[ One of the first tenets of knighthood one learns upon accepting the mantle: the lack of action is a good thing. It ought to be savored and enjoyed because nobody knows when things might go to hell again and one's every day will be spent with their hand on the blade. Aether knows it well. He has come, over the seventy seven years of his life, to appreciate that the best parts of his life are the ones when he isn't needed. And now that he is stuck here, leagues away from his beloved Feywild, he contents himself knowing that he won't be needed there until he is done with this place.
Not that there is much to do in Luceti. Troubles come in bursts and his blade is comfortable in its sheath most of the time. His hobbies often take priority over his actual skills, which isn't so bad once he considers it. He did want to have more time to improve himself in subtle ways.
He seats himself on the edge of the fountain at noon, much like any representative of humankind's most admirable calling - the bard - would do. The instrument in his hands is large and ornate; it vaguely resembles a lute, but there is magic dancing through the veins between wood and metal, bringing the thing to life and binding it to his spirit as much as his hands are bound to the strings. He strums it for a while, testing the sounds until he finally comes across one with a little spirit, but finally begins to play.
It is a slow and relaxing tune for now, its melody firmly steeped in the memory of a summer daydream that comes when one looks up at the sky in the middle of a forest trail and finds a thousand and two shimmering leaves smiling down on them. It might eventually change into something else with his mood, or it might become whatever the listener requests.
After all, the lack of an open purse in front of him notwithstanding, he does this for the same reason any other bard would - the audience. ]
Aether Brandier | Original | 4, kind of.
Not that there is much to do in Luceti. Troubles come in bursts and his blade is comfortable in its sheath most of the time. His hobbies often take priority over his actual skills, which isn't so bad once he considers it. He did want to have more time to improve himself in subtle ways.
He seats himself on the edge of the fountain at noon, much like any representative of humankind's most admirable calling - the bard - would do. The instrument in his hands is large and ornate; it vaguely resembles a lute, but there is magic dancing through the veins between wood and metal, bringing the thing to life and binding it to his spirit as much as his hands are bound to the strings. He strums it for a while, testing the sounds until he finally comes across one with a little spirit, but finally begins to play.
It is a slow and relaxing tune for now, its melody firmly steeped in the memory of a summer daydream that comes when one looks up at the sky in the middle of a forest trail and finds a thousand and two shimmering leaves smiling down on them. It might eventually change into something else with his mood, or it might become whatever the listener requests.
After all, the lack of an open purse in front of him notwithstanding, he does this for the same reason any other bard would - the audience. ]