He can tell the other Kobold is lightly needling and he can't say he quite minds. It's a bit different in two regards opening up to another of his kind; he knows he would understand but in that understanding brings a personal vulnerability, and Rakka has spent his life disassociating himself as it's been the only practical thing to keep him safe. He knows little else.
He strums, realizing he's never written a song about himself, especially so on-the-spot. Perhaps it's for the best and even though it's uncomfortable but he tries, voice warbling but words quietly coming.
♫ "Luck comes in all shapes and sizes, conveniently or not at all, Luck sings softest to itself, and loudest with, heh, alcohol... Luck can fell even the mightiest of dragon's crown. Luck had nothing to do with it... The story of how proud Nightscale was slain down.
Scales black as ichor and heart filled with acid, Nightscale ruled a Kobold clan. He made his children made in his likeness, never content with the image he planned. Thus a divide grew between them; those with wings and those without. But what, may I ask is in-between? Is it with, or is there doubt? Useless wings, a useless not; but this one sings and crafts songs. Sweet enough to to sooth acid bile, as often and as long as it took. An instrument, it is decided, the in-between wrought is. An instrument, after a while, grows worn and weary... grows curious what might happen in silence.
Was it fear, was it cowardice, was it loyalty astray? That the instrument fell quiet when something bigger than Nightscale came on a crusade..." ♫
By the time he finishes part one he was unaware by the time he was describing the in-between wings, his own wings had burst out of the back of his vest for dramatic flare. They're too small to functionally fly but they're a part of him as much as the rest of him is. Feeling the draft of the night's air on them makes him realize and he recoils them with a modicum of embarrassment. He thinks he was just starting to feel the groove of this song when it is, perhaps now predictably, about to be interrupted. The ground trembles and the tell-tale moan of ghouls finally breaks in the near distance, and beady eyes pierce through the tree-line around their campfire.
Rakka levels Cecil with an eager grin. This was nice, but this is what pays.
no subject
He strums, realizing he's never written a song about himself, especially so on-the-spot. Perhaps it's for the best and even though it's uncomfortable but he tries, voice warbling but words quietly coming.
♫ "Luck comes in all shapes and sizes, conveniently or not at all,
Luck sings softest to itself, and loudest with, heh, alcohol...
Luck can fell even the mightiest of dragon's crown.
Luck had nothing to do with it... The story of how proud Nightscale was slain down.
Scales black as ichor and heart filled with acid, Nightscale ruled a Kobold clan.
He made his children made in his likeness, never content with the image he planned.
Thus a divide grew between them; those with wings and those without.
But what, may I ask is in-between? Is it with, or is there doubt?
Useless wings, a useless not; but this one sings and crafts songs.
Sweet enough to to sooth acid bile, as often and as long as it took.
An instrument, it is decided, the in-between wrought is.
An instrument, after a while, grows worn and weary... grows curious what might happen in silence.
Was it fear, was it cowardice, was it loyalty astray?
That the instrument fell quiet when something bigger than Nightscale came on a crusade..." ♫
By the time he finishes part one he was unaware by the time he was describing the in-between wings, his own wings had burst out of the back of his vest for dramatic flare. They're too small to functionally fly but they're a part of him as much as the rest of him is. Feeling the draft of the night's air on them makes him realize and he recoils them with a modicum of embarrassment. He thinks he was just starting to feel the groove of this song when it is, perhaps now predictably, about to be interrupted. The ground trembles and the tell-tale moan of ghouls finally breaks in the near distance, and beady eyes pierce through the tree-line around their campfire.
Rakka levels Cecil with an eager grin. This was nice, but this is what pays.