— tw : description of blood / violence , zhao being an asshole —
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❝ the strong survive❞
· • -- ٠ ♛ ٠ -- • ·
It became apparent to Nari that she's got a profound taste for anything with regards to music. She finds that music is just poetry brought to light— the drums become a poems heartbeat, lyrics and tone the poems voice, woodwinds it's air and guitar it's strong past. It's a rather beautiful connection, that whatever song she has and will sing sprouted from meaningful words on blank parchment. It even branches Nari to her past, to her mother— the only tangible thing she owns, now, of her past would be her books and the shards of a broken comb, one of which she looped onto a golden chain around her neck.
Nari hides her talents of music in strings of a guitar or the tight skin over a drum, seldom ever singing to a full potential. She'd rather attempt to hear Rai's voice over her own, knowing well she could never amount to the angelic voice of her mother. And, unfortunately, no matter the strength behind Nari's pique towards such a woman, she'd never forget the gentle smile her mother possessed with each chord. The songs would wrap a small child in their arms, a love which breathed life into everything around it. But maybe that's the way Rai is— she can show love whenever she needed too, at the perfect moments, but never when anyone else needed it.
Never when Nari needed it.
The young girls hands prick and tickle strings of a guitar in her own room, sitting placidly on the edge of her bed whilst finding the best chords to match her mother's song. Stings of silver, a hollow home of gold— Nari tries to search for the perfect match to speak such, to feel such.
Unfortunately, her strumming is interjected by a quiet and downcast Iroh. He folds his hands in front of his stomach, head hung low with eyes that never meet her own. To this, Nari tugs her brows together. "Iroh? What's wrong?"
It's not usual for the man to seem so disappointed, or to burden Nari with something new as Iroh is well aware that she's already dealt with enough— what could cause such a lowered mood for him? "There's been a change in our plans, I'm afraid." He admits, finally lifting his gaze to her as a darkened silhouette slips form behind his short frame.
Zhao.
Nari'd know those sideburns from anywhere— they frame a malicious and evil face, one no other nation, general, or person could obtain (they don't do good for him, either, as they shape his face to look like a monkey). She, in all veracity, hates his guts with each of the two hundred and six bones in her body. His very presence, though he still seems a shadow, boils her blood with such irritation that her grip tightens against her little guitar. A string pops from its place, lashing against Nari's forearm as Zhao steps forward.
