[apreludetotragedy-blog]

a sad melody for hope || elysia&oliver

@elpisxelysia​

He saw some drunken men engage in a clumsy fight, only to be stopped by other man. He also saw a small family hiding between the ruins, and kids finding small treasures among the ashes. Perhaps not all the stories that came from such a tragedy were meant to be sad. Maybe some of them could speak of hope. 

As his hazel eyes examined the darkened and decaying stone walls, he stumbled upon a familiar figure. “Elysia,” he whispered, glad to see a familiar face, though she seemed lost, as if she carried the weight of sadness as well. “Is there something wrong?”

[apreludetotragedy-blog]

coiledriver:

“Aye, I understand what you’re sayin’. Can’t say how much I care about it though.” If the other was searching out advice, they’d have better luck finding it on the streets — not in a crowded pub, one pint in already. Pietra plucked up the other’s drink ( it was a slim price to pay for having to listen to them ) and turned to the newcomer that had just entered. “Oi, you! You look about a hundred times more interestin’ than this piece of shit. Take a seat next to me.” Without waiting for an answer, she shoved the first individual from their stool and waved to the now-vacant spot.  

“Huh, me?” He looked around. He was the only one facing the woman while everyone else minded their own business. She looked frightening, but the marks on her skin had caught his attention, and curiosity made him take the sit. “In all my travels, I’d never seen anything like those,” he confessed, glancing at the marks on her neck before letting out an anxious chuckle. “’t must’ve hurt.” 

Oceans Brawl || Tania && Oliver [10 Years Ago]

[apreludetotragedy-blog]

terpsikhore-dreaming:

Her heart was beating with the ferocity of the thunder outside. Tania could feel her hands shaking every time she reached up to pull her brush through her thick hair. She wished her mother was there to do it for her – she always knew just how to hold Tania’s hair so that it didn’t hurt. 

The sound of a fist at her door made the seventeen-year-old jump out of her skin. “It’s time!” By the time she had the chance to look open the door, the man was gone, surely off to another caravan. She sighed and picked up her scarf. She draped it around her shoulders and paused at her table. In the center stood a small portrait. A woman in her early twenties was made up of neatly composed brush strokes. Her hair was even longer than Tania’s and her nose was larger, but she was most definitely Tania’s mother. Tania picked up the wooden frame with reverent care. Her fingers brushed over its edges as she whispered. “Tonight I dance for you, Ama. May it please your spirit.”

The ground shook from nearby thunder but Tania hardly flinched. She set down the painting and flung the door open, eagerly greeting the wind that ripped at her clothes. She loved thunderstorms. Their raw power only served to make her feel alive. Her hands were neither shaking from exhaustion nor shock; she was excited. She ducked into the rain, bare feet carrying her past wagons and pitched tents towards the main tent. Their set up was on a cliff facing the ocean. It had been advertised for months: a picturesque day of art by the ocean. Now the waves crashed against one another while the skies roared. Though most would disagree, Tania thought it was the perfect day for a performance. 

By the time she ducked into the back entrance of the tent, she was soaked to the bone but there was a bright smile on her face. Her scarf seemed to have been pointless, so she peeled it off as she walked towards the back of the stage. A set of curtains separated the performers from the audience, but she could tell from the low hum of voices that quite the crowd had appeared despite the torrential rain. 

Somehow, Tania was able to make out a familiar face in between the shoulders of a magician and a firebreather. “Excuse me,” she breathed as she snaked through the impatient performers. When she finally made it to the other side, she flung her arms around Oliver with little care for her dripping clothes and hair. “Oliver!!! I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight!” She pulled back, only to kiss both of his cheeks. “Oh, please tell me you’re going to play for us tonight! I didn’t get the opportunity to listen to you last time. You know how I adore you!”

It was difficult to lay low and pass unnoticed among the crowd, and so he gave up as soon as the first group of musicians recognized him and included him in their conversation. It was hard to focus, when the only reason he had come to the place was to see her. 

