I’ve never bought wholesale into the bullshit of a writer’s muse. It seems to connect writing to some metaphysical endeavor or some such that really doesn’t seem to make a whole bunch of sense to me. I do believe that writers are inspired by everyday life. If anything, my current endeavors have provided such a great environment from which to be inspired its amazing, so much so at times that coping with the stresses of it are difficult through which to pull.
Ultimately though, I hope to have more updates for you in the future and tonight, vainly, I offer a scene from the Lay of Seidenbard to you:
Music Room, Yraemr Manor, Yraemr, Delaslattin, Gjalestadht. Evening of the Eleventh Day of the Fourth Month of 1089AC
Hrothmar’s fingers dance across the fret board of the guitar, playing scales in arpeggio. Hraldr sits across from him, his arms resting against the arms of the chair. Hraldr’s eyes are closed, and his head sways ever so slightly. Hrothmar strums once more and lets the strings ring as he raises his right hand under his nose and uses the thumb and index finger to smooth his mustache.
“Show off,” Hraldr says, his eyes opening.
Hrothmar grins and makes a fist with his left hand and quickly opens it, letting the guitar rest against his chest.
“Sitting at home for however long it was meant far too much time to practice,” Hrothmar replies.
“Guess it’s good for us, hey?” Hraldr says, grabbing his lute, which was placed to lean against the arm of his chair, by the neck and putting it in his lap.
Hrothmar nods and picks at the strings haphazardly, his lips pursing and brows furrowing. “Well, I think we got it off the top now, don’t we?”
“Yeah, it went where we wanted, mate,” Hraldr nods, playing on his lute to match Hrothmar’s earlier arpeggios. Hrothmar takes his turn to close his eyes.
“That’d be perfect to demonstrate the movement change from the events of Seiden to where we should go next,” Hrothmar says.
“That’s what I was thinking. Drums would enhance and emphasize the mood, I think. Especially if we are planning on going gloomy.”
“How’re we gonna get Cym drums for this?”
“I’m sure there are plenty of percussionists out there,” Hraldr sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Assuredly, someone’s got to have a Sjoeraelfir drum, and you forget that we’ve got Lara.”
Hrothmar’s eye twitches.
“I didn’t forget,” Hrothmar says, then coughs.
“Aye, aye, you didn’t, mate. Must be hard to remember you’ve got a nephew who’s married,” Hradlr grins. “Aside, you should consider his strings and voice here too; he gets a nice haunting tone to music with’em. He also has a nice sarcasm. Plus, you’d get the girl’s keen.”
Hrothmar’s lips purse as his head tilts to the right. “Would be perfect, you’re right.”
“And, they’re family.”
“And, they’re family,” Hrothmar smiles softly. “Plus, would be good when we’re singing about Dagnysborg.”
Hraldr nods and begins strumming