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Music and Magic
Solo
760 Words

Erahn's teacher was full of s**t. That was what the little mute boy thought as he was forced to spend hours after hours in the man's music store. How he was supposed to sell anything without a voice, Erahn didn't know, but he wasn't allowed to leave, so he did his best. He had actually managed to make a few sales in the time he was here, with chalk and knowledge alone. But it really was not what he wanted to do with himself.

Supposedly, this was to cover the costs of his education not provided for by his grandmother. His music teacher was a friend of hers, and so this was the opportunity that could be provided. His grandmother had told him that he should be grateful, because they were short of funds right now due to her healing bills from the Mara battles, but he wasn't. He just wasn't.

He didn't care, and it was boring.

Someone walked through the door, and he perked up, taking his slate in hand as he peered out over the instruments at the newcomer. Despite his grumbling and his loathing to admit it, he did like the activity itself. He liked instruments, and he knew many things about them.

His face fell back into it's grumpy twists as he saw that it was not a customer. Not unless his father's friend Mao Baanji was suddenly into music, which wasn't likely. He was a caterer, not a musician.

“Era?” he called.

Era waved.

“Are we alone? I mean... it's just you, right?”

Era nodded, suspicious. ”He's out for the day” he wrote, ”I am to close up shop for him.” he was secretly proud of that trust, though he would never admit it. He tilted his head at the man. ”Why?”

“Er, well...” the man said, as Era busied himself with erasing his slate, “Oh Oblivion's breath... Look, Erahn, it's your father. He's in a bad state, and...”

Erahn glared at him. He did not hate the man, and he certainly did not hate his father, but his father had left him behind. He was so mopey about his mother, that he couldn't deal with his son, and it still hurt. Also, he'd heard the rumors: his father was sleeping with this friend. Era didn't know what that meant, but he knew it was bad: the way people were whispering, it sounded like a betrayal of his mother - Just as his mother 'sleeping' with an Oblivionite had been a betrayal of his father. In the end, Era felt betrayed by them both. And so, though he considered 'Uncle Mao' to be his friend, he felt betrayed when his father was brought up. ”What happened?” he began to scribble finally, only to stop as Mao grimaced..

“Oh damn it...” he exclaimed, “Look. Open the safe, Era, and give me a little money? If he's not coming back, he won't know, and...”

Erahn stared at him for a moment, and then scribbled furiously before half-shoving the board at his friend. <******** off”

“Erahn, there's no need for that language...” he said, scolding, “Just give me the money and... and... I'll buy you an iced cream.”

”It's stealing” wrote Erahn, outraged.

“No, its... its not.” said the man anxiously, “I mean, I'd pay him back, I swear. I just... I need the money now.”

”Get out. Go away.” Erahn wrote, pointing at it for emphasis.

“I...” the man slumped, “Fine. I'll find some other way... you won't tell him will you? That I was here?”

Erahn thought for a moment, then shook his head. No. He wouldn't. He owed his insolent 'Uncle' that much. He pointed, again to ”Get out, Go away”

“All right...” he walked out the door, “I'm sorry, Era.” he said.

Erahn slumped back into his elevated chair in the man's wake, any good mood he might have had buried beneath his sullenness dissipating in the wind.

What if Abba he thought, using his name for his father, Really is doing worse he wondered. People said the Peisio artist was delicate, fragile like china. What if he really needed the money? What if I just denied him that money?

Then if his father worsened and had no help, it would be his, Erahn's, fault.

But what if Mao was lying? What if he was just about to be a thief?

Well, he decided, after he was done for the day, he'd check in on his father... and see for himself what the truth was.

Music as a Craft
Solo with Master
1688 Words

Erahn Rhyko sucked at the splinter that had pierced his thumb, kicking unhappily at the violin skeleton that continued to disobey him and not shape itself in the way it was supposed to. His teacher paused in his own work to investigate.

“Rhyko, don't worry at it so.” the man said, smiling softly in a way that made his enigmatic face crease pleasantly, “it isn't such a big splinter, and you could make it worse with what you're doing.” he gently moved Erahn's hand from the boy's lips, “Do you want me to get the tweezers?” he asked.

Erahn nodded, shoving his now reddened hand at the man.

“Yes.” his teacher interpreted, standing up, “I'll get them, then. In the meantime, if you could set out the strings and the knobs that you will use, so that we have them all when we get to that point?” He didn't say please, nor did he wait for the boy's answer: he just stood, with all the confident assurance that it would be done.

