Komosatuo
05-10-06, 10:14 PM
Komosatuo smiled.
It was almost exactly like home. The long green grasses of the eastern fields, swaying in a warm southern breeze, stretching out over the horizon to disappear in a sea of blue. The high rise wooden buildings, with their tiled roofs and jagged corners curving northward into the pale blue sky. The perfectly straight lines of the main street, its path gouged with years of travel by foot, horse and wagon. Even the colors were right, the pale greens and blues, mixed with distracting hues of yellow and orange, red and gray, black and purple, all of it. It was so much that it forced the smile onto his face before he could control himself. It was home, but with only one problem.
He knew that it wasn't.
He had heard rumors of the citadel’s grandeur, its strange finesse with creating areas of unparalleled splendor and grace, all seemingly within the blink of an eye. He hadn't believed them at first, never thought it possible to create based solely on a mans memory of a place. That was before he had first come here, mostly out of a strange pulling curiosity to see that which was on so many tongues and it had left his throat dry and his tongue still as he took in the sight he believed false.
He walked silently up the main street of his peoples compound, pale gray eyes wide with wonder at how perfectly the buildings were sculpted. He thought that they could even be better built than the real ones. Their lines were perfect. There was not a flaw in sight. Even the gravel, crunching softly beneath his foot falls, was precisely placed, each pebble in its entirely, placed just so. It was mind boggling; Komosatuo had never been rendered so speechless ever before in his life.
He stopped to stand solemn guard on the stoop of a large, ornate building, which seemed carved from a single tree instead of cleverly crafted from dozens. Each board fit so snugly with the other that there seams needed no holding plaster, the building was self supporting, self sealing. He let his gaze move casually over the rest of the buildings, each of similar design to the first, but each strikingly different from the last.
It was home, but again, he knew that it wasn't. Was it missing something or was it just because he knew that it wasn’t? Aside from there being no people - that hadn't surprised him, seeing people on the main street of his compound was a rare sight - there was something else missing. Something that was always there, hovering in the background. Like an older brother who always followed you when you went fishing with your friends, there to protect you should trouble arise but you never knew he was there until the moment was upon you. Like a feeling, a feeling you get when eyes are watching you, but you do not see them. Not a fearful feeling, a comforting feeling, a gentle feeling.
His fingers twitched and he felt his ears begin to ache; he knew what it was. Music. There was no music. He could remember the town always filled with the eerie sound of music, its piercing whistles and low nots filling the buildings and street with a sense of life, a sense of belonging. It was silent now, so silent that it hurt. He had never noticed it outside. There was always noise there, something to preoccupy his ears. His smile falter and he spun around in a daze, looking at each building in turn, not knowing really where to turn.
He began to panic. His ears, they hurt! His arms snapped up to his head and he clutched at his hears. He almost screamed but before the sound could form in the back of his throat, his hand caught on something on his back and he stopped. His flute. He hadn't really known why he had bought it. He thought it just a whim, something to spend money on. The same could be said for the trousers he now wore, as well as the bands wrapping around his wrists and forearms. Just a whim, perhaps now though, it was something more.
He pulled it from his back and held it in front of his body, studying it. It was a shiny white wood, elegant beyond compare and about two feet long. The piece where his mouth blew air into was a intricately carve bowl, surrounded by flowing leaves and swaying flowers. The shaft was twisted with a long vine, bearing fruit of all kinds and looking to be in full bloom. The holes representing the various notes were cleverly disguised as the variety of fruits, the casual eye wouldn't have noticed them, had the flute been laying on its side. He turned the flute over in his hands, admiring its craftsmanship and smiled suddenly. If there was no music here, then he would just have to make his own.
He might not be a master musician, but during his stay at the compound he had developed an understanding of the basic mechanics of a musical instrument. He could play most anything, and play it well enough, if not perfectly. He placed the flute against his lips and blew into it. It produced a high-pitched squeal and he smiled, it sounded good too. Placing his fingers over a select few holes he placed the flute back against his lips and blew again. His fingers moved methodically over the holes and the produced sound, was something close to the music he had heard at the compound, someone who had lived there would have not recognized it for it was very much butchered, but to any passerby, it sounded sweet, timely and very relaxing.
He stood on the stoop, playing the flute and slowly rocking side to side on his feet.