Ever since the first time he watched her perform, he had made a silent promise of being in her audience as many times as he could. He had talked to her only briefly, once, but he hadn’t been able to forget her voice, her eyes, her hair, the way she so gracefully moved, even when she thought no one was looking at her. Not that he had spied on her, mind you. He had accidentally walked into a room he thought to be empty, and there she was, dancing to herself. He didn’t have the heart to interrupt her, and so he turned around in silence and attempted to leave the room, but she caught him. He remembered how she asked his name and stated hers. Ellyn Kett.

A year had passed since that short conversation, and tonight he was determined to push himself to find her once again and finally talk to her and maybe, as his friends kept telling him, he’d ask her out on a date. Oliver knew it might not work out, he knew his music was always his first love and his duty, and that it always came before any woman, any friendship. On the other side, if she agreed, he’d be the happiest man alive. 

The minstrel quickly glanced around, trying to find her among the crowd. He knew she was there, somewhere under that very same roof, but he hadn’t seen her yet and he began to feel somewhat anxious. He suddenly felt arms around him, and turned to face his captor. 

The man let out a surprised, relieved gasp at the sight of one of his most beloved friends. “Tania!” he exclaimed and lifted her, swinging her around. “Only if you’ll have me.” Oliver grinned and let the young woman free, to then bow playfully with a hand to his heart. He glanced around one more time, still a little nervous. “Have you seen... Her?” He asked, softly squeezing the dancer’s hand. 

[lady-arryn]

costume appreciation: Dido’s white dress with floral pattern from Belle (costumes by Anushia Nieradzik)

[apreludetotragedy-blog]

elpisxelysia:

              “Could you please, ah, unhand me, sir?” Elysia was all but pleased with the drunken man that disregarded her unwillingness to be grabbed roughly by the wrists like that. She tugged on his grip, but her bare touch only seemed to encourage the man. “Sir, I really don’t want—”

              It was only when another voice sounded that the drunkard at all bothered to pause in his harassment. Elysia really hoped that this person had come to save her from trouble, not to cause even more.

To say he was tense was not accurate at all. The Free Folk army and the sudden of the people in power was quite confusing. As he often did, he found comfort among a group of artists that met everyday at his favorite tavern. He was laughing cheerfully at some drunken dumb joke, when from the corner of his eye he saw a familiar face in trouble. As much as he disliked any form of violence, he despised more how some men used and abused people at their will, and even more when drunken men harassed women -- a priestess! --, and so he stood up and quickly stomped towards the other man and pushed him, quite far from softly. 

“Leave,” he simply said, trying to sound lethal and commanding. The drunken man released his friend and clumsily turned around to face the musician. Even though Oliver towered him so evidently, the minstrel couldn’t avoid feeling a lump in his throat and his fingers slightly trembling at the thought of what he had gotten himself into. 

“Or what?” The old man slurred his words and Oliver grimaced at the smell of the other’s fermented breath. “You and your band of sluts are gonna beat me up?” 

Heavy silence fell between Oliver’s group of friends and what seemed to be the drunken’s companions, as if the crowd waited for a reaction. In a second that appeared to be eternal, the minstrel glanced at his fellow musicians, then at Elysia, and back to the other man. 

His fist punched the man’s face ---slightly closer to the ear than to the nose--- like it had life on its own. The drunken man shrieked in pain and gave a few steps back, mumbling insults as his friends laughed and teased him, pulling him to sit back down at their table. 

Oliver then looked at Elysia and with a gesture of his hand, invited her to sit with his friends. “Are you--- Did he hurt you?” 

[apreludetotragedy-blog]

elpisxelysia:

             Elysia had been listening in on the music the man with the lyre had been playing. It sounded melancholic, but beautiful nonetheless. She felt as she could sense exactly how the other was feeling in that moment. Elysia was in fact so carried away with the music and the thoughts that accompanied it that she hardly realised that the man had stopped until he spoke. A faint blush spread across her cheeks for being caught like that.

             “Very lovely, indeed. Sunny with a gentle breeze. One can almost pretend the obvious isn’t really there.” A smile curved her mouth and she moved closer towards the man. She pointed at the chair next to him, the gesture’s elegance betraying her dancing nature. “Mind if I sit down?”

