If language is how a people thinks, music is how they remember. Humans, true to form, have turned song into their most efficient courier: street fiddlers and lute-players in taverns spread news faster than most messengers, trading ballads about wars, scandals, and miracles for coins. A marching tune composed in Valmark can be heard, a season later, on a dockside in Ætaine; its words already twisted to flatter a different patron.
Wood-aelvar favor flutes carved from living branches, hand-drums of bark and hide, and choral singing that threads through the canopy; their songs map game-trails, water sources, and forest taboos, so that even a child raised on them could walk safely from one village to the next.
We high-aelvar prefer harps, long-necked lutes, and layered vocal pieces of absurd complexity. Our compositions are as much archives as entertainments: genealogies, histories, even philosophical arguments encoded in recurring themes and counter-melodies.
Dverger keep time with heavy drums, deep-voiced horns, and resonant stone chimes hung in their fortress-cities. Their work-songs synchronize labor; their epic songs recount city and clan histories, lost mines, metalworking guidance, and warnings about failed endeavors.
Pale-aelvar, by Isha’s account, reserve music largely for ritual and war: harsh chants and percussive rhythms used to enforce unity during marches or to glorify the Night Sovereign and the worship of the Goddess of Darkness. Across borders, melodies slip more easily than flags. A tune born as a hymn to the Goddess of Light might resurface in Drak’nir as a patriotic march, its origin forgotten but its shape still carrying the memory of some older, half-remembered truth.
— from the research notes of Zyr’Magi Tes’Lothen, “Magi the Blade”, high-aelv scholar, mage, and swordsman
