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In the Ducdom of Airizay lived the greatest guitar maker of the Kingdom of Gaulance, Penoit Seysounné: Luthier Extraordinaire.
The flowers outside Penoit’s home were blossoming in bright and cheerful rainbow of colors. The air was fresh and breezy while it picked up the scent of the sparkling Sehtohn River as it meandered around a gentle bend. Also riding the lazy breezes were the morning melodies of birds as they fed, fluttered, and soared in small and large circles.
Answering the cheerful melodies with harmony came the warm sound of a twelve string guitar. The octaves of the strings were well pronounced. The low register sound of the twelve string was deep and mellowing. As the notes climbed up the register they became brighter, clearer, chiming, and strong.
The guitar was a perfect reflection of the guitarist, Vair Rohnonay: sad but happy, serious but carefree, aged but energetic, strong but gentle and earthly and heavenly.
The twelve-string resonated almost half a mile away from the river outside the window of Penoit’s home.
The cottage style home of Penoit was surrounded by lush emerald green grass with hundreds of sprouting flowers, outside the home stood nine large but not huge Mehtair trees. The Mehtairs dappled the landscape with long, deep green, velvety shadows.
Due to the fear of fire most of the homes of the region were of stone. Most of the wooden structures of Airizay had disappeared due to fires and good taste. The remaining dwelling and edifices were an embarrassment to the refine discernment of the Airizayans and were destined for firewood.
Penoit’s home was a creation of various woods. His home gleamed with modest beauty, its wood were smoothed, sanded, and blended into gentle shapes and then were varnished to amplify the warm, orange glow of the natural grain of the Mehtair wood. The home was an artistic achievement of long patience, practicality, nuance, and finesse.
The cottage was over 432 years old.
In the kitchen of the old cottage all the wood was varnished with a yellow-white glow and paintings adorned the walls. Sitting in the kitchen on well-padded red cushioned chairs were two men.
The magnificent music of this majestic guitar came not from the hands and heart of Penoit, but from his dear friend, Vair Rohnonay (an ancient and gifted troubadour).
Rohnonay sat next to an opened window with the guitar. The afternoon sunlight made his blond-white hair gleam causing a sparkling effect on his satin greens. Vair Rohnonay had one of those physiques that was tall and slender without being bony, starved, or awkward in movement which was rather remarkable considering how old Vair Rohnonay was (how old he was none could say nor would he). His generous locks dangled over his blue-green eyes and danced around his equally generous nose. Around his eyes and his long mouth were hair thin lines. Unlike most men of his day he was clean shaven. Vair Rohnonay had the look of one that had seen much of the world and its woes, but still found joy in its beauty and variety.
The guitar resonated into silence.
The other man reclining was the opposite of Rohnonay. Penoit had thick curly black hair and a thin mustache and was short and round (too round many had professed). He opened his blue-ebony eyes, “As usual that was beautiful, Vair. I especially enjoyed the interlude of the third movement. Most guitarists play it more robustly, but your delicate pianissimos are much better.”
“Merci, Penoit. Those ears of yours don’t miss much. I wish that you would become one of my students. You would become a great guitarist.”
“No, no, mon ami,” smiled Penoit, “I am forty-seven years old, too old to learn anything new. I have not the temperament for it. And besides that,” he added waving his arms, “in order to gain patrons I would have to do a lot of traveling and I don’t enjoy a lot of traveling. I like it here in Airizay, my home, my luthiery, the birds, my church, the occasional visitor of culture such as you and my wine. I have need of nothing else. I am content.”
“I have heard all that before, mon ami. You are not too old. The real truth is that you’re too lazy to apply yourself. You are too comfortable and too content. Your complacency is denying you your true glory.”
Chapter 1
What Is Elvenwood
In the Ducdom of Airizay lived the greatest guitar maker of the Kingdom of Gaulance, Penoit Seysounné: Luthier Extraordinaire.
The flowers outside Penoit’s home were blossoming in bright and cheerful rainbow of colors. The air was fresh and breezy while it picked up the scent of the sparkling Sehtohn River as it meandered around a gentle bend. Also riding the lazy breezes were the morning melodies of birds as they fed, fluttered, and soared in small and large circles.
Answering the cheerful melodies with harmony came the warm sound of a twelve string guitar. The octaves of the strings were well pronounced. The low register sound of the twelve string was deep and mellowing. As the notes climbed up the register they became brighter, clearer, chiming, and strong.
The guitar was a perfect reflection of the guitarist, Vair Rohnonay: sad but happy, serious but carefree, aged but energetic, strong but gentle and earthly and heavenly.
The twelve-string resonated almost half a mile away from the river outside the window of Penoit’s home.
The cottage style home of Penoit was surrounded by lush emerald green grass with hundreds of sprouting flowers, outside the home stood nine large but not huge Mehtair trees. The Mehtairs dappled the landscape with long, deep green, velvety shadows.
Due to the fear of fire most of the homes of the region were of stone. Most of the wooden structures of Airizay had disappeared due to fires and good taste. The remaining dwelling and edifices were an embarrassment to the refine discernment of the Airizayans and were destined for firewood.
Penoit’s home was a creation of various woods. His home gleamed with modest beauty, its wood were smoothed, sanded, and blended into gentle shapes and then were varnished to amplify the warm, orange glow of the natural grain of the Mehtair wood. The home was an artistic achievement of long patience, practicality, nuance, and finesse.
The cottage was over 432 years old.
In the kitchen of the old cottage all the wood was varnished with a yellow-white glow and paintings adorned the walls. Sitting in the kitchen on well-padded red cushioned chairs were two men.
The magnificent music of this majestic guitar came not from the hands and heart of Penoit, but from his dear friend, Vair Rohnonay (an ancient and gifted troubadour).
Rohnonay sat next to an opened window with the guitar. The afternoon sunlight made his blond-white hair gleam causing a sparkling effect on his satin greens. Vair Rohnonay had one of those physiques that was tall and slender without being bony, starved, or awkward in movement which was rather remarkable considering how old Vair Rohnonay was (how old he was none could say nor would he). His generous locks dangled over his blue-green eyes and danced around his equally generous nose. Around his eyes and his long mouth were hair thin lines. Unlike most men of his day he was clean shaven. Vair Rohnonay had the look of one that had seen much of the world and its woes, but still found joy in its beauty and variety.
The guitar resonated into silence.
The other man reclining was the opposite of Rohnonay. Penoit had thick curly black hair and a thin mustache and was short and round (too round many had professed). He opened his blue-ebony eyes, “As usual that was beautiful, Vair. I especially enjoyed the interlude of the third movement. Most guitarists play it more robustly, but your delicate pianissimos are much better.”
“Merci, Penoit. Those ears of yours don’t miss much. I wish that you would become one of my students. You would become a great guitarist.”
“No, no, mon ami,” smiled Penoit, “I am forty-seven years old, too old to learn anything new. I have not the temperament for it. And besides that,” he added waving his arms, “in order to gain patrons I would have to do a lot of traveling and I don’t enjoy a lot of traveling. I like it here in Airizay, my home, my luthiery, the birds, my church, the occasional visitor of culture such as you and my wine. I have need of nothing else. I am content.”
“I have heard all that before, mon ami. You are not too old. The real truth is that you’re too lazy to apply yourself. You are too comfortable and too content. Your complacency is denying you your true glory.”
Again, you construct a lot of your sentences this way. Passive voice makes things longer and less direct.