He found the sudden coloring of her cheeks particularly charming, he thought, as he chuckled quietly. “Ah, yes,” he replied, glancing around only to see how pretending the obvious wasn’t really there was almost working for a couple of people, yet her question made him focus once again and, surprised, returned his gaze with raised eyebrows, to the young woman. “Oh, no, not at all,” he replied and quickly rushed to his feet. 

“Please, forgive me, I didn’t notice who you are.” He bowed his head in courtesy. The minstrel had never been a religious man, but he respected all the priests and priestesses, even more so since many had helped him ease his pain. It wasn’t all gone, it’d never be, he knew, but they had helped. “I’m Oliver, your holiness,” he said, now not sure how to address her. “I’m at your service.” 

[apreludetotragedy-blog]

adela-quintana:

She  had walked towards the place where she had been told about, whispers of a man with a dead love, she heard many, since the dead were rising curiosity for past heart sores began to evolve, in both taverns, markets and general work life it continued to evolve. But this man, tales of songs that had broken hearts. Perhaps she did not care for people’s complaining and she had never understood what drove people mad, everybody was replaceable. That is what the world taught her time and time again. She often found herself surprised that her mother had not found temporary daughters. 

The tune was pretty, his voice better, it made her heart start to stir and confusion to be written over her face. She forced herself to hide it though. She moved closer, her new gowns while beautiful were nothing like those of the castle, far more revealing, far darker and immodest. She looked like death personified and perhaps that was no bad thing. She was hardly an angel. 

“Oh I am no lady…so no need to rise.” she said knowing that the chances of him rising were slim to none. “Your song, who inspired it?” 

Her words caught him off-guard, and he lost balance as he stood up to bow in respect. He only bowed his head, though, when she said she was no lady. She surprised him once again with such a question. “Oh,” he gave her a curious look, yet he couldn’t hide some hints of sadness escaping from his eyes. “M-my wife.” 

The minstrel wondered why she was asking, and why he answered so easily. Was he so eager to talk about his wife to someone? Since the Gods wouldn’t listen, he thought, he could trust his story to a stranger. What damage was she going to cause? What he could lose, he had already lost. For all he knew, anyway, she could be an angel sent by the Gods. Strange-looking, but he had never seen one to know what they would look like. 

“My deceased wife,” he continued, giving a long blink and letting out a heavy sigh, and continued with a cheeky, yet weak smile. “Why such curiosity? Are you an emissary of the Gods?”

[apreludetotragedy-blog]

He slouched in a chair, with his lyre finally resting on his lap. His thoughts absorbed him so, that he did not notice someone else standing near. The Free Folk surrounded the Keep and he was stuck there. Would they have mercy, or would Oliver face the dreadful Death by their swords? Perhaps this was a chance to be reunited with his wife, finally, though he’d like so much more that she’d join him, instead of him joining her on the unknown of the other side. 

The musician raised his gaze and with a wiggle of his eyebrows and a somewhat forceful welcoming smile, greeted the other person. “’Tis a lovely day, huh? Despite the obvious, that is.” 

[apreludetotragedy-blog]

@adela-quintana

Oliver leaned against a tree as he sat on a rock next to it. The only things he could hear, were a weak stream of water, not so far from where he rested, steps of a tiny animal --perhaps a little mouse or a squirrel, though he hoped it was the latter-- and the wind softly moving the long, crooked arms of the trees around him and his lyre. He closed his eyes and mindlessly, yet wholeheartedly plucked the strings, slowly, firmly, and sang the saddest of songs. 

“Where, where have you been, my love? Where, oh, where can you be? It’s been so long since the moon has gone, and oh, what a wreck you’ve made me. Are you there, over the ocean? Are you there, up in the sky? Until the return of my love, this lullaby...” [x]

Something shifted and he noticed immediately. It was as if the sun had disappeared, leaving only a warmless light. He opened his eyes, and saw a young lady staring at him with her dark eyes. Dark not only in color, but also as if there was something missing in them. He felt shivers running up and down his spine, yet he still gave her a smile. “Good day, my... Curious Lady. I didn’t hear you coming. Is there anything I can do for you?”

