Difference between revisions of "Logs:First Reports"

OOC Note: The purpose is to get a little bit better handle on Ceawlin and his motivations! Apologies if it's rough; he's still new!

Into the wee hours of the night, my song has begun to take shape in the lonely corner of the weyr I've found to spend practicing. The bloody, war-lust filled lyrics are at odds with the sweet words that flow when I sing. I do not often sing for it serves to only highlight the fact that my voice is too sweet, too nice for what I wish I had. Envy of the other Harpers their deeper baritone's and saving my own pride, I decline to sing unless absolutely necessary. As a child it was even worse. Too high, too pure, too sweet. Too perfect. I hated it.

So I sabotaged it. The last person to make me sing...

I shake my thoughts out of my head and focus on the song. The song's lyrics are entirely coincidental to what's included within. It's amusing to think of someone looking at the words, being distracted by the words, and not noticing what's right there. My mentor tells me that I am too prideful, and I will end up falling should I revel in what I was taught to do too much.

That hasn't happened yet. Although, I'd best learn caution. Here, anyway. It's not the Hall. It's not Crom.

Packing up my instrument, I wrap it with care. Instruments and music are everything that I am, and I treat them as such. I may loathe my parents for what they did, but they did give me something they may some day come to regret when I am a Master Harper.

By chance, my eyes catch sight of the sheet of music, the words, the notes, and I pause in packing away the instrument to look it over once more.

"Perfection," I murmur to myself, aware of the darkness that cloaks the room in shadows. The flicker of glows and hearth fires adding the only splash of color here and there, moving as if alive in their own way. Folding the sheaf of hides up, I tuck them into the hide-bound leather satchel that I will give to the Messenger for delivery.

For now, I'd best finish packing my stuff up before I'm missed. Before I do, though, I scribble a note to include in the song, the "project" as it where.

It is not as I was told to expect. I'll include a full report come the next check-in. -- C

Must keep up appearances, and I am expected to report to my masters and report I do. The woman's question of divided loyalty surfaces in my thoughts. I am loyal to my Hall above anyone else, but in the event of the Hall, whom would I uphold above most? My mentor? Or the other one who wants to do...what?

I'm a pawn in agendas even I do not understand, but I will figure them out. I'm wily enough. I'm ambitious enough. But moreover, no one's going to fuck me over.

The night stirs softly as I leave, the hearth fires dimming and the glows slowly fading as I walk away, burdened with the accoutrements of my trade. I leave nothing behind but a whisper.

Too bad she heard me sing. I hate that.