And more Nano! Getting boring, innit?
Nov. 6th, 2011 10:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elingregoryYesterday was rubbish but I made up for it today :D
And here's a snippet:
Aneurin spread his arms and began to declaim. It was stirring stuff with complex rhymes, nothing a band of warriors could shout along to, hammering their empty bowls on their knees in time with the rhythm of it. Cynfal listened, appreciating the skill but without much enjoyment. Far more interesting to him was the soft ripple of music that accompanied the song. Each plucked note was clear and sharp, dropping into the gaps between stanzas like lightning between thunder claps. Cynfal craned his neck trying to see and when Aneurin moved, stepping forward for emphasis, he did. The harper he had noticed earlier was crouched at Marro’s feet. Not a boy, as Cynfal had thought but a man grown, though the boniness of his wrists suggested that he was still young. Dark hair swung forward to shadow his face, a close cropped beard shadowed his jaw. Those clear grey eyes, rimmed with black lashes were on Aneurin, watching for cues and his lips moved, shaping the words silently. It was an austere face, with prominent but beautiful bones. The face of a fanatic, or a saint, or of a young man who had been desperately ill.
Cynfal watched the harper play and nudged Aeddan. “Who’s that?” he whispered. “The harper. Who is he?”
Aeddan leaned and looked then made white eyes like a frightened horse. “That’s Gwion,” he said. “Cynon’s young cousin. A man to avoid.”
Cynfal raised his eyebrows and held out his bowl to the lad with the jug. A man to avoid. Something similar had once been said about Cynfal.
And here's a snippet:
Aneurin spread his arms and began to declaim. It was stirring stuff with complex rhymes, nothing a band of warriors could shout along to, hammering their empty bowls on their knees in time with the rhythm of it. Cynfal listened, appreciating the skill but without much enjoyment. Far more interesting to him was the soft ripple of music that accompanied the song. Each plucked note was clear and sharp, dropping into the gaps between stanzas like lightning between thunder claps. Cynfal craned his neck trying to see and when Aneurin moved, stepping forward for emphasis, he did. The harper he had noticed earlier was crouched at Marro’s feet. Not a boy, as Cynfal had thought but a man grown, though the boniness of his wrists suggested that he was still young. Dark hair swung forward to shadow his face, a close cropped beard shadowed his jaw. Those clear grey eyes, rimmed with black lashes were on Aneurin, watching for cues and his lips moved, shaping the words silently. It was an austere face, with prominent but beautiful bones. The face of a fanatic, or a saint, or of a young man who had been desperately ill.
Cynfal watched the harper play and nudged Aeddan. “Who’s that?” he whispered. “The harper. Who is he?”
Aeddan leaned and looked then made white eyes like a frightened horse. “That’s Gwion,” he said. “Cynon’s young cousin. A man to avoid.”
Cynfal raised his eyebrows and held out his bowl to the lad with the jug. A man to avoid. Something similar had once been said about Cynfal.
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Date: 2011-11-11 05:32 pm (UTC)Really?! And there was me thinking what a fabulously intriguing picture of Taliesin you'd painted! It's obviously meant to be.... :)
how prone we Celts are to making a good story even better
One of our main talents I would say!
The icon btw is a picture of a heron snapped on my mobile phone when we were on holiday in Tayinloan a couple of years ago. I'm such a professional photographer. Not ;)