cynric invorian (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
technicoloured) wrote2015-01-03 01:49 pm
technicoloured) wrote2015-01-03 01:49 pm
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[for hannibal] just now i shan't because you see i'm dancing
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.
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.
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.
XCynric 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.
i swear i'm a classy person I SWEAR
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 :|
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?
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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
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.
"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.
no subject
"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?"