PipaAs the famous Kowloong lyric poem Song of Concubine Ming goes, 'She travels thousands of miles on horseback with her pipa, the spring back in the palace now feels like a whole different world to her.' After the strings are broken and buried in sand, summer arrives, but there would be no one to appreciate the beautiful scenery.
Weapon skill
Usable by
Hanying: SolacetuneLore
As the famous Kowloong lyric poem Song of Concubine Ming goes, 'She travels thousands of miles on horseback with her pipa, the spring back in the palace now feels like a whole different world to her.' After the strings are broken and buried in sand, summer arrives, but there would be no one to appreciate the beautiful scenery.
"No need of fancy design? Just keep it simple? Well... I guess you're thinking of the yellow sand in frontier areas during ancient times."
Pipa coatings
A breeze brushes the strings, lifting the dust of millennia. Words from ancient and modern times quietly bloom in the silence. The majestic music gently unfolds the stories of history.
A pipa with a lotus pond painted on the body and strings resembling a rose curtain. Flick the strings and the aroma will travel through the air and make one feel like resting by a lotus pond. But when the music stops, the soundwaves would turn anything into ashes. What a gentle killer!
The fiery figure of girl appears through the snow in the fragrance of spring plum blossoms, adding a feeling of spring to the clouds. In the season of flowers, the girl plunks the strings to capture this ethereal scenery during the change of seasons, leaving a touch of red on the silver land.
The wood of the instrument curves, its grain a meandering stream bathed in the radiance of a thousand moons. As fingers drift over its frost-cooled strings, the notes slice through shadowed clouds to reveal the sky's clear, silent heart. A mighty resonance swells—moon-forged tones that fall like dew, soaking the dusty world below and washing its cares away. The exile, hearing this clarity, feels a soul-deep pull toward the osmanthus shadows of home; the wanderer, bathed in its glow, finds solace in memories of jade towers and marble courts. Here, the pipa is more than an instrument; it is the full moon itself, a jade wheel hung in the vault of heaven. And with every plucked string, an autumnal longing is unveiled, luminous and profound.
