milliways_bar | (no subject)

A tall, dark, and handsome man is nearby playing the piano. He seems to be rather absorbed in the music. He is wearing immaculate and well-tailored dress clothes of the earth 2000 AD variety, all black except the shirt.

The music is very beautiful, but quite gloomy.

Random freezes, listening to the notes, completely absorbed.
After a moment he spins, leaning over the back of hiss chair, in order to watch the man playing the piano. Watching his fingers move is absorbing. His deep, burnt orange tunic is a bright contrast to the man at the piano, although brown leggings and vest dim down the colour, somewhat. He listens to the playing, forgetting his drink for the moment.

The bard seems to almost hunch over the keyboard when he plays certain strains of the music. His eyes closed, he seems completely absorbed in the music.

Eventually, the piece ends, and the bard lets out a small sigh.

"You play marvellously."
Random's voice is quiet, and seems small, after the noise of the piano.
He shifts his weight, resting his head on his arms, getting more comfortable. Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome clearly knew what he was doing, and the results were... wow.

Asmodean gave a charming smile, and made a graceful motion with his right hand. The bard's voice is cool, and dry.

"Thank you, my lord."

Random winces at the title, and shakes his head.
"Please, I'd prefer Random."
He looks at the bard's face.
"And whom do I have the honour of addressing?"

The bard's face is handsome but extremely difficult to read. Exactly what the mind behind those dark eyes is thinking is unclear.

"I am called Jasin Natael."

He paused.

"A pleasure making your acquaintance."

Jasin Natael. Why hadn't he heard of this man before.
Resisting the urge to drop his politically cultivated mask and leap across the space separating them to talk to this man, Random forces himself to remain distantly polite. He lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and stabs at what he hopes is polite conversation.
"When did you start playing?"

Asmodean considered.

"Many, many years ago when I was a young child."

For what it is worth, Asmodean's age is very hard to place but maybe in his late-twenties, early thirties.

Random smiles. Many, many years? To an immortal? Well, that's an interesting concept. But this is a human. He spends a moment doing mental math, then decides it doesn't really matter.
"It can be a pleasure to have something that you love so much. As you clearly do."
Mortality, for all that it was brief, could produce stunning creations, such as music like this.

Asmodean smiled slightly. A grim chuckle.

"A magnificent obsession..."

He paused.

"My music is my joy."

Random smiles, and lets his chin fall onto his folded arms.
"As I said. You're lucky."
Lucky to have something concrete.
"They can't take that from you."
He doesn't add who 'they' might be.

Asmodean smiles. A glimmer in his dark eyes.

"No, they cannot."

He paused.

"And if they did? Then it would no longer be me."

Random straightens, eyes flashing.
"That is quite simply not true. It's not the music that makes the person."
He sounds like he's forgotten that the other man's there, that he's desperately trying to convince himself.

Asmodean gives an almost predatory grin. Something calm and deep in his voice. Like a monster under the waves are his dark eyes.

"Is it?"

He paused.

"For music comes from within."

Random looks slightly panicked.
"But if a man's fingers were to be shattered, then he'd still be himself. If his strings were cut, or his pipe snapped, he'd be no different. If his magic is trapped, then what makes him his own person still remains intact."
He drums his fingers on his knee.
"What's within is still there. No matter that the outlet may be stolen."

Asmodean laughed. An almost cruel smile.

"That is the vehicle for producing the music."

He paused.

"As I mentioned earlier, the music comes from within."

Random leans backwards. He's calmer. Truly, he is.
"Well, I still don't agree with you. It may come from within, but for most, it's not all that's there."
He looks at Asmodean, eyes measuring.
"Perhaps you are not so lucky as I thought."

Asmodean shrugged. His dark eyes still watch Random.

"Perhaps, or perhaps not."

He sighs. Talking to this man is a rather dangerous occupation. He decides to change the topic.
"You said earlier that you know who I am?"

Asmodean's brow furrows. His dark eyes study Random.

"I said nothing of the such."

He scowls, exasperated.
"So you, a bard, are in the habit of calling random passers by by the title of 'Lord'? That seems... out of character for a man of your skills. One would think you'd be a tad more haughty."
He's laughing. You can tell by the way the corner of his mouth twitches.

Asmodean gave an almost sneering smirk.

"True confidence in one's skills precludes the need for overt displays of pride."

He paused.

"I can call them all Lords and Ladies, but the scenario changes when I pluck the strings of a harp."

Random smiles, and inclines his head, acknowledging the point.
"So it would seem."
He straightens his spine.
"Then I've not introduced myself. I'm Random, Prince of Amber."
This last is not said with pride. It's a statement of fact, and rather blunt, actually.

Asmodean gave a slight smile. Again, that calm deference.

"A pleasure making your acquaintance, Lord Random."

Random almost snickers at the inclusion of the 'Lord' in that sentence.
"As I said before, I prefer 'Random.' Formality frustrates me."

Asmodean made a deferential, and graceful (a deadly rather than genteel grace for the observant) gesture.

"My apologies, it is an old habit."

Smoothly
"Accepted."
He leans his chin back on his arms, recognizing the knife-like beauty of someone... dangerous. Certainly more suited to one of his brothers than this seemingly devoted bard.
"And you, Jasin Natael. What would I call you?"

Asmodean chuckled, and shrugged. His dark eyes continue to watch Random. They are unreadable eyes.

"A name is but a label, and a title is nothing to me."

Random smiles.
"My Lord Bard, I know that better than many. But I'm not asking what you think of your name, I'm asking what you'd like me to call you. For it's your choice."

Asmodean shrugged. Exactly what the bard is thinking is unclear.

"You may call me Jasin, if are so inclined."

Random smiles. A straight answer, after only ten minutes of wrangling over one question. Miracles will never cease.
"Thank you, Jasin."
He sighs, tiredly, and muffles a cough with the sleeve of his tunic.