((Open))
It was almost exactly like home. The long green grasses of the eastern fields, swaying in a warm southern breeze, stretching out over the horizon to disappear in a sea of blue. The high rise wooden buildings, with their tiled roofs and jagged corners curving northward into the pale blue sky. The perfectly straight lines of the main street, its path gouged with years of travel by foot, horse and wagon. Even the colors were right, the pale greens and blues, mixed with distracting hues of yellow and orange, red and gray, black and purple, all of it. It was so much that it forced the smile onto his face before he could control himself. It was home, but with only one problem.
He knew that it wasn't.
He had heard rumors of the citadel’s grandeur, its strange finesse with creating areas of unparalleled splendor and grace, all seemingly within the blink of an eye. He hadn't believed them at first, never thought it possible to create based solely on a mans memory of a place. That was before he had first come here, mostly out of a strange pulling curiosity to see that which was on so many tongues and it had left his throat dry and his tongue still as he took in the sight he believed false.
He walked silently up the main street of his peoples compound, pale gray eyes wide with wonder at how perfectly the buildings were sculpted. He thought that they could even be better built than the real ones. Their lines were perfect. There was not a flaw in sight. Even the gravel, crunching softly beneath his foot falls, was precisely placed, each pebble in its entirely, placed just so. It was mind boggling; Komosatuo had never been rendered so speechless ever before in his life.
He stopped to stand solemn guard on the stoop of a large, ornate building, which seemed carved from a single tree instead of cleverly crafted from dozens. Each board fit so snugly with the other that there seams needed no holding plaster, the building was self supporting, self sealing. He let his gaze move casually over the rest of the buildings, each of similar design to the first, but each strikingly different from the last.
It was home, but again, he knew that it wasn't. Was it missing something or was it just because he knew that it wasn’t? Aside from there being no people - that hadn't surprised him, seeing people on the main street of his compound was a rare sight - there was something else missing. Something that was always there, hovering in the background. Like an older brother who always followed you when you went fishing with your friends, there to protect you should trouble arise but you never knew he was there until the moment was upon you. Like a feeling, a feeling you get when eyes are watching you, but you do not see them. Not a fearful feeling, a comforting feeling, a gentle feeling.
His fingers twitched and he felt his ears begin to ache; he knew what it was. Music. There was no music. He could remember the town always filled with the eerie sound of music, its piercing whistles and low nots filling the buildings and street with a sense of life, a sense of belonging. It was silent now, so silent that it hurt. He had never noticed it outside. There was always noise there, something to preoccupy his ears. His smile falter and he spun around in a daze, looking at each building in turn, not knowing really where to turn.
He began to panic. His ears, they hurt! His arms snapped up to his head and he clutched at his hears. He almost screamed but before the sound could form in the back of his throat, his hand caught on something on his back and he stopped. His flute. He hadn't really known why he had bought it. He thought it just a whim, something to spend money on. The same could be said for the trousers he now wore, as well as the bands wrapping around his wrists and forearms. Just a whim, perhaps now though, it was something more.
He pulled it from his back and held it in front of his body, studying it. It was a shiny white wood, elegant beyond compare and about two feet long. The piece where his mouth blew air into was a intricately carve bowl, surrounded by flowing leaves and swaying flowers. The shaft was twisted with a long vine, bearing fruit of all kinds and looking to be in full bloom. The holes representing the various notes were cleverly disguised as the variety of fruits, the casual eye wouldn't have noticed them, had the flute been laying on its side. He turned the flute over in his hands, admiring its craftsmanship and smiled suddenly. If there was no music here, then he would just have to make his own.
He might not be a master musician, but during his stay at the compound he had developed an understanding of the basic mechanics of a musical instrument. He could play most anything, and play it well enough, if not perfectly. He placed the flute against his lips and blew into it. It produced a high-pitched squeal and he smiled, it sounded good too. Placing his fingers over a select few holes he placed the flute back against his lips and blew again. His fingers moved methodically over the holes and the produced sound, was something close to the music he had heard at the compound, someone who had lived there would have not recognized it for it was very much butchered, but to any passerby, it sounded sweet, timely and very relaxing.
He stood on the stoop, playing the flute and slowly rocking side to side on his feet.
((Open))