While his friends slept, he used the privacy of night and nature to indulge the seeming madness he was feeling. Malcear would move away from the camp, never far so as to keep a guardians vigilance, but at a distance where a waking pair of eyes wouldn't see his strange ritual. He danced.
If ever there was a word to describe a man, graceful was Malcear's. He danced in slow circles. He re-enacted the sword forms he learned in his daily lessons. They seemed now more like a dance than a means of fighting, used in such a way. His scimitar cut silently through crisp night air in wide vibrant radials around him. It moved like cloth, not steel. It felt weightless. His feet shifted with meticulous precision. His arms and legs rising and falling. Eyes closed. Ears drinking in the music of starlight. The beat of his heart and the pulsing rhythm of the choir growing to a forte that pounded the blood in his ears. His sword was a conductors baton. His force of will, an orchestra.
Holding his eyes shut so tightly prevented him from seeing the small white flames that licked off of his body, ever so lightly, casting his dancing shadow in every direction.
What was he becoming?
The question that plagued him was whether the music was in his mind, or he was actually hearing it?
Malcear never complained to his friends about the long nights he spent awake, wrapped in a cold cloth of Arcane magic that Gasadriel had draped on him. (Arcane magic had always felt cold to him, like bare skin against steel) A spell to keep him feeling rested, but it also kept him from falling asleep. He was the best choice for a night watchman. He could see in the dark, he had keen eyes, and if anything snuck up on him, he could handle it long enough to wake up his allies. It was an honor to protect his friends. That being said, a week without sleep did things to his mind. The constant awareness. The heightened sense of time passing. No darkness. No closed eyes dreaming and forgetting reality. Not even for a moment. And the music.
The source of the music was difficult to pinpoint. The style of the music was near impossible to describe. It seemed to drift downward all around him, like a soft snow of tinkling bells, and a light wind of choral voices. The percussion came from within his chest. The campfire danced to the beat. He could swear it was burning silver tonight.
It felt as though he had heard this music his whole life. It had always been there, swirling and arching, even when he was a child. The thought seemed slightly mad, but he couldn't shake the truth of it. It was only now in his life he became aware of it. He could identify the changes. Read into the meaning.
“It's coming from the stars.” He decided one night. “Each one has a voice, and their choir compels me.”
While his friends slept, he used the privacy of night and nature to indulge the seeming madness he was feeling. Malcear would move away from the camp, never far so as to keep a guardians vigilance, but at a distance where a waking pair of eyes wouldn't see his strange ritual. He danced.
If ever there was a word to describe a man, graceful was Malcear's. He danced in slow circles. He re-enacted the sword forms he learned in his daily lessons. They seemed now more like a dance than a means of fighting, used in such a way. His scimitar cut silently through crisp night air in wide vibrant radials around him. It moved like cloth, not steel. It felt weightless. His feet shifted with meticulous precision. His arms and legs rising and falling. Eyes closed. Ears drinking in the music of starlight. The beat of his heart and the pulsing rhythm of the choir growing to a forte that pounded the blood in his ears. His sword was a conductors baton. His force of will, an orchestra.
Holding his eyes shut so tightly prevented him from seeing the small white flames that licked off of his body, ever so lightly, casting his dancing shadow in every direction.
What was he becoming?
