Nightwatch

Sol looked down at the small campsite from his lookout position in a nearby tree. The tiefling had opted to take this vantage point during his shift on watch for a handful of reasons: it gave him a better view of the area, the tree wasn’t terribly comfortable so he was less likely to drift off, and it gave him a bit of distance from where the others were sleeping. The latter reason was important for two reasons. Firstly, he was still worried that his clothes carried some trace of the freezing sickness. Secondly, he was less likely to wake anyone up with what he was doing. For Sol had taken two things with him into the tree; his sickle, which hung from his hip (his trident was leaning against the tree and waiting for him to leap down and grab it if necessary), and his lyre, which was currently in his hands. He hadn’t touched the instrument since arriving in Saltmarsh. It had either remained in his rucksack or in his inn room.
 
He’d been too embarrassed to play it. Afraid someone would hear him. Hells he was embarrassed now. He was as far as he dared get and he wasn’t sure if anyone in the group were particularly light sleepers. But he was tired and keeping his hands busy would help keep him awake. Sol looked over the instrument as he decided what to do, it’s wooden surface was scratched in places now and some of the details were scuffed with age and the roughness of the last several years. But it was still a beautiful piece. It’s surface carved and etched to show delicate patterns of flowers, vines, and the sun’s rays. Part of it had been painted once, but most of it had been rubbed away. On the back there was an inscription. Solis couldn’t read it, of course, it wasn’t in infernal and his lessons in common had been cut short. But he’d been told what part of the message said when he’d gotten it. It wished him a Happy Birthday, he remembered that much. He recognized the symbols that made up his first name. And looking at it now there definitely seemed to be more to the message. But he wasn’t quite sure what it said. He wrinkled his nose in annoyance and leaned back against the trunk of the tree.
 
His fingers itched. Hells with it. Solis plucked one of the strings, pausing after the note rang out to see if anyone in the camp stirred with held breath. Seeing no movement he plucked another few strings. Nothing. A content smirk settled on the tiefling’s face and he relaxed. Experimental plucking gave way to a simple melody as he refamiliarized himself with the instrument. Eventually he was humming along softly with what he was playing as it got a bit more complex, but he dared not sing. He hated his singing voice anyway. It was gravelly and rough. He much preferred for others to sing.
 
Solis spent most of his watch like this. Stopping if he heard a sound or thought he saw something below him. Resuming his playing when he deemed the coast clear. But eventually he shift would end and he climbed down from his perch, stowed his lyre back in his pack, and awoke the person next in line.