The figure that sets out for Greyrock is one focused on blending in with his oncoming scenery. Sometimes the best protection is simply ensuring you have no predators in the first place.
His thief-turned-patient had had enough of a glint of intelligence in his eyes and words that Hannibal will, of course, be coming. Not on the first day, nor the second or third; but before the week is properly almost expired, either. It's only the fifth evening that he arrives in town, dressed in colors that match the dull earth and cloudy sky. His horse was left out of the traveling this time, so he arrived on foot, a satchel of components squirreled between layers. If he cheated most of the distance with magic, there's no telling now.
But of his magic - little motes cling to him, invisible dust that occasionally clouded the notion of him from others. Not invisibility, nothing so brash. But the few people who looked at their fellow traveller with greedy eyes tended to feel their gaze would be better spent elsewhere; distractions away from him seemed to come all too easily.
The Hanged Judge is a slum that's not too difficult to find, and soon a cloaked newcomer enters the tavern. Appearing neither rich (fit for pickpocketing) or aggressive (fit for a brawl), he doesn't garner much notice.
It's at one of the points when Cynric delves into his native tongue that a voice strikes up a harmony with him. If Cynric is facing any side along the bar, it's directly behind him; if he faces squarely the tavern itself, it's approaching from his right side.
The voice is a baritone, one that's perhaps more naturally drawn to the middle of that range. It's very clearly a trained voice - strong and exacting, no hesitation, even while singing so softly as it approaches. But there is, perhaps, a quality lost to that measure of precision - there's no welling of emotion, no room for natural hesitation. It is, if one wanted a flaw, chillingly exact and mechanical. Much more like metal than a voice; if there is any degree of passion to it, it's simply for the pleasure of being so precise.
But it's there, and it encroaches steadily. If Cynric doesn't break away from singing as he notices him, or if he pretends not to notice him at all, he'll hear and see the plink of a small copper coin being flicked into his collection mug. Hannibal leans one hand against the bartop and, his position next to Cynric now claimed, will very contentedly finish the song with him - should Cynric not stop.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2015-01-05 05:17 pm (UTC)His thief-turned-patient had had enough of a glint of intelligence in his eyes and words that Hannibal will, of course, be coming. Not on the first day, nor the second or third; but before the week is properly almost expired, either. It's only the fifth evening that he arrives in town, dressed in colors that match the dull earth and cloudy sky. His horse was left out of the traveling this time, so he arrived on foot, a satchel of components squirreled between layers. If he cheated most of the distance with magic, there's no telling now.
But of his magic - little motes cling to him, invisible dust that occasionally clouded the notion of him from others. Not invisibility, nothing so brash. But the few people who looked at their fellow traveller with greedy eyes tended to feel their gaze would be better spent elsewhere; distractions away from him seemed to come all too easily.
The Hanged Judge is a slum that's not too difficult to find, and soon a cloaked newcomer enters the tavern. Appearing neither rich (fit for pickpocketing) or aggressive (fit for a brawl), he doesn't garner much notice.
It's at one of the points when Cynric delves into his native tongue that a voice strikes up a harmony with him. If Cynric is facing any side along the bar, it's directly behind him; if he faces squarely the tavern itself, it's approaching from his right side.
The voice is a baritone, one that's perhaps more naturally drawn to the middle of that range. It's very clearly a trained voice - strong and exacting, no hesitation, even while singing so softly as it approaches. But there is, perhaps, a quality lost to that measure of precision - there's no welling of emotion, no room for natural hesitation. It is, if one wanted a flaw, chillingly exact and mechanical. Much more like metal than a voice; if there is any degree of passion to it, it's simply for the pleasure of being so precise.
But it's there, and it encroaches steadily. If Cynric doesn't break away from singing as he notices him, or if he pretends not to notice him at all, he'll hear and see the plink of a small copper coin being flicked into his collection mug. Hannibal leans one hand against the bartop and, his position next to Cynric now claimed, will very contentedly finish the song with him - should Cynric not stop.