[for hannibal] just now i shan't because you see i'm dancing

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Cecilia isn't happy about it. She's never happy about anything he does. It's a predisposition she's got against him, he stubbornly reminds her while waving the cryptic letter in her face. This isn't about the actual facts; it's about her dislike of past conduct mismatched with her arbitrarily strict standards for morality which exceed, in his expert opinion, even the general realm of the religious fanatic at the best of times.

She isn't happy about it at all, but she's happier about most things he does if they happen under her supervision and don't involve him running off to seek Davroar's advice anymore.

If finding him barely conscious in a strange room he hadn't rented at an inn with a new surgical scar across his lower chest had displeased her, reading him the letter displeases her all the more. And, of course, if reading the letter didn't please her, it was clear she was going to spend the entirety of penning his response in her neat scholarly hand with a genuine scowl of righteous disapproval on her features.

It doesn't matter. He isn't doing this for her approval. He's doing this for a quiet sense of fascination with the man who's nearly killed him and fully saved his life--and, generally, the fact he's alive at all.

The dictation had first been attempted in his native tongue, but quickly been left off. The missive which ultimately reaches the mansion will be in the common tongue and written in a faintly more effeminate hand than one might expect even from the bard. The finishing sign is in an obviously different hand, the strokes much thicker and less practiced.

My Dear Master Lecter--

Your glassware has been kept in very good repair in the course of my convalescence. You'll be pleased to know you can retrieve it at your leisure any night this coming week at the Hanged Judge Tavern in Greyrock. It would be advisable for you to come under protection but to avoid it being obvious.

You know how jumpy we rabble can be.

X

Cynric is fairly certain it makes his point succinctly enough to bear his own mark rather than Cecilia actually scrawling out his name in full.

He's somewhat less certain that this most recent surgeon will actually appear in the rather run down tavern he's put himself up in for the week. Greyrock is, as an entire town, fairly marked for being a bastion of the lawless, and the Hanged Judge looks to be rather worse for the wear than even the other buildings surrounding it. There's absolutely no tension in his shoulders as he sits, night after night, at the corner of the bar with one leg crossed comfortably under his lute. The room is small and dark, yes, and the bulk of the visitors are clearly deep in their own conversation in the flickering candlelight, but the stream of his strong low tenor is nearly constant, underscored with just enough enticement along the strings of his lute to keep the occasional coin dropped into the empty mug resting at his side.

Comments

[augerofcuriosity]

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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He sings, of course, in far more languages than he speaks properly. In a place like this, he spends far more time slipping back toward songs in the languages he grew up falling back and forth among. There are more recognizing bobs of heads in places like this; more rough, amused voices which lifted from dark corners to join his own.

It's not surprising that a voice from the right joins his while he sits comfortably on the bar. It's worth only the briefest lift of his head in the direction of the voice with the crook of a pleased smile before his attention resumes scanning the room. If there's any particular recognition in his eyes, it's likely lost in the dim lighting of the tavern.

In the bard's mind, there's absolutely no stopping in the middle of a well-beloved song. There's certainly no utility in allowing this particular man the power of having stopped the singing while they're existing in this quiet balance.

Besides, when's the last time he had a proper partner in a duet who wasn't half-drunk and terribly untrained?

That isn't to say that the approach of the voice doesn't have him sitting just a little straighter, chin lifting just a hair higher as his attention continues in its lazy drifting. It sticks to his shoulders even as the song winds itself to an end. There might be some nerves in it, but from the cant of his head, it's clear that the majority of it is really just meant to be the unprofessional mimic of professionalism.

"Guten Abend, meine Herrn. Pass over another and I'll sing any tune you can name."

[augerofcuriosity]

To be fair, any slight wariness is something both parties may share. Hannibal didn't come here expecting that the warning to bring protection had meant absolutely nothing. Even his own hubris doesn't blind him to the possibility that this could be a very simple, very obvious trap. No matter how confident he is that he can defend himself or escape, there's a certain level of watchfulness for the time that he might need any of those skills.

But it's not in his shoulders, or in the hand resting on the counter. It's not in his stance as he drapes himself into a chair. The only space that might have room for it is his eyes, which have a layer of watchful steel beneath the playful silver. But he smiles slightly; first just with curling lips, and then with the skin around his eyes. "Mmm. Not a bad deal, is it, these days?" Another coin has appeared between thin fingers. The metal is just as cold as his skin, and it makes a tinny clatter against its brethren when he flicks it into the mug.

