Bend the Strings to My Will
Read Time: 6 minutes
Elegance is a name often given to those who earn the title of bard. Rigorous practice, years of training at ever-prestigious bardic institutions, and calloused bleeding fingers make great bards who they are – and they make it seem effortless. Nexir knew he was not one to compare. His soft, unblemished fingertips and polished lyre did not speak of the excellence that his peers possessed. He was merely a boy with a lyre, picking at strings precariously in hopes of stumbling onto a masterpiece.
His best Friend, Aslore, thinks – believes – otherwise. Perhaps his playing style was precarious in nature, but Aslore gathered that it only proved his prowess, his ability to play purely at the hands of luck. Knees trembling under his own weight, the hoping bard was suddenly pushed onto the stage. “Hello, distinguished guests,” he spoke, the words blending in with the ambient noise of lazy dining. Nexir moved closer to the microphone, trying to get the crowd’s attention. “Hello. I am Nexir, a student at Tarres Bardic College,” He raised his voice as if his title was impressive. “I will be playing an original piece.”
The crowd did not put their drinks down or turn their heads. Nexir was nothing more than background noise; a fruit fly buzzing in their ear. Nexir’s fingers could not replicate the grace of the common bard. The strings rejected his delicate fingers, too stiff for comfort. Still, he could not bring himself to give control, to entrust that his body and his mind would guide him to Flow. No artist, no common tavern-goer could care for song without soul – it was merely background, and so was Nexir.