Timeless Talent

[Macabre Beauty]

All things considered, the group looked a bit --out of place. Dressed in the rich colored folds and cream ruffles reminiscent of Medieval revelary, the anachronistic band danced down the thoroughfare as an indivisible island of synchronistic medley.

Supernaturals nostalgic for the days of old put the pieces together within a month, violin, viola, pan-flute and drum. The latter, of course, leading the swells and strains in rise, falls, staccato riffs, and sonorous legato laments.

Amidst the traveling time capsule, though better blending with the brilliance of carnivale about them, the violinist stood out as an individual isle of bright cerulean and brilliant purple. Dark eyes danced over the city’s denizens peering through a pensive glaze that proved his ear was tuned to his music. A stick, ever present, peeked out from between his lips bouncing now and again as his bow worried vibrato into a scale peaking before descent.

Found amidst the trees of Pisky Memorial, the young male was met and duly propositioned by the band’s drummer. His initial reaction was to blow the offer off. Stardom, Fame, despite his talents, were far from his mind. The instrument, and music therein, remained more of a --passionate hobby, than a means of bringing in coin. Granted, the latter helped. Most especially when withdrawal, kept him in shadows and hovels. In fact, the eventual recognition of this point, prompted him to pick up the gig; that, and a hotel room with a hot shower.

Bemused by the murmur of his mind, though failing to miss a beat in his music, the youth pulled himself from thought to consider the crowd again. The Carnival was at capacity tonight, and the kid they roped in to carry the communal hat for them wove about without care collecting donations.

[Pocky]

A man, more man than beast but less than an angel, held an instrument that would have played a better role alongside the musicians. The thirteen course lute earned lingering stares because of its golden wood facade and cherry frame and fingerboard. It was a work of art as would be the creature that held it, if he hadn't also looked like he'd just tumbled out of a homeless shelter.

With pain on his face he strummed some chords before plucking a joyous melody, attracting a litter of stares before he crooned a quick verse. Initially the passersby would retain shining eyes of delight but as they continued on out of earshot their brows would furrow and they snapped or discredited everything they saw with fear and loathing in their hearts.

He'd stopped playing by the time the other group arrived and he listened to the beauty of the violin as they were bowed masterfully by a child. A child! There was a great deal of essence buzzing around him; the kind that attracted Adagio to him. He wanted to learn, see and feel more, to breathe him in and out, to fill his lungs with this boy's soul and corrupt him the rest of the way. He would be easy; he self-corrupted already.

When the hat floated his way he gripped the wrist that held it. His strength was such that his grip wouldn't be knocked off.

"You whore your art to the ignorant for pennies when you could play for kings in palaces," Adagio said, releasing Mishca so the boy could scurry away. He would follow this little mouse and see whose cheese it stole from to make itself fat.

[Macabre Beauty]

The grip, vice like and out of the blue, prompted a sharp jolt of adrenaline. With a sneer curled behind his sucker, he flashed a glare toward the man who assailed him. “Lech!” A knee jerk reaction mislabeled the Fallen male, aligning him with to a mistaken identity. One he would have taunted and jeered at for disappearing into nowhere. However; the vice-like grip didn’t belong to the old man of the past.

Hard ebon eyes assessed the new face; the captured musician barely caught the words crooned to him. His lips drew taut around his treat, as though withdrawing his mistake in expression alone. The current hand about his wrist, to be fair, did have a --hint more lividity than what he’d expected. His jaw ticked. So, it wasn’t… “I,” he drawled, “respect the pennies I earn.”  Be they legitimate or --pilfered from those just a little too unwise and padded.

Upon his release, he slid a slow step back then sized the man up. Something about the syrup and honey in his voice put his teeth on edge. Not that he was, typically, one to care. But this guy put a twinge in his jaw that had nothing to do with candy. Kings, Palaces… were those things even around any more? Or was the guy attributing to the ambiance of the band and providing banter?

These questions turned in mind as the dark-eyed male stepped back into the crowd. Throughout the course of the interruption, the small band he’d traveled with had divied up to return to their campsites. They weren’t exactly as worried about the tips as he might’ve been; and, he knowing where they were, was only half-expected to bring the hat back. Given it was his first night performing with the troupe, they didn’t know what to expect of him and he, in truth, of them. He could’ve walked off right then, no harm-no foul. But, honestly the lure of playing the week out turned his steps toward the fires springing up in the Caravan park.

[Pocky]

Adagio followed in the secret way that he could, except he kept no secret from this one. With no shoes on his feet he ran silent, the cold of the earth seeping into his legs through his toes, the grass tickling his feet and the dirt colouring them black.