[ariavale-blog]

sing me a song

[apreludetotragedy-blog]

ariavale:

Aria smiled, a little hesitantly, to her companion. “That is very kind of you to say,” she replied, folding her hands over the front of her skirts. “My mother used to sing it when I was a child. I picked it up as I grew older.” She bit her bottom lip, quiet for a moment. “Do you know it yourself, sir?”

“Yes, I’ve heard ‘t before,” he answered with a pitiful smile. “My wife used to sing ‘t.” His lips thinned only slightly, when he regretted showing --if only a tiny little glimpse-- of his uglier side. What a way to ruin a perfectly beautiful day. It was not the appropriate moment, either, and he had just met the young lady. “Where’s your mother from, if you don’t mind me asking? That song was quite popular in Esterhaven.”

[apreludetotragedy-blog]

adelaidebartholomew:

“Aye a war. Doesn’t sound enjoyable, so I thought me and my lot would jump ship and get going, ya’know?” Addie shrugged half heartedly. Her profession was no secret, but her age… “We prefer Mercenaries. Pirates have no loyalties these days. You can buy mine for the right piece of gold. Anyway, I’m plenty old, been causing trouble and winning fights for over two decades now, mind you.”

He nodded as if he understood, though he had no clue what she meant by that. Her next words, however, left it quite clear and his jaw dropped as he gasped in surprise. “Merce---” He realized he almost yelled it and immediately interrupted himself, before lowering his voice nearly to a whisper. “Mercenaries?” Oliver had met many pirates and a few mercenaries, though none of them were like this young lady. “Winning fights, oh my,” he repeated, chuckling at the realization that he had never ever been in a fight. “How did such a young little lady become a mercenary?” 

[apreludetotragedy-blog]

galenvance:

Galen couldn’t help but chuckle, the other man’s cheer being practically contagious. It’d been a long while since he’d been treated to a song; what could it hurt? He was going to comment on the mask again, tug his chain a bit, when the bard spoke again—and Galen found himself ducking his head, a bright ( shy ) smile pulling at his lips. “I—yes, it has. For the first time in a very, very long time.” He hadn’t meant to reveal that much, but the words had spilled out of their own accord. Galen rubbed a hand self-consciously over his heating cheeks, though his smile didn’t waver. “I would like that, thank you.”

Oliver gasped and grinned, glad to hear such an answer. To love, and to feel loved, especially after a long time, always gave him a sense of going back home, no matter where he and his wife were. He longed to have that sensation at least once again, but during the rest of his mortal life, he’d have to feel contented with singing his songs to the ones who could actually be in love. “Tell me about your loved one,” he eagerly requested. “Does the color of her eyes resemble the dawning of a new day? Or perhaps the golden hues of sweet honey?” The minstrel looked at the other man, as his own heart skipped a beat in impatience to witness his expression changing at the thought of his partner. “And what of her hair? Is it long and dark as the night?” 

[apreludetotragedy-blog]

adelaidebartholomew:

“Some sort of war is gonna start real soon here, I heard it just yesterday, but I have not seen the rest of my crew in a fornight. Seen ‘em? Big rough and tough gang. Lots of missing fingers…”

He looked at her with a cheeky smile on his lips. “A war?” Oliver had heard rumors, though he discarded them as he did all gossipy information. “Your crew sounds like a band of dangerous pirates,” he said with his smile still twisting his lips, though it disappeared quickly at his next thought. “Are you not a little young to be around such perilous folks?” 

[ariavale-blog]

sing me a song

[apreludetotragedy-blog]

ariavale:

Aria’s light, clear voice carried through the air around her; it had been so long since she had sang anything, especially one of the first songs her mother had taught her as a child. Her eyes closed as the lyrics flowed forth, the corners of her mouth upturned in a smile.

As I walk’d thro’ the meadows To take the fresh air, The flowers were blooming and gay; I heard a fair damsel so sweetly asinging–

Aria’s song came to a very abrupt halt when she realized she was no longer alone. Curtsying to her newfound companion, she flashed a quick smile.