Erahn found the man's grace fascinating, and watched as the man moved to the small medical toolbox on the other side of the room. His teacher was a marvel. The man was unremarkable in appearance, his greying hairs framing a wrinkled face. He walked with an unassuming stoop, patient to a fault with his difficult student. But he was an acclaimed musician. Erahn had heard that he had once played in the great symphonies of the Plane, even in the Great Temple itself. What then, Erahn wondered, was he was doing making instruments in this dusty shop, or teaching? He knew that the man made high-quality instruments and sold them, but why would he be here, slaving over menial labor, when he had such amazing musical talent? Erahn was baffled, but Erahn was not complaining. He was the best, so he deserved the best as his teacher. And he had it.

But why? And, more to the point, why did Erahn have to do it too? Erahn was a musician, not a craftsman. He used instruments. He made music with them. He didn't make them – such crafting was beneath him. But, his teacher told him to do it, so he had to.

Sullenly, he picked out strings and knobs from their respective piles, cutting the catgut from their differently sized spools and putting them near the skeleton of the violin. He had tried to do the crafting, to keep the man happy, but nothing seemed to work.

He looked back up as his teacher returned, wincing and looking away as the tweezers came in contact with his skin. He flinched as the splinter caught against the edges of his wound, before looking back at his teacher.

“You must be careful, Rhyko.” murmured the man, “It takes care and love to make an instrument. Without those ingredients, music cannot be made.” Erahn would have huffed sarcastically at the statement, if he wasn't so mesmerized by the unique timbre of his teacher's voice. He did pout, however, turning to fix his teacher with a sour, frustrated, very upset stare.

“You make such beautiful music, child. Young and unfinished yet, but with your raw ability I know you will go far...” The man touched a rubbing alcohol soaked rag to the small splinter, investigating it closely. “But talent only does so much. Surely you understand, even now, that it is love that makes your music, and care that brings it out of you...” he smiled. “Ah, yes. Good. The splinter did not go deep. No need for bandages today!”

Erahn took his hand back and rubbed at the already fading ache. He did not know what the man thought he was talking about, but that was nonsense. Music was music, that was all. To Erahn, it was noise with meaning, like speech but far more beautiful by an immense degree. Care? Love? Erahn didn't understand. He bent sullenly over his violin in progress, shuffling it into something approximating the correct arrangement before staring at it, frowning. If he attempted to put it together, it would be like the other times he had tried to craft with his teacher – it would turn out terrible and worthless, a waste of his valuable time.

His master moved closer to him, looking at the bare bones of the violin, and then at him. “You don't understand at all, do you? Why I'm having you make this instrument?” Erahn continued to stare at the violin, not wanting to answer. He was afraid that, if he told the truth – be it through a nod or his chalkboard – that this teacher would leave him. This teacher, with his beautiful voice and his kind demeanor, this man that had tolerated the boy's bad behavior when others would have thrown Erahn out on his horns, who smiled so warmly whenever Erahn picked up an instrument... Erahn feared that, if he knew how frustrated Erahn was, he would do what his father, mother, and the half-forgotten girl from long ago had done: He would leave Erahn all alone.

The man sighed. “I had hoped that you would find out on your own.” he said, heavily, “But perhaps your talent blinds you. You are so good, naturally, that you do not even realize where your music comes from...” he picked up the backing of the violin, turning it over in his hands. “Rhyko.” he said suddenly, authoritatively, “Take up your board. Tell me. Where does sound come from?”

Erahn obeyed, scurrying to the end of the store to grab his chalkboard and chalk. Nervous – the man was not usually this insistent - Erahn began to write. ”Sound comes from” he wrote, pausing as he realized he did not know. Where did it come from? He did not want to look stupid, however, so he wrote down his next guess. But, before he could even finish writing the word instruments his teacher interrupted.

“You don't know.” he said flatly, “You've never thought about it.” his teacher peered at the word, it's chalk marks trailing off into uncertainty. “It doesn't come from the instruments themselves. They are the vehicle, yes, but in the end sound comes from...” he gestured with his hand, waving, “The air.”

The air?! Erahn looked at the man, incredulous.

“Air is not meaningless. It is not nothing. The air is many little things that bounce against each other. These little things ring like bells, and that is sound. Any Ayrala would know this and, though I am of the Ysali clan, I know it too.” he said, “The air is constantly vibrating and resounding, Rhyko. That is what reaches your ears. That is sound.”

Air. Really? Had the man lost his mind? Old people thought strange things, and then had to be taken care of s. Sometimes, his grandmother's mind went a little too. It came back in time – perhaps his teacher was having such a fit. If so, Erahn could wait it out, and maybe his teacher would make sense again. And not make him craft.