His lips still and purse in thought. "Connaissez-vous des chansons dans cette langue? I'm not feeling terribly picky. I'll trust your instinct." That language also has an accent to it, as strong as in his Common, but perhaps a bit less than in Cynric's tongue - he clearly learned it after he learned his own, after Cynric's language. But it has an ease to it, with nothing straining for pronunciation; someone used to dissecting these things might assume he spoke it longer than the others. His fingers gain a bit more slack to them when he speaks it, and his shoulders, already lax, seem to sink more deeply.

But then he's back to the focus, and it all wafts away in the stale indoor breeze.

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There's something very comforting about it, really. There's an oddly almost familiar cycle to the fact that they'd met in the darkness in a moment of theft and were coming together now, their blood wiped clean from each other's hands, in the darkness in a moment of brokering a deal. True, the ultimate deal will likely be more than the exchange of two coppers for a tune, but it's got the sort of poetic justice that people write into long, winding poems.

It's not quite dramatic enough for a ballad, but it's closer than a lot of the humdrum life most people live to keep themselves fed.

There's a rather obvious pause in the bard's entire being. He doesn't hold many languages actively in his mind, it's clear from the slight furrow in his brow as he matches the sounds which have just been presented in his ears to sounds he half understands stored in his brain. Animation comes back after a moment or two, pulling his features back into their usual angular sharpness as he flashes a toothy grin.

"You know my instinct is to head for the lowest denominator, meine Herrn."

It's a borrowed phrase, but it trips well over his tongue. His fingers lead first, and when his low tenor follows the opening trill with the words of the rather ribald song he's landed on, his own accent comes very much with the clips of a native of the mountains which he's managed to smooth out of his Common speech. It's matched well by the few intoxicated voices which join in the response to the call and laugh along the chorus.

How can a person not sing along?

eta that your song choice utterly slayed me jfc

[augerofcuriosity]

Well, no, he didn't know; although an assumption along those lines would be fair for a bard. Hannibal isn't the sort who would have ever suggested a song quite so lewd, but as the first leering notes come forth, he doesn't frown in disapproval. Instead his head tilts by degrees to his left, eyes on Cynric. He watches his hands on his lute - now he knows what those fingers are so limber for - and chooses to focus on the skill there, and the powerful tenor in and of its own self, rather than all this talk of culs.

Not that, at the second chorus, he doesn't slowly grow another smirk. He doesn't watch the rest of the room, doesn't look to any of the other occupants who've chosen to join in. It's with his gaze focused solidly on Cynric that he adds his own voice, because stuffy paintings in his mansion or not, he most certainly knows the words. There's a certain pleasure in saying lewd things - it's just not the same sort of smirking enjoyment that the half-drunk voices around them are experiencing.

"Bravo. But you've been playing that much longer than you've spoken la langue de la fleur de lys." He doesn't reach out to touch the lute, or even point, following instinct. Instead he simply gestures with his eyes, a meaningful glance at the body of the instrument cradled in Cynric's lap.

i swear i'm a classy person I SWEAR

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Most people have some amount of trouble trusting bards. It's the nature of their business--and, perhaps more accurately, the probability that their business actually runs much more than coincidentally parallel with the even less reputable business half of them seem to be born from originally. Cynric has never pretended to be entirely devoid of lies or that every single thought that pops off his lips is the complete and utter truth.

That said, he does have a terribly earnest laugh. It's much brighter and more youthful than the air which usually clings around him when he isn't lit up in song. It fits well in among the roar which ends the song, like the fading away of whatever muse grips a musician in belting out bar tunes.

His attention stays flitting for a moment even after the song's ended, the way a bird whose song ends takes sharp note of the impression the tune has produced in the woods surrounding. It's only when Hannibal properly starts speaking again that his attention finally comes to rest on the older man again. It's fairly obvious that the second language washes over him with only the faintest sort of actual understanding, but that hardly matters.

The glance, after all, is fully understood.

"I wouldn't say I really speak it at all." Certainly not with the obvious fluency his fingers speak with his lute. They twist closer again now, hugging the instrument closer to his chest. "Or that I ever wasn't playing."

Mhm. Mhm. Je crois ça :|

[augerofcuriosity]

It's a disappointment, but a common and expected one - Hannibal handles it with a calm nod. One hand and elbow rest on the bartop, the other on his own knee. The one on the bartop inches over so a slender finger can tip the mug just so, and peer inside. He raises his eyebrows a hair. "Your audience seems to believe that hard work has paid off."

Eye contact is, clearly, something Hannibal not only has no problem with, but has a particular fondness for. Each time he directs his focus on Cynric, it's a full and complete thing. He tends to dial back the obvious attention when in polite company, but it's still a stare that occasionally raises the hair on the back of necks - even when the owners of said necks don't consciously sense any threat. In defense of him and this strange environment they're fostering right now, it's at least born of a very simple - but stubbornly strong - want to dissect, not necessarily intimidate.

