Orpheus had long ago discovered that, for him, inspiration flowed much freer in the fresh, open air. It always had, really, but certain events and many, many years had only made that even more true. Wherever he went, therefore, it was not uncommon to find the musician out in a park, or a square, or some similar location, lyre in hand (though he switched things up occasionally, there was comfort in the familiar instrument, whatever the fashion of the day may be), as he attempted to translate what was in his heart into a song.
Some days were more successful than others. Today, for instance, he had managed only a few new bars on a very stubborn old song, lyric-less despite the constant reprising. He suspected there would be little progress on the song today. Just as the thought crossed his mind, a small bird flitted down near him, chirping a tune that did not sound totally dissimilar to the one Orpheus had spent the last several hours failing to make progress on. “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?” he said to the bird, a soft laugh in his voice, before his eyes met another human’s instead. “Oh -- not you, I’m sorry -- I meant the bird.”