“Have you never wondered, Rhyko, why a trumpet is louder than the breath used to make it? Why, in some rooms, you can hear a whisper all the way across it, while in other rooms you must be right next to a voice to pick out its words? That is the doing of air, bouncing off the walls – of the room, of the instrument, of your mouth and your tongue. Off the back...” he tapped the board of the violin, “Of the instrument. Off the front. And then, finally, into the room and into an ear. That is sound, Rhyko.” His teacher leaned back in his chair, a tired look coming over his face,
“Music is drawn from the soul, from emotion and life itself. You create it, put it into an instrument, and with that instrument, you put it out into the world as sound. That sound is air, vibrated precisely by the walls of the instrument and by your own breath.”
“Your father, he paints... Yes? What you do with sound, he does the same with paint and canvas. Just as he understands his brushes and paints and canvas, so too must you understand your instruments. You must understand sound”
“I can help you with that.” he continued, gesturing animatedly. Erahn was mesmerized, surprised at the passion in the older man's voice. “Your soul, Rhyko, is out of my control, but I can teach you sound. I can teach you to produce it, I can teach you how to make it, I can even teach you how to teach others... but if you don't know how your instruments work, why they work the way they do...” He brushed his thin hair out of his face, “Then you will be forever limited. You won't understand what you can truly do.”
“The best way to do that, Rhyko, is to make them, to feel with your own hands how they work, to make them work... and work well.”

Erahn stared at him, stunned. Had this come from anybody else, the boy would have honestly disregarded it entirely. But from his teacher, who spoke so respectfully and so glibly, who was honest and kind, it actually made sense.

“Did you understand that, Rhyko?” the man asked, his beautiful voice anxious, “I know you don't like it, but I thought that creating the instruments might help you...” he trailed off as the boy answered his question for him, not with words but with action;

Erahn kneeled on his seat, leaning forward over the violin, seemingly ignoring his teacher as he began to fitfully piece it together, cementing it with special paste and oiling the wood. He worked industriously, with an almost feverish focus, biting his lip as he tried – really tried, this time – to start it's crafting right this time.

The old man smiled, breathing a sigh of relief as his student began to work on the instrument.

He had gotten through.

The Roar of Thunder
Clan Choosing Solo
1389 Words

Marcus' office was spacious yet cramped. It overflowed with mysterious curios and magical components and every available shelf or deskspace was cluttered with sheafs of parchment and reams of paper. They were all strewn, disorganized, along the desks, the shelves, and even the floor, a cacophony of information sorted into haphazard piles. Erahn knew that these contained the important business of the Plane, and perhaps even matters that influenced the futures of all of Magesc... perhaps even the futures of the gods. If he dared to look, he could probably find intriguing things: troop movements, secrets, dire plots, foiled plots, magical secrets, perhaps even the thoughts of the god Abronaxus himself!

But Erahn did not really care about such things.

His interests took him outside the office, into a sheltered but sunlit balcony overlooking the entire Plane. Era was sure that this was no exaggeration, that from this balcony he could indeed see across the land to the very horizon of the endless sea. It certainly seemed that way.

A storm rolled in, ponderous yet purposeful, the rumble of its thunder reaching deep into his being. It was far from the city yet, far out over the water, and it's sound was a prelude to the glorious storm to come. Erahn opened his eyes and listened to its approach, tapping a rhythm into the railing of the balcony like an imitation of rain.

“Beautiful, isn't it.”

Erahn turned to the quiet voice in annoyance, putting aside a glare only because the man's voice complemented the thunder. It resonated with it, like an answering stormcloud or the call of sea-birds. He nodded – it was beautiful. They could both agree on that.

“I love storms.” said Marcus Ysaride, joining Erahn at the railing and looking out onto the approaching cloud, his wings slightly flared to catch the teasing wind, “They are so violent and powerful, and yet they heal the land with rain...” he sighed, “Its not an often used metaphor for the Peisio clan, but it is fitting – as fitting as any comparison to the ocean or to a river. I, personally, have always preferred it.” he turned to Erahn, his ancient blue eyes glittering with mischief. “Well, young Mister Rhyko,” he said easily, “are you here to throw your words at me again?” he asked, “Or are you here on a less philosophical errand? An official one, perhaps?”

Erahn glowered at him – the man knew full well why he was here, he had made this appointment two weeks ago and with the amount of paperwork he had had to go through to get here, Lord Ysaride had better know why he was here.