"I'd say I agree." His smile is genuine, and almost soft, for a bare heartbeat - and then it gathers back up from wherever it came, leaving only a faintly devious curl to lips and glint to eyes. "But I'd hoped for something a little more subtle...regardless of our crowd." He spares a moment of his stare to eye a man nearby, burying a greasy nose in an emptying pilsner.

A trio of copper coins appear from somewhere on his person - perhaps he has pockets in his sleeves - and plink into the mug. "Something stirring. Enough to have that gentleman tip you at least as much as I just did. It's a win for both of us." Cynric, let's see your skill at work alongside its companion skill. Let's see some coercion at play, through wiles or through magic.

It's best to know what skills you're hiring, after all. How else will you pick a suitable job?

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"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.

[augerofcuriosity]

Listening is given the utmost attention. Hannibal's eyes fade closed as Cynric begins, once Hannibal has already taken stock of the concentration in the set of his jaw and eyes. One hand's fingers are splayed on the bartop like he's drumming them, but they remain still - there's no outward motion that sways with Cynric's song, but Hannibal is intently feeling it just the same. When he breathes in, he can almost taste the swirling magic on the air, like a lizard. It smells confident, and strong, even as its obviousness and lack of subtlety might have made it unappealing.

Eyes closed means there's more to hear, as well - the way the strings vibrate just a little differently, a little deeper, as though the magic were a different medium for it to travel through. He hears the plinks of coins and doesn't need to look for them. Even once his eyes are opened again, his attention remains on Cynric's face and Cynric's fingers.

Now is the time for drumming his hands on the countertop - just once, one flat thrum of fingers against the worn wood grain. "You're very good at that, aren't you?

"One wonders why you left it behind while working, the first time we met." He tilts his head to the side. His mouth twitches as if to suggest he would bite his lip in thought, but instead it shivers into a smile. "I suppose it's not very safe. You must be very attached to your lute."

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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.

your song choice is a+ all over this thread

[augerofcuriosity]

The way his fingers keep coaxing sounds from the strings while he thinks and speaks is familiar to Hannibal. Not at all in the sense of one musician recognizing his passion in another, but in the sense of an expert recognizing the comfort someone else can hold in their own skill. Certain motions, certain thought-paths traveled, become so second-nature as to be a new language in and of themselves. It's another way of conversing, of expressing internal thoughts, that can be just as necessary as speech; if not more.

He relaxes into the new expression, eyes between Cynric's hands and face. His mouth twitches, briefly, into an agreeing smile at the first comment.

The compliment has him growing a much slower, permanent sort of smile. It's subtle; in fact it's not in his lips at all. It's restricted to his eyes - where the smile peers out from a mind currently preening. He's smart enough not to give a Cheshire grin at flattery, but he's caught up in it enough not to completely censor the internal fanfare that accompanies it. "That is, of course, impossible for me. My beautiful mind is quite fixed in place." He nods at Cynric's lap. "Your lute, however, and other bards' viols, rauschpfeife, dulcians...they're a bit more separate."

Rather than follow it through towards anything resembling a threat, the thought breaks across his face in an open smile and a small shrug. "I believe it's very romantic, personally. Would you agree?"

like is said, je suis chic. and i have so many folders for cynric.

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His body sways just slightly side to side for a moment, in time with the tune falling from his fingers but obviously in separate consideration of the question.

"Lots of people call it romantic. And I certainly wouldn't object that it's-- the longest standing and most important relationship a musician has."

Particularly bards, but that hardly needs saying. There's something different about the life force that winds up poured into an instrument used for the sort of performance that bleeds magic. The bond is almost more tactile; the sort of thing the right sorcerers might be able to actually almost run fingers over and take in their hands.

"It's always seemed like a bit of a loaded word, honestly."

And as someone who cared infinitely for the shades of words, he hated giving more packaging than it needed. He suspected Hannibal was fairly similar.

[augerofcuriosity]

He nods. He'll agree to the surface notion in there. "I see. Too simple and too complex all at once. There's a certain imagery conjured with 'romance'." A break where he stares at the attention poured into the instrument, as though he intends to weigh its aura and power through sight alone.

"But." He keeps considering only the lute, and Cynric's hands on it. "I suppose I'm a large believer of unconventional relationships. It is possible to have a romance outside the...norm, and to still call it such." His eyes and mouth both crinkle at their corners in what looks like amusement. "Why allow others' assumptions to dictate something you'll likely only discuss inside your own head?" Perhaps it's his own detachment that moves him to think of it as romantic. Perhaps his own feelings don't actually enter into it, and he's being contrary just for contrariness's sake.

Either or, he looks a particular subdued shade of pleased. "And to avoid being rude - shall I buy you a drink?"