You travel along the rocky country path, awash with the gold and yellow glows of late sunset. You see no sign of civilisation on the horizon, and sigh wearily. You hoped you might find an inn or other such shelter before sundown. Now you trudge on, dejected and exhausted, as the land falls into darkness.

Some hours later, after an endless-feeling hike through the dark, the glow of gold and yellow returns. Not the sunset this time, but a lonely campfire set up beside the road. Approaching closer you see a small cart and, sat upon one of the supply boxes placed around the fire, a forlorn-looking bat wrapped up in his own wings. He wears a brimmed hat and a fur-collared black cloak that blends well against his wings, creating a surreal silhouette. He stares into the fire with oddly distant eyes, a look that seems full of grief, or longing.

Seeing at the road continue to snake into inky blackness ahead, you consider a break with the stranger. A seat beside a warm fire is just what you need. You ask him carefully whether you may join him. His head turns slowly towards you and a friendly smile spreads across his face as your eyes meet.

“Ponte cómodo, amigo."

Your Spanish is rusty, but his amiable gesture to the box beside him compels you to sit.

“Soy Murciél. Tell me friend, what brings you down this road in the deep of night?"

You introduce yourself and explain your journey, in as much detail as you'd reveal to a stranger on the road. Murciél shuffles closer as you speak. You ask in return why he's here.

“I am…lost. By day I wander the land, charming its peoples with my song. When I play, hearts and minds are captured. They cannot help but follow me through town until the final notes are played. When I return another season, they greet me with open arms."

You notice something odd about the way the bat speaks. His voice is deep, softly-spoken and… thick. It seems to run into your ears and coat your thoughts like sticky, warm honey. Though only idle small talk, you find yourself more and more attentive to the bat's tale.

 “But…" Murciél continues. “Lamentablemente, I have parted ways with my instrument. I have lost my tool, my muse. Mi cielo. I cannot compose what the people desire. So here I wait, by the dancing red fire."

You find that you're suddenly catching yourself with a hand on the box, as if you'd suddenly lost balance and were about to tumble backwards. You don't remember losing your balance, only seeing a shimmering glow of gold in your eyes appearing as the bat spoke his final word. You must have stared into the fire too long, but yet… the words echo in your mind. Desire…fire…desire…fire… The rhyme resonates within you.

You try to shake off the sudden confusion and return to conversation. As you try to ask a follow-up question, the bat places a warm outstretched wing-hand on your shoulder.

“¿Estás bien? You seem shaken."

You nod in reassurance. The bat takes back his hand and in the following silence, seems to stare at you up and down, head to toe, deep in consideration about something. He smirks and swivels on his box to face you directly.

“The night finds me inspired, amigo. Would you like to hear a poem? A new composition. You will be the first in all the land to hear it."

Uncertain, you enquire about its length. Murciél simply grins in response.

“Oh, it won't take me long."

He turns you to face him as well and takes your wrists gently in his hands. It'll be okay, you think. Just listen out his poem and then get back on the road. Leave this strange man and these strange feelings behind.

The bat fixes his gaze on yours, smiling warmly as he recites. His performing voice is deeper, silkier.

Sígueme, traveller mine

Feel our thoughts begin to align

Sink in seas of yellow and gold

Let me sing you into my fold.

You're tumbling backwards again, like being taken suddenly by sleep. The bat's grip quickly tightens on your wrists, keeping you upright. Your eyelids feel heavy. It's been a long day, but you weren't so tired a moment ago… Something doesn't seem right. You see a yellow and gold haze growing around your peripheral vision. A pleasant, comforting sea of colour waiting for you to sink into its waves. You don't want to fall asleep here, but a wash of contentment is compelling you to stay. What's happening?

“Good. Relájate. Sígueme."

Murciél leads, a madrigal plays

Relax, follow, listen, stay.

Your heartstrings surely start to sing

Let me take you under my wing.

You shouldn't be falling for this. His honeyed words have some trickery woven in. You try to pull away but his grip is strong and insistent. When your tugging stops, he moves a hand onto your shoulder again. His brow shows a pleading sadness. “No more tilting at windmills, mi cielo. Sígueme. Follow the words and let me in."

The bat leans in and his eyes begin to glow. Beautiful, warm yellow and golden spirals glow in his eyes. It's impossible now to take your eyes off of them. They spin and whirl and pulse, brighter than the fire, bathing you in their radiance. They are the sunset promising light, the campfire promising warmth. They are comfort manifest in a pair of shining orbs. Why would you ever leave here?

No hurry, my pet

Don't worry, don't fret

Relax, my toy

My muse, my pride, my joy.

Your breathing is slow and steady and calm. It keeps tempo with the deliberate rhythm of the bat's performance, chest rising and falling to the cadence of his lines. Your wrists are no longer being held, but you can't move them. You don't want to move them. The rhymes buffeting your mind loosen all the tension from your limbs and they feel free, floating and fuzzy. You sit and listen, transfixed on his eyes and entranced by his verse.

He starts to move your limbs for you and you obediently allow him. Arms in the air, forearms together to the elbow. Knees apart, feet together. An odd shape, but you trust in Murciél. You trust in master.

He waves his hands and glowing golden strings appear between his fingers like a glowing cat's cradle. He reaches up and down, binding a string between each pair of fingers and toes. Each string vibrates lightly as it's snapped into place - a preview of the sonic sensations you're about to experience. It sends shivers down your spine, but you keep the strings fixed and taut for him. You want to hear them play! 

The bat sighs contentedly as he sees you fully put together. Your heart races at seeing how happy you've made him. With another graceful magical movement, he summons a bow from inside his wing.

He pulls you gently into his lap, his wings wrapping protectively around you as he positions his hands to play. Adjusting notes with deftly placed fingers on your forearms and sweeping his bow across the strings at your waist, he plays.

He performs the same poem, this time singing the words to a delicate melody and accompanying on his new instrument - on you. His mouth is right beside your ear. It feels like he's intimately whispering the words to you, cooing especially to you. Every word and rhyme sends waves of glee through your hazy mind. Likewise, every note of the tender string section you provide for him sends shivering waves of bliss through your body. You sway together as he sways, feeling out the music. You are master's instrument. Master's tool. Master's muse.

When the song ends, you yearn for more. Your master lowers his bow and moves his mouth close to your ear, whispering into the fuzz: “Sígueme, mi cielo. We have much work to do."