𐔌 . ♣️ Switzerland|Basch Zwingli ᐟ｡୧ ꒱

The sweet sounds that escaped from your violin was no mystery to Basch. He enjoyed listening to the serene music that you’d often play in the middle of the swaying grass field in the rural of Switzerland. Your music brought the hatred and violence bloodshed of war down to a minimum, the feeling of pulling in the strings was a muscle memory to your brain after years. Basch would often come to you in the afternoon, sitting down on the grass as your bow flew off of the strings of your violin. The breeze blew your hair in a forward motion and so did the dull green uniform you wore, just like how much Basch wanted to be like you, carefree and not war-driven. But for now, he could only listen to you playing your violin in the middle of a light green field of tranquility.

You finished the composed piece with a long down bow, bringing your bow up and settling your hand down by your side, your eyes still closed. Basch sighed and perched his arm up on his folded knee.

“Did you compose this yourself?”