[ He handles the instrument like one familiar with it, gripping it carefully but firmly. Initially he examines it, piercing golden eyes running over the design. It's only slightly different to the violins he knows back home - a difference insignificant enough to not matter.
Satisfied, he turns it around and starts to trace something in the air over the back with his finger. Whatever it is, it's hidden from Sherlock's view. It doesn't take long and Emet-Selch soon puts the violin to his shoulder. He draws the bow across the strings a few times to familiarise himself with its tuning. Then closes his eyes...and plays.
It's a mournful tune as well. He only plays for slightly over two minutes but the refrain he wrings out of the strings seems to conjure faint, indistinct images around him. Skies burning. Buildings crashing down. The flickering silhouettes of hooded people as they flee something terrible. The death of a city. The death of a star.
The final note is drawn out, high and desperately sweet, before falling into deafening silence. The images fade. ]
no subject
Satisfied, he turns it around and starts to trace something in the air over the back with his finger. Whatever it is, it's hidden from Sherlock's view. It doesn't take long and Emet-Selch soon puts the violin to his shoulder. He draws the bow across the strings a few times to familiarise himself with its tuning. Then closes his eyes...and plays.
It's a mournful tune as well. He only plays for slightly over two minutes but the refrain he wrings out of the strings seems to conjure faint, indistinct images around him. Skies burning. Buildings crashing down. The flickering silhouettes of hooded people as they flee something terrible. The death of a city. The death of a star.
The final note is drawn out, high and desperately sweet, before falling into deafening silence. The images fade. ]