The villagers who found him first thought he was dead when they discovered him in their field. Only when they turned him over did the missing King of Antiva splutter out a weak cough, urging his rescuers to swiftly relocate him indoors. A fever took hold after their elder treated the unconscious stranger, three days and nights it took before it eventually broke, but it wasn’t until the fifth day Frank opened his eyes, body weak from his ordeal. From what he had been fleeing he had no recollection. His name he knew began with F, his accent obviously foreign to which his hosts informed him was Antivan. From their grumblings it wasn’t well thought of, but he couldn’t offer anything to refute their feelings, despite the uncanny gnawing desire to do so.
He spent a few weeks with the village, relearning and discovering some clues to his past. Music was particularly important to him, the singsongs of the few farmers daughters caught his ear and without much encouragement they allowed him to sing with them. After such an encounter, Frankie was offered a lute, discovering that plucking and strumming the strings came as natural as breathing. It wasn’t until he’d joined a few of the men to a tavern that a bard and his ensemble caught the man’s eyes and ears. There was something about the man’s instrument that called to him, even if he couldn’t recall the name of the damned thing.
A violin.
Sitting, drinking, chatting with the bard he eventually was able to have the man part with it briefly, allowing the confused Antivan a brief go. That first drawn bow string nearly brought him to tears. The cleanest, sharpest note was swiftly followed by a mournful melody, his body and musicianship clearly outclassing the poor unsuspecting bard. The remaining patrons watched in silence, gobsmacked by the unique skills piquing their interest over where and who exactly this man was and came from. Frank merely stared at the instrument, heart pounding against his chest but unaware of the reason or meaning as to why. Yet, simultaneously he was practical about it, he had a means of income and a way to repay his rescuers.
Eventually moving on after repaying them as handsomely as he could, the oblivious Royal took to the road, eventually finding his way to Kirkwall. This place seemed familiar, these streets he had seen before and for the first time all over again. A jarring sensation that only perpetuated when one tavern turned him away almost instantly while another did a double-take, muttering something under his breath that he couldn’t quite hear, but eventually relented and allowed him to play.
Frankie's Music
He spent a few weeks with the village, relearning and discovering some clues to his past. Music was particularly important to him, the singsongs of the few farmers daughters caught his ear and without much encouragement they allowed him to sing with them. After such an encounter, Frankie was offered a lute, discovering that plucking and strumming the strings came as natural as breathing. It wasn’t until he’d joined a few of the men to a tavern that a bard and his ensemble caught the man’s eyes and ears. There was something about the man’s instrument that called to him, even if he couldn’t recall the name of the damned thing.
A violin.
Sitting, drinking, chatting with the bard he eventually was able to have the man part with it briefly, allowing the confused Antivan a brief go. That first drawn bow string nearly brought him to tears. The cleanest, sharpest note was swiftly followed by a mournful melody, his body and musicianship clearly outclassing the poor unsuspecting bard. The remaining patrons watched in silence, gobsmacked by the unique skills piquing their interest over where and who exactly this man was and came from. Frank merely stared at the instrument, heart pounding against his chest but unaware of the reason or meaning as to why. Yet, simultaneously he was practical about it, he had a means of income and a way to repay his rescuers.
Eventually moving on after repaying them as handsomely as he could, the oblivious Royal took to the road, eventually finding his way to Kirkwall. This place seemed familiar, these streets he had seen before and for the first time all over again. A jarring sensation that only perpetuated when one tavern turned him away almost instantly while another did a double-take, muttering something under his breath that he couldn’t quite hear, but eventually relented and allowed him to play.
Frankie's Music
01-29-2023, 11:52 AM
