The silence is only brief. After the distinct end of the riff--and a moment bobbing his head in appreciation for the coins being offered over--the bard's fingers start to move again. Although it's clearly an actual song rather than a sting, there's much less attention being paid.

There's also more space in the air again. The careful tug smooths back out into the simplicity of acoustics. The light in Cynric's eyes turns from shining bright to something slightly more muted.

Playing to play is always a reward in and of itself.

"Bards tend to be. Attached, that is." The fact that he's very good is, in fact, a differentiation from other bards--mostly those younger than he, but he certainly wouldn't miss the opportunity to compare himself favourably to his peers and contemporaries, either. "I'd imagine it would be like-- taking that beautiful mind of yours out and setting it down for a while."

That's what doctors and art collectors prize most, right? The place they've crammed all their education, if Cynric understands half of what his own classically educated friends have tried to explain to him.