"Subtle." The word is repeated with a certain degree of deliberateness, the bard's eyes flitting back and forth across the lines of Hannibal's features. "And stirring."
And, clearly, living somewhere in the realm of using the sort of talents which came not with years of practice but with the particular study of where magic lived deep within a set of strings and a core of blood.
The shifting of his features is certainly subtle. The rearrangement of something internal seems to be occurring just beneath the surface; a gathering of reserves from an entirely different place than where he simply gathers his breath to sing. In fact, he doesn't seem to be gathering his breath at all in the same fashion as before.
This isn't about an enjoyable evening of entertainment, after all. This is essentially an interview. The good surgeon has seen already an array of talents, but not this one in particular.
There are no words to accompany the riff Cynric's fingers fall into over the lute's strings this time. There isn't a huge amount of subtlety in charming a half-drunk mind at such a close range from parting with coins; just a need to hit hard at a few critical basic instincts. He trusts that Hannibal is enough of a connoisseur to hear the deeper tension in the strings of the same instrument. He trusts that the shifting of the closest rogues and other shadowy patrons is obvious enough not to need to be pointed out.
The sting is fairly brief, but it absolutely pulls a little rumble of activity from their half of the room--including the appearance of a few coins to be passed into the bard's offered cup.
no subject
And, clearly, living somewhere in the realm of using the sort of talents which came not with years of practice but with the particular study of where magic lived deep within a set of strings and a core of blood.
The shifting of his features is certainly subtle. The rearrangement of something internal seems to be occurring just beneath the surface; a gathering of reserves from an entirely different place than where he simply gathers his breath to sing. In fact, he doesn't seem to be gathering his breath at all in the same fashion as before.
This isn't about an enjoyable evening of entertainment, after all. This is essentially an interview. The good surgeon has seen already an array of talents, but not this one in particular.
There are no words to accompany the riff Cynric's fingers fall into over the lute's strings this time. There isn't a huge amount of subtlety in charming a half-drunk mind at such a close range from parting with coins; just a need to hit hard at a few critical basic instincts. He trusts that Hannibal is enough of a connoisseur to hear the deeper tension in the strings of the same instrument. He trusts that the shifting of the closest rogues and other shadowy patrons is obvious enough not to need to be pointed out.
The sting is fairly brief, but it absolutely pulls a little rumble of activity from their half of the room--including the appearance of a few coins to be passed into the bard's offered cup.