[Moglad matches her nod, then; his acceptance of the newest request. Like any good bard, as Jaskier has taught him, he can be picky about requests. But he will know, in his heart of hearts, when a request cannot be ignored.
Moglad sets his sword down, driving it into the ground. And he flutters, paws out, until his lute comes to him, appearing in his grip.]
My music is always from the heart, kupo. That's what he taught me.
[So Moglad plays. The grove fills with the quiet sounds of the lute, floating among the roots and branches of Bleobheris. The tree does not heal. It does not grow green again. Yet it feels like time pauses around them; the horses no longer cry out, and the other denizens of the grove grow quiet. The whole world -- Moglad's world -- stills to listen to him perform for his lady, as he floats and swirls around her with his body swaying to the notes.]
no subject
Moglad sets his sword down, driving it into the ground. And he flutters, paws out, until his lute comes to him, appearing in his grip.]
My music is always from the heart, kupo. That's what he taught me.
[So Moglad plays. The grove fills with the quiet sounds of the lute, floating among the roots and branches of Bleobheris. The tree does not heal. It does not grow green again. Yet it feels like time pauses around them; the horses no longer cry out, and the other denizens of the grove grow quiet. The whole world -- Moglad's world -- stills to listen to him perform for his lady, as he floats and swirls around her with his body swaying to the notes.]