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It was sort of peaceful, the Renaissance. Though a rush of idea and art, it had moments of stillness, as if one was appriciating a work of masterful effect.
That was just the same stillness as Vincent lay at the side of an old bridge, his violin upon his shoulder. In the misted distance, a woman was humming to the sound of the birds of night. Vincent only supplied a bit more tune.
As he dragged the bow across the strings, he became drowsier and drowsier, the effects of his calming music rippling in his mind. He tried to write down as much of the sound as he could, but was asleep with the quill in his hand.

What was supposed to be a calm morning was manipulated by a rustling noise. Vincent sprang into action, an obviously faulty move. He was being robbed. Two young men stood, peering over him. Both were wearing masks. One of the masks allowed the young man to play a flute, which he immediately started doing.
The music was swift and reckless, though it seemed he knew what he was doing. There was an ominous pitch to it, although Vincent hardly noticed as he stuggled to regain posession of his violin. The boy holding it tightly cackled, a sound quite unfit for someone his age.
His laughing grew higher and higher, until a crack was sounded just behind Vincent. He spun round, only to be lifted by his ankle off the ground. A larger, almost adult, man was holding him by the ankle. His mask was more refined, and a grin was obvious among his features.
He threw Vincent to the other two, who had to sit atop him to hold him down. The slimmer theif tried playing the violin, only succeeding in making it squeal unpleasently. Even under the choking pressure, Vincent tried to cover his ears.