Breaking post-skirmish tension, a single note of rosin stringed music cut through the air, drawing attention primarily because of how out of place it seemed, circumstances considered. Another note followed, joined by another, and another; expertly strung together by skillful, dexterous hands. A cunning and soulful interpretation of the Hero’s Song expressed itself through an intricately worked fiddle, filling the hearts of those listening with pride and hope. 

The source of these dulcet tones, however, made some uneasy. A crop of white hair cascaded over long, pointed ears pierced in several places with small rings of worked gold. Eyes, intelligent and red hued, took in their surroundings, one of which bore a mark that few still remembered: Three black triangles over, and a single black teardrop underneath, tattooed permanently. These markings inferred the disturbing rumor that no, their people had not all departed the world. He was Sheikah. Ramming further proof of his heritage home to the now growing onlookers, no one seems to have remembered him entering the town, before or after the battle at the dock. It was as if he failed to exist until the first notes of his music caressed the souls of those nearby. 

Slowly he stood, atop the rubble of a downed building, moving slowly and allowing all to see him. Such actions flew in the face of what was known about his people. They are not seen easily, and do not expose themselves to the light without good reason. Two obvious weapons girded his form, short blades common to his people, buckled over a mottled brown cloak. Dark clothing and boots peek from beneath his outer garb, contrasting his fresh, youthful features. Nimbly, still playing every note flawlessly, he descends the pile of ruined building, placing one foot in front of the other until reaching the ground. The crescendo of the Hero’s Song swelled as the strange one closed his eyes briefly, feeling the moment, and abruptly stopped. 

With practiced hands, he quickly put away his instrument and produced from the back of his belt a largish boomerang of nigh ethereal craftsmanship. A Relic of the Hero, without mistake. Holding it in a firm but non-threatening manner, he faced the recent combatants and brought his arms out wide beside him, allowing his cloak to open further and reveal his clothing more, a shadowy copy of Sheikah and Kokiri design, accented by several knife hilts strategically placed for ease of removal. He flashed a sincere, boyish smile, and nodded slightly at those around him. 

The Hero’s Song? The Relic? Maybe he was trying to communicate something, but he stood mute, warm expression despite his otherwise dark appearance.