The man laughed, a rich and resonant sound that made Erahn shiver with ferocious, longing envy. “Ahh, I know, I know. You are here to choose your clan.” he moved back into the room, gesturing to Erahn to follow, “I have been trying to guess your choice, and have found you a difficult one to pin down! At first I thought, perhaps a Peisio like your father? That was your Grandmother's guess as well, but she didn't seem sure, and neither am I! Somehow, water does not seem to match your style. Gaili, like your grandmother, maybe? Of course, there are Gaili musicians and no clan truly is more suited for any job over any other, but somehow the magic of earth does not suit you either. Your temperment” here, he smiled teasingly again, “...made me think Firani, but your grandmother suggested Kiandri, and frankly any clan I thought of suited you in one way or another. Kiandri, I thought, or Peisio, seems the most likely.” he offered Erahn a chair as he talked, fussing with some of the papers at his desk to clear enough room for a teapot. He poured two cups of dusky-smelling tea, a seductive blend from some magicked plantation far beyond the Plane. Erahn sipped it carefully, wary despite it's delicious flavors. “But none fit you exactly. So, I have given up – what clan would you like to be, Mr. Rhyko?”

Erahn put down his teacup and thought for a moment, before taking out his slate. He only needed one word, but he had thought long and hard about that one word – he had thought about it for over a year, now. But, honestly, he had known it all along: what other clan could give him what he did not have? What other clan could be so much a part of his music, and thus his life?

Marcus exhaled in surprise as he read. “Ayrala.” he murmured, “I see...” he stared at the word for a moment intently, drumming his fingers against the table. “I see.” he stood up, “Excuse me a moment.” Erahn watched as he left the room, walking at a brisk pace through a locked doorway and into a room beyond. Erahn waited.

Finally, Marcus returned with a large orb, swirling silver and grey like the stormclouds outside. He could almost swear that he heard thunder and saw flashes of lightning in the maelstrom, or the shapes of flying beasts, but Erahn was not sure. Marcus offered it to him, and the not-quite-glass of the orb was strange and cool to the touch. “That is a very large Ayrala orb, comprised of many Ayrala dragon souls. Once you break this, you will absorb its magic and become a part of that clan. It will change you. It will weave itself into the most basic fibre of your being. Once you break that orb, you will never be the same, and you can never go back.” he studied Erahn's face, “If you're sure, then you may break it wherever you want, whenever you wish. You can do it here and now, or take it home and do it whenever you please. If you take it home, you can change your mind, if you wish, and switch it for another clan. But you must choose a clan...”

Erahn smiled and stood up, holding the orb to his chest. He gave Marcus an achknowledging nod.

“All you need to do to break it is to hit it, or drop it. It's fragile, but it cannot break by accident – you must break it, in part with your will...” Marcus watched as Erahn started walking, moving past him, “The effects afterward are different for everybody, but it always feels right. You always feel complete. This magic is what all Dovaa need, just as a khehora thirsts for a bond when it breaks its shell...” Erahn moved unhindered, to the balcony. Marcus followed him quietly, “I have given you the means. The rest is up to you.”

Erahn flashed him another, very smug, smile before, as the approaching storm shook the sky with thunder, he dropped the orb. It shattered, a sound more like breaking ice than glass, and dissolved into a swirling mist that whirled rapidly around Erahn. It began as a breeze, and then became a cyclone, whipping his hair out of its binding and blinding him with its speed. The magic lashed at his hair, his face, his skin, and forced its way down his nearly useless throat. It roared in his ears and his lungs, rattling his bones in their cases of flesh. Air was far weightier than he had ever known it to be, threatening to break him under an intense pressure. It was breath. It was life. It was freedom. And... the winds died down, leaving his ears ringing with their wrath... it was his.

In that moment, just as he felt the magic absorb into him and become one with him, just as he felt his soul open up to the possibilities of that element, he heard a sound – the clearest, purest, most beautiful sound he had ever heard, like a perfectly tuned flute.
And then it was gone.

He turned to Marcus in wonder, his every breath an amazement to his palette.

“Congratulations, Erahn Rhyko.” said Marcus Ysaride, smiling despite the disarray that the winds had caused to his robes and formerly immaculate hair. Thunder crashed above them, and Erahn wanted to weep at the beauty of it, at the way it made his senses tingle and dance. “You are now of the Ayrala clan.”

Pitch and Roll
Ziquah and Erahn
201 Words
That night, after correcting his score in progress, Erahn lay awake trying to imagine the fight that the girl had described. They hadn't traded names, so Crown-Horns would have to do. She wasn't that much older than him – she had her clan, but he would soon be old enough to choose his – but she had killed dragons. 5 dragons. In extremely impressive ways.

Maybe she was a hero, someone to write and sing ballads for. Maybe she was just a warrior. But he wouldn't know unless he talked to her again.

Maybe he'd have to leave the Plane.

But he'd never wanted to leave. He was safe here, protected. He had access to any instrument he could desire, and a proper school. He was not a warrior, he was a musician. He belonged here.

And yet... there were things out there that he needed to see. The people who inspired him were from Magesc, not the plane, the recipients of adventure and excitement and stories that he could only dream of.

Maybe it was time for that to not be a dream...? He wasn't sure. He did know this: he'd have to find her again, one way or another.