milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

cora,
yrael

(no subject)

*There is an Yrael at the piano, tonight. His song tonight is a singularly delicate-sounding piece, weighted with sorrow and the sense of terrible loss. When the chords and melody do quicken and rise, they are cries of anguish, tearstained prayers to a listener's ears. The little pauses in the melody are the ragged inhalation before the weeping sobs pull one back down.*

*He plays with his eyes closed, a neutral look on his face as he listens to the bar room and its people.*

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When Cora walks into the bar, the sound catches her eye to the piano. It’s not an instrument she’s familiar with, but she smiles when she spots him and stops at a point nearby.

Not only might it be rude to interrupt, she doesn’t have the desire to in the least.

*The harmonies are simple, the song slow enough to almost seem to drag with the weight of the anguish it carries to the listener. The hollow-chested feeling of loss comes from those beautiful melodies, followed by ripples of sixteenth notes with the crushing sobs of grief. Yrael has his eyes closed, or he might have stopped to spare Cora. Might.*

Cora bites her lower lip as she continues to listen to him play. She's never been one to understand music very much, but there's nothing to really understand here--the pain is obvious.

"Oh," she softly, half unaware.

*He hears the soft utterance, blinking his eyes open to find her. The look on her face is clear enough. He lets the song end naturally, fading in gentleness, a prayer for deliverance and strength in this time of pain and grief.*

*Yrael looks at her, his eyes asking if she is alright.*

She relaxes as the song ends, and smiles weakly at him.

"I--that was beautiful, Yrael."

*He looks down at the keys, smiling slightly.* Thank you, Cora. Please forgive me if it troubled you.

*Note he's not saying he's sorry for it.*

"I don't think anyone has the right to be upset when music does what it's written for." She replies, her smile more genuine. "Is this instrument always here? I'm not terribly observant at the best of times, but I'm not even sure what it is."

*He chuckles, running a hands over the white-laquered wood.* It is always here, it belongs to the bar.

*He stands, pushing the piano bench back.* It is a piano, an instrument from Earth. Beside it, there, is a harpsichord, which is actually one of the piano's precursors.

*The harpsichord is smaller and more ornate, with a pastoral scene upon its green and gold lid.* It is actually not the bar's, but mine.

"I've seen one of those, before," she says, looking at the harpsichord curiously. "Though it is quite a bit more beautiful than what we have at home--and the piano came from it? Hm."

She glances back up at him. "Are you a musician, then?"

*He grins.* Yes. I forgot to mention that when we met, didn't I? Well, now you know that I play in more ways than one.

“Though this way might not be quite as useful for scheming," she laughs.

*A white eyebrow is raised, above his smiling eyes.* You would be surprised, I think.

I have sung for my supper often enough.

"Oh, but that's too respectable to be considered scheming, I think."

*A smirk.* Not when the other party does not know that they will be buying my meal.

She blinks at him. "Then--well, the logic is rather eluding me. How would such a scheme go about working?"

One plays, and during the song makes eyecontact with a likely-looking patron. Make them think the song is played for them, and they shall almost always come talk after the song is finished.

Having timed the song before the usual dinner hour, the talk continues until it finishes, and the patron is feeling the need to go order supper. The song and the careful wording by the musician leave a feeling like something is owed. Money is not worthy recompense, for those from different worlds have different currency. Food is universal.

*He spreads his hands.* It works more often than you would think.

Cora can't help but laugh at the explanation, though she thinks she rather ought to disapprove of his underhandedness.

"It is a scheme, then, Yrael," she admits after a moment. "Though I can't imagine most could carry it off."

I told you as much, Cora. *He sticks his tongue out at her, grinning.*

It takes skill and patience, and practice, I admit.

Cora, the paragon of maturity (...or something like that!), just wrinkles her nose at him in amusement.

"I suppose you did, didn't you?"

Another useful thing is that people tend not to listen very closely. *Smirkitty smirk smirk.*

"Not believing isn't quite the same as not listening," she replies with a grin. "Though I doubt that will keep you from looking like a cat as has caught a songbird."

Have I caught a songbird?

*His fingers cross the piano's keys in a melody-less piece of sound, like laughter.*

Do you sing?

She ducks her head, embarassed. "No--well, no more or better than anyone else."

It would take someone extremely tone-deaf to liken her to a songbird.

Your blush is pretty. *lightly, smiling* Would you sing?

Cora would eye him suspiciously, except she's blushing even worse than she was before.

"You won't give it up, will you?"

*He blinks once, as if taken aback. Though, he's still smiling, amused.*

Of course not.

*He looks expectant, now.*

Cora bites her lip for a moment, thinking, before softly singing a bit of a nursery song—it’s the first tune that comes to mind.

She’s not a particularly good singer, but she stays on-key.

*Yrael listens with a small smile until she is done.*

Very nice, Cora.

She looks up at him, slightly surprised, before smiling back. "Thank you, I suppose."

Now that you have sung for it...

*He grins.*

...care to join me for supper?

She laughs. “I probably should have expected that. Supper sounds wonderful, Yrael.”

And really, there are very few things as nice together as friends and food.

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