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Bailey, much to the dismay of both his mother and his sister, has always been a morning person. No matter how late he crawls into bed, he finds himself up as soon as even an inkling of sun sneaks its way through his window. He's never minded, besides; the early morning hours prove something of a holy hour, during which he finds himself blessed with tides of inspiration.
He watches the tides this morning, standing at the very edge of the boardwalk, the sun just beginning its climb in the sky. The salty air bristles his skin and his lungs as he breathes it in; guitar strapped around his shoulder, he strums on the instrument a bit, letting the quiet melody blend with the cry of seagulls and the fervor of the waves as they rush onto shore. For once, he pours his siren abilities into his playing, to add to the lilting quality of the song as the lyrics start to from in his head.
He sings them as they come to him, the words flickering out into the world like the wings of uncertain sparrows. This is his calling in life, he knows. And not just because of his siren abilities. Music lives in his blood, and he relishes the beauty of it as it unfurls in his veins.
Siren Cove is where he's meant to be, he realizes, as his fingers stir more fervently on his instrument and his song takes flight to greater heights. There is magic to this place beyond that of sirens and witches; a magic only music can really translate.
So in the early morning hours, he stands. And he sings.
He watches the tides this morning, standing at the very edge of the boardwalk, the sun just beginning its climb in the sky. The salty air bristles his skin and his lungs as he breathes it in; guitar strapped around his shoulder, he strums on the instrument a bit, letting the quiet melody blend with the cry of seagulls and the fervor of the waves as they rush onto shore. For once, he pours his siren abilities into his playing, to add to the lilting quality of the song as the lyrics start to from in his head.
He sings them as they come to him, the words flickering out into the world like the wings of uncertain sparrows. This is his calling in life, he knows. And not just because of his siren abilities. Music lives in his blood, and he relishes the beauty of it as it unfurls in his veins.
Siren Cove is where he's meant to be, he realizes, as his fingers stir more fervently on his instrument and his song takes flight to greater heights. There is magic to this place beyond that of sirens and witches; a magic only music can really translate.
So in the early morning hours, he stands. And he sings.
