#cro;

[theseashoreprince]

>> You play a few short things, humming along with the cords. Something with a fluctuating tempo, quick harsh snaps of strings; something more steady, calmer, a confident and comforting tone; then something soft comes from that. You cut the song short and stand up, fist clenched around the neck of the instrument. Fins pinned back as age old thoughts perk back up and chew on your pumper. Your eyes drop down to the instrument when you feel wood crack and splinter around your fist. Ah, it broke. You place it back where you found it and leave the room. No more of that.

[fyto1]

© crotime ; don’t edit or remove logo

[theseashoreprince]

>> Since the wriggler's gone there really is nothing to do. You wander around the upper level of the hive and peek in each room. A room with a small coon, a tiny bed and lots of bright colors. This must be that wriggler's room, pass. Bathroom, what looks like a guest room, boring. Does your descendant really live such a stagnant and boring life? What a horrible fate. You open another room and find something a little of interest. Ah? Musical instruments? You pause in the doorway and look around. The room seems to have collected quite a bit of dust, whoever lived in this room obviously hasn't in a good long while. Hm. Your fins dip and your fingers itch a little as you stand awkwardly in the doorway...

>> You enter the room and grab the closest instrument, a guitar, and sit heavily on the bed, fingers hesitating before slipping along the strings with ease.