milliways_bar | (no subject)

(no subject)

Robinton's at the piano, slowly getting the hang of chords.

Something resembling a 'melody' is beginning to form, as well.

But a story would help.

Masterharper available- have at!

[ooc: edit/summary- The Masterharper and the Forsaken Bard talk. Asmodean succeeds in scaring the harper to death. Zedd and Robinton discuss the availability of music, and Liz Imbrie stops by for *cough*slowtime*cough* more examination of the harper's hands.]

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Liz Imbrie is totally in the bar. Totally. Despite her total lack-of-entrance-post-ness, and despite her mun's desperate need to get to sleep in a hour.

She hears the way the piano sounds almost-but-not-quite-right in a rather familiar way, and makes her way over to the bench, letting Robinton finish his experiment before laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Hello again."

Robinton smiles up at her.

"Liz. How are the days finding you?"

"Well, thank you. And yourself?" She doesn't sit; he's not asked her. She leans over and plays a quick jazz chord. "You're picking this up quickly."

He mimicks her quickly, then launches into a quick, and admittedly simple, song.

"The theory's sound. Although the scale is bent. I'm enjoying learning it. A few people have stopped by to lend their aid."

She smiles in pleasure, remembering the exhilaration of Dizzy Gillespie's concert last week, and her fingers itch.

"How splendid." That's not sarcasm -- quite. That's just Liz. "Do you mind if I watch? I'd like to see how your hands move."

"Oh? I've my harp with me, if you'd rather...?"

He gestures to the top of the piano, where the instrument sits.

"I'll play either."

"Whichever, it doesn't matter. If you're more comfortable with the harp --" she breaks off and looks at the harp more closely. "And what happened to that lizard?"

"Zair? He's asleep. He just ate, and will rest for a few hours."

He picks up the harp, and strikes a chord.

She doesn't reply, focusing so intently on the way his hands grip the harp, and curve around the strings, and the way the veins in his hands looks like harp strings themselves, that the noise of the bar (and it's noisy, it's a busy night) fades into insgnificance.

Robinton smiles, and keeps playing,

His hands are old, but strong. Calloused from years of playing, strong from exercise but still slightly frail as they pluck out the melody.

The light's too dim. The light's too damn dim, and Liz would snarl, if she weren't squinting. She can barely even hear the music now. She steps closer, not realizing she's doing it.

Nor does he notice. He's too caught up in the sounds, though she may not be hearing them.

His fingers slide along the strings like a stream, sounds to match pouring forth.

(deleted comment)

((OOC: 'Moron' would be the right word to use about now, I think. My deepest apologies.))

"Try the piano." While the confidence is fascinating, she wants to see him fumble, see a weakness, see a crack.

After a long moment, he sets the harp aside and swings back to the piano keys.

Slowly, he begins to play.

[ooc: no problem. I imagine you've heard from Random a few times yourself.]

She watches, until he reaches the end of the song, and touches his shoulder lightly. "Thank you. I think I know a little more, now."

"Good evening, Robinton. A pleasure, as always."

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