Lan Xichen exchanges seats with Jin Guangyao with a small nod of his head. There's a faint rustle of silk as he adjusts his sleeves in a swift and graceful gesture before plucking a few scales. As expected, Jin Guangyao kept his guqin in impeccable condition, and a small, satisfied smile passes across his lips.
The melody begins simple enough; Jin Guangyao may even recognize it as a variant of a whimsical tune played around inns and restaurants -- something Lan Xichen must have heard and enjoyed when he stepped down from the Cloud Recesses on some investigation or another. It was far from the usual tranquil fare he often played, even when he wasn't. The tempo was almost upbeat, and though simple, he added his own complex bridges between sections of the composition to keep it lively.
It's certainly a meandering song, like a babbling brook carrying autumn leaves on some grand chase, twisting and turning in an playful dance among the swirls and rapids of its current. There are even errors when he plays, though his reflexes and instincts are good enough to incorporate them into the tune, and the tempo of it means his hands do not carry the same slow grace, but the staccato fluttering of a flock of sparrows.
He isn't playing for anything associated with cultivation, but rather for the sheer joy of entertaining a dear friend, to encourage him as he recovered from sickness and bolster his morale.
Unlike Jin Guangyao, Lan Xichen remembers the last time he played for him. Nearly six months now, and it was their last truly peaceful moment together before...
...before.
He cherishes the memory, and from time to time he pulls it out and polishes it of so it doesn't fade. How they sat in companionable silence as the last notes faded (the last song, even then, so elegant yet so very restrained), how they had walked the gardens of Jinlintai, speaking quietly, and the warm setting sun bathing Jin Guangyao in vibrant gold as they bid farewell.
This song eventually ends too, on three bright notes like the drop of shooting stars, and Lan Xichen emerges from something like a daze, staring down at his hands in disbelief, as if he wasn't sure he'd been the one to play so audaciously.
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The melody begins simple enough; Jin Guangyao may even recognize it as a variant of a whimsical tune played around inns and restaurants -- something Lan Xichen must have heard and enjoyed when he stepped down from the Cloud Recesses on some investigation or another. It was far from the usual tranquil fare he often played, even when he wasn't. The tempo was almost upbeat, and though simple, he added his own complex bridges between sections of the composition to keep it lively.
It's certainly a meandering song, like a babbling brook carrying autumn leaves on some grand chase, twisting and turning in an playful dance among the swirls and rapids of its current. There are even errors when he plays, though his reflexes and instincts are good enough to incorporate them into the tune, and the tempo of it means his hands do not carry the same slow grace, but the staccato fluttering of a flock of sparrows.
He isn't playing for anything associated with cultivation, but rather for the sheer joy of entertaining a dear friend, to encourage him as he recovered from sickness and bolster his morale.
Unlike Jin Guangyao, Lan Xichen remembers the last time he played for him. Nearly six months now, and it was their last truly peaceful moment together before...
...before.
He cherishes the memory, and from time to time he pulls it out and polishes it of so it doesn't fade. How they sat in companionable silence as the last notes faded (the last song, even then, so elegant yet so very restrained), how they had walked the gardens of Jinlintai, speaking quietly, and the warm setting sun bathing Jin Guangyao in vibrant gold as they bid farewell.
This song eventually ends too, on three bright notes like the drop of shooting stars, and Lan Xichen emerges from something like a daze, staring down at his hands in disbelief, as if he wasn't sure he'd been the one to play so audaciously.