@nesatios
Even when the majority of the magic is drained away, it is hard to miss the sight and sound of a bard with their focus. Requiem takes pleasure in her music, even when there’s no spells being cast from the edge of her bow. Each spell has a song, and each spell has a melody that cannot be reproduced to form something else. Blight is blight. Light is light.
This song is her favorite, the sleep spell that she can cast in the midst of a town square and leave its edges snoozing. It’s ominous and sits on her chest like a beast, and so, Requiem plays it frequently when she’s feeling somewhat close to melancholy. This is another time, another space, where she hides in the outer fragments of Yesteryear, viola beneath her chin.
The song ends in a small flourish, and the three other phantom musicians fade out with her, leaving nothing but mutual silence behind.
“Any requests?” She calls to it, hardly expecting an answer.
