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He hates the rain.
No, that's rather harsh. He doesn't hate it. He just...misses the sun when it's away.
As he walks down the Florentine street on this rainy afternoon, he hums softly under his breath. His guitar, still glinting faintly gold, though there's little sunlight for it to reflect, is strapped to his back, exposed to the elements, but neither Orpheus nor his instrument seem to be suffering the consequences of being out in this drizzle.
As they fall, the drops sort of...slide around him. He looks as though he is standing in the rain, as everyone else out today does, but he doesn't get so much as damp. If the mortals passing him as he walks notice anything strange, they keep it to themselves, but he's used to that by now. They only see what they want to see, what their minds can hold without stretching too much.
(It isn't, of course, the first time inanimate objects have been so enamored of his song that they've refused to strike him.)
When he reaches the street corner where he means to set up, he keeps humming, pulling his guitar from his back, leaning against the wall as he tunes it. The soft strumming is enough to keep the raindrops at their polite distance until he begins to sing.
He doesn't like the rain. He doesn't like the way it makes him miss the sun, but he sings a song in its praise, in gratitude for the gift it gives him today. He sings of fields gently watered, of streams refreshed, of children in puddles and lovers kissing in a downpour. He sings the rhythm of raindrops tapping on a tin roof and the scent of grass washed newly clean.
(Every song, even this one, is a tribute to Apollo, and every lyric a memory of his mother, but this one is for his other patron as well, for the goddess of the harvest who brings the rain to feed the soil and help the crops to grow.)
One drop, perhaps overcome by the tribute, perhaps in a small acknowledgment of the song, breaks from its comrades to fling itself upon his lip, and he accepts the gift, a flick of his tongue welcoming the libation into his mouth, taking it into himself.
He misses the sun, as always, but today he can be thankful for the rain.
No, that's rather harsh. He doesn't hate it. He just...misses the sun when it's away.
As he walks down the Florentine street on this rainy afternoon, he hums softly under his breath. His guitar, still glinting faintly gold, though there's little sunlight for it to reflect, is strapped to his back, exposed to the elements, but neither Orpheus nor his instrument seem to be suffering the consequences of being out in this drizzle.
As they fall, the drops sort of...slide around him. He looks as though he is standing in the rain, as everyone else out today does, but he doesn't get so much as damp. If the mortals passing him as he walks notice anything strange, they keep it to themselves, but he's used to that by now. They only see what they want to see, what their minds can hold without stretching too much.
(It isn't, of course, the first time inanimate objects have been so enamored of his song that they've refused to strike him.)
When he reaches the street corner where he means to set up, he keeps humming, pulling his guitar from his back, leaning against the wall as he tunes it. The soft strumming is enough to keep the raindrops at their polite distance until he begins to sing.
He doesn't like the rain. He doesn't like the way it makes him miss the sun, but he sings a song in its praise, in gratitude for the gift it gives him today. He sings of fields gently watered, of streams refreshed, of children in puddles and lovers kissing in a downpour. He sings the rhythm of raindrops tapping on a tin roof and the scent of grass washed newly clean.
(Every song, even this one, is a tribute to Apollo, and every lyric a memory of his mother, but this one is for his other patron as well, for the goddess of the harvest who brings the rain to feed the soil and help the crops to grow.)
One drop, perhaps overcome by the tribute, perhaps in a small acknowledgment of the song, breaks from its comrades to fling itself upon his lip, and he accepts the gift, a flick of his tongue welcoming the libation into his mouth, taking it into himself.
He misses the sun, as always, but today he can be thankful for the rain.
