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technicolouredCecilia 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.
your song choice is a+ all over this thread
Date: 2015-01-20 02:14 am (UTC)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.
Date: 2015-01-20 04:08 am (UTC)"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
Date: 2015-02-02 05:06 pm (UTC)"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?"