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It is late in the afternoon, and the tavern is alive. Venti strums his lyre as he leans his back against the bar, legs swinging in the wind. His stool is off to the side, giving space for Rosaria and Kaeya to look over the bar’s customer scene like hawks, itching to sink their talons into the suspicious individuals sitting alone.
Despite the fact that he’s here to perform, Venti hasn’t actually sang anything in a while.
Kaeya, itching to stalk his way into the dark corners of the bar, throws on his most charming smile. “I’d fancy a tune or two, you know. Summer evenings just aren’t the same without them!”
“You’re not being subtle at all,” Venti deadpans. His legs keep swinging, and he idly looks over the warm building, bathed in a golden glow of the sunset.
“I am a fan of your songs about Amos,” mutters Rosaria, voice flat yet inquisitive.
Venti groans, huffing in offense. “You’re doing it on purpose,” he mumbles. “But how can I resist? The archer, the lover of a god, the revolutionary…”
“Exactly,” Rosaria goads him. “And… other things. Sing about that. You love singing about that.”
That particular phrase makes Diluc pause for a second, and Venti is already strumming the notes of his lyre. “How could I not,” Venti laments, “The tale of a warrior most determined, with a heart broken by immortal love…”
“And the harsh winds,” Kaeya adds, with a grin. “And flesh. Or something like that.”
“The harsh winds that could never know the tenderness of human flesh,” Venti trails off, and then whines. “You’re cheating. This is so unfair.” But he launches into song either way, and soon enough, he is the only one by the bar while the rest of his friends sashay into the crowd.
It really is a pity. The songs he sings are not to be ignored! He puts his all into each performance, and really, the only ones to appreciate it at this point are the people drunk out of their minds, singing along and breaking into tears at the sad themes of his music. Who knew forbidden love played on people’s feelings so well?
“Was Rosaria right?” Diluc questions him after the song is over. “Are songs about Lady Amos ones you like the most?”
Humming, Venti leans his back against the counter’s edge, idly strumming notes into a soft melody. “I love any great story. Everyone deserves to have their tales immortalised, no?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Diluc says. Venti knows that, of course.
“A gathering of friends of old,” Venti says, “Sealing the history of the city of Mond, and now only one remains… Ridding the city of its chains… Awe,” he complains to Diluc, “These songs always get me nostalgic. They use an old rhyme composition, one that defaults to a more irregular rhythm than the ones that came after. They’re actually quite hard to play on modern instruments…”
“Uh-huh,” Diluc squints at him. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
Venti beams at him. “Yes, I have.”
“Hey!” Comes a voice from the crowd. “Got anything from Sumeru?”
Now that peaks his interest. “Hmm,” Venti thinks, all the while Diluc yells at the patron for harassing the tavern’s bard. “I do, actually! Let’s go for an older one…”
Like muscle memory, his fingers strum up the melody before he even recalls the words. They’re a bit muddled in his mind, dusty. It’s about time to bring them back to life. The lyrics are pleasing to sing, and the melody uplifting – the tavern lights up in no time, and Venti enjoys seeing the faces of the people so happy.
There comes a point in the song that he knows dearly, only stumbling over his words when he finds that talker doesn’t quite rhyme with Kusanali as well as he must’ve thought in the past. He sings about a little sprout, hidden in the shade by a tree that looks out for it while it’s growing. The end of the song is solemn, focusing on how the tree withers and is cut down, and tells the sprout to forget all about it.
It’s a tale that’s been done many times. There’s nothing unusual about it, happy songs with solemn endings are an average, and a dead mentor is very popular with the youth.
Venti pauses.
The tavern quiets down, patrons looking confused at his sudden pause, and even Diluc raises an eyebrow at the unusual situation.
Apologies floating from his mouth, Venti continues playing.
A tiny sprout, one that has a lot to learn, one that is weak and cannot grow if it is forever sheltered. Taking care of it is a tree whose branches reach all over the world, a tree that is strong and that is quickly withering. There is a lyric in the song that Venti glossed over as he sang it, that he now reflects back on. While the tree is consoling it, the sprout sings, may the wind carry your legacy once more.
“Sometimes, I have no idea what your songs are about,” Diluc deadpans. “Do you have to bury everything under a mountain of metaphors?”
“The world is full of lost ballads,” Venti says to him, deep in thought. “They would be lost forever, if not for bards weaving their stories into songs.”
Coming close to whining, Diluc chooses his battles wisely and leaves the topic alone. “Asking you a question is like throwing peas at a wall.”