Post by Ophelia Harrington on Feb 17, 2015 11:21:43 GMT -5
The singing crystal flute was Ophelia’s pride and joy; it was a creation of beauty and the crescendo to a flourishing career as a Bard. She had used it across Arith, from the colds of Rumeria to the lush forests of Kyngfeld. Her stage name, Spellsinger, was known far and wide and her mesmerizing voice (a gift from her fey heritage) was sought by kings and thief lords far and wide. The flute now lay silent in a box, it was kept secure and clean, its crystals were polished and cared for but it had not been used to hold a song or a spell for years now. It was an instrument without a player, or at least a player that could play.
Ophelia Harrington had lost her song.
For some, losing one’s soul was a matter of triumph but not for her. Though she had been vain, a thief and even selfish at times she had never been an evil sort, there wasn’t really a bad bone in her body. Without it, she had become a husk of her former self; she had become a version of herself that no one could recognize. It was understandable; there was no humanity, no moral compass, and no real guiding light to mark her path. Yet, when it had returned Ophelia had changed; there was a lingering quiet around her, the joy had gone from her laugh, and there was no heart in her song. Though her wedding day, and the days following, had been a light in the oppressing darkness she still could find no song.
It was upon one faithful morning, in Kythin’s armoury that she had happened upon his journal. Her inane need to look into, touch, see, taste every single curious thing she came across came into play and no soon after she had found it, Ophelia was curled up in his chair, and she was looking into the thoughts and feelings of her husband. It was an invasion of privacy, she knew, but as she turned the pages she learned more about the man she had married than ever before. His depth, his love and even his pain; he had found her with it, of course. It was then she realized that he did not blame her for what had happened to them, even if she blamed herself.
That morning was what changed everything for Ophelia. She had already decided that she wanted to re-train as a Healer, and now she was sure of it. She wanted to help people; she wanted to fill the void in her heart that had been placed there by the torments of Pedur. Most of all, Ophelia wanted to find her song. The Spellsinger had heard rumours of the return of Requiem, her once upon a time mentor, and friend. There were also rumours that he was an imposter using the old Bards name. Ophelia had to know, one way or another, for if there was anyone that could help her find her song: it was him.
That afternoon, as she sat in her own room in the Villa she shared with her husband, at the writing desk Kythin had bought her, she flourished her name across a quickly worded letter. The contents were short and simple, and if there was some glimmer of truth that Girard had returned, then he would come... eventually.
The letter read: “I need you – Ophelia.”