“Apologies,” she said, “I thought I was alone. I hope I was not disturbing you.”

Oh, he realized too late he had moved quite aggressively to see the owner of such a wonderful voice, scaring the young woman. “Not at all,” he replied with an embarrassed little smile, as he sat on the exposed root of an apparently ancient tree. “Your voice, ‘tis so sweet, and the song so old. May I ask where did you learn such a song?” As soon as he finished his question, a familiar voice resounded in his memories. His wife had sung that song before. The smile on the minstrel’s face faltered heavily, but he quickly pushed those memories aside and grinned once again. 

[apreludetotragedy-blog]

cyralangden:

Cyra paused at the question, trying to think of a song she might like to hear. Nothing came to mind, and she realized that Asa always wrote the songs that he played for her. “I don’t know any songs,” she told him, casting her eyes down in embarrassment. She felt so unknowledgeable not being able to name a sing song for him to play. Cyra wondered if she should explain the reasoning but thinking of Asa only made her wish to find a lyre and smash it to bits. Instead, her hands went to her skirt to bunch the fabric there so she could keep her rage under control. “Maybe you could surprise me with one?” she suggested hopefully. He didn’t ask questions, which she liked, so maybe he wouldn’t ask about this either.

He looked at the woman as she thought. Then, she spoke some of the saddest words, a cruel truth he had heard many times before, more than he’d like to remember. A scowl grew on his forehead at the thought of a life without music to clean one’s soul. Perhaps that was what the girl needed, a little song to ease the spirit. Now, the next question she threw at him, he did like. He loved surprising and being surprised. “Yes, ‘tis a wonderful idea. May I have the privilege of hearing your name? Maybe I could make a song for you.”

[pietracashore-blog]

Cheers y’e asshole

[apreludetotragedy-blog]

pietracashore:

Pietra watched curiously as the effects of the ale were very apparent on the man; her eyebrows high with interest. ❝ Heh, ‘Fair Lady’, y’e say? ❞ she chuckled as her right eyebrow arched even further in a questioning manner. While she had many words to combat the subject, Pietra’s played along as she was having fun with her newest companion. ❝ While I’ve ne’er been one t’ever think anyone’s had t’much, I will help y’e a bit wit’ y’er drink. ❞ Ignoring as more ale found its way on her already alcohol-covered attire, she happily took his mug and took a generous taste. ❝ Oy man, y’e may be a few deep in t’these bu’cha still shouldn’t be ‘avin’ piss in a cup. Lemme buy y’e a new one - I’m not a fan o’ drinkin’ alone. ❞

He chuckled merrily at her words, and while he considered declining her gentle offer, his mouth betrayed him and cheerfully yelled “Alright then!”, before he could even realize it was his own voice shouting. “I’m a traveller,” he said and chuckled again. “I’ve been used to drinking alone. Not that I particularly enjoy it.” He cleared his throat and tried to shut up and not overshare. “What about you? Where do you come from?” 

[apreludetotragedy-blog]

cyralangden:

Cyra smiled when he wiggled his eyebrows at her, finding the motion silly and endearing. She paused as she thought over his request. In her mind, she could see Asa and his lyre, singing to her, sweet and kind, if only she had known what lurked beneath, what cruelty the man could commit. The thought made her wish to turn away and run far from the man before her, but the mask made her stay, reminding her that she had no idea who he was and that he had no idea who she was. The two would possibly never meet again, and it had been such a long time since she heard anyone sing. “That might be nice,” she relented, giving him an uncertain smile. “If it wouldn’t be of any trouble to you, then I could try. All I ask… I am wary of the lyre, so if we could exclude that from our lesson, I would be grateful.”

Despite the anguish the girl seemed hide behind her eyes, she had a quite beautiful smile and Oliver only wished she showed it more often. Now, wary of the lyre? What a strange statement, the minstrel thought as he gave the young woman a curious look. Who was he, anyway, to question her decision? After all, he aimed to please his audience and he was thankful her wariness didn’t extend to every musician or lyre-player. “We can surely avoid ‘t,” he replied with a grin. “’s there any particular song you like?”