The first time he pulled ahead there was a construction between them; some kind of gameshow on wheels. He plinked a few notes from his lute, a mockery of a melody he'd heard the violinist play. His version was played high and faster as though a recording had sped it up. Like a jovial ice cream truck blasting 'Greensleeves'.

The second time he pulled ahead was close to the trench that separated the caravan park from the carnival grounds, and he lay in it close to the shallowest place for crossing, where the weeds and grass were trampled by those who'd forged a path there before. There was a break in the chain-link fence nearby, camoflaged by a stack of crates pushed up near the post.

The smells were at a crossroads themselves; the crackling fires of the campground brought with them ash, smoke and meat, the food trucks of the carnival wafted buttery popcorn and mechanical grease, the trench itself was a mix of fresh grass and rotting greenery. When the violinist arrived, he would see Adagio's feet in the trench, lying on his bank up the angled trench, his head just shy of where it flattened out.

When they made eye contact, Adagio strummed an announcement chord on his lute.

[Macabre Beauty]

Presence, a zip of sensation down the spine. A prickle that played in the capacity of his being. He understood by the way it pervaded and pressed in upon him, that he wasn't "on his own". As he passed the Wheel of What Ever, the notes plinked out jarred him. The discordant speed more akin to a tuneless music box, than the jaunty jingle blared in summer heat. He spared the wheel a quick glance in sidelong, calculating in silence an eerie familiarity.

The initial jolt of music, prompted a less --direct course to the campsite. He hadn’t missed the instrument in his assessment of the peculiar man, thus the sound directly betrayed who had followed him. An errant thought touched his mind, something about the people he picked up, but the miscreant dashed it aside before it could fully develop into his conscious awareness.

In a half-pensive silence, he worked his way through the throng that meandered about the thoroughfare. With most of the entertainment either concluded, or scheduled again for later times, the people attending the carnival spilled out into the dirt lanes to peruse games, foods, whatever caught their fancy. An influx idled near the gates; while patrons patiently waited for those burnt on the fun and games to trickle out and alot them a spot inside.

It was as he was passing the gates, that his preternatural awareness pricked him again. The sensation sat just above his tailbone, eeking into a corded tension. With a subtle frown on his lips, he paused just long enough to stow the hat in his instrument case, a vessel of containment he’d picked up when passing the game he’d left it at.

With violin in tow, he headed to the culvert. The scent of woodsmoke sped his steps. Feet caught his attention first, before the realization they lied at an odd angle and were flush with the ground beneath. As deep ebon climbed the slope, he stopped just on the other side. The announcement chord, as discordant as the jingle had been, earned a solid blank stare. After a beat he spoke, “Is there something you’re needing?” The syllables sharp. He wasn’t the old man, no. But, he sure played the geaser’s game…

[Pocky]

"Yes," he insisted eagerly, sitting up and then standing in one fluid motion for the angle of the ground made such a thing possible. "You're just what I need. A musician recognises skill and talent. You have both, the thing that is taught and the thing that can't be taught. And passion," he cried, his long legs moving apart to stand on each side of the trench so that he wasn't in the gully. "It did something for me, it made me..." He cut away and frowned, searching the ground, he sighed and grumbled and after a moment he stared intensely at the violinist.

"Will your music soothe this savage BEAST?" he cried, and dramatically flung his hands in the air, holding his lute above his head, his glamour dropped for an instant. Less than a second. Less than the time it took for the mind to know what the eyes were seeing until afterward, when it could process a vision of blood red wings, spread out and impossibly wide, straining in the same way that their owner reached towards the sky, clenching muscles and tightly gripping hands.

Adagio moved his lute back down, cradled it to his chest with a hint of a smile. His hands resumed their position upon it, ready to play but no tune came forth.

"Play for me, soothe me," he invited, moving closer to the violinist though he stopped when it looked like the other would bolt. "Your music should be enough. I want to go home empty handed," he pleaded, his expression one of pain and sorrow.

[Macabre Beauty]

Every movement the other male made seemed --ethereal. His fluidity, and poignant balance. The intensity of the stare once it lifted from the ground. Even the dramatic flourish that… and there his train of thought de-railed. Glamour wiped from the form, even for an instant, didn’t go without notice. Tension had his body on high alert; however, his feet were firmly planted. He sure as hell wasn’t going anywhere. Not because he feared a chase, but because the damned guy, different though he was, didn’t intimidate him. He understood “off”. Well enough to play cat and mouse with blood sucking Lech.

Two terse sucks of the tart treat in his mouth, before a crunch as he bit through the center. His free hand pulled the stick loose; and, as he examined it debating another, he spoke, “Isn’t passion the part that can’t be taught?” As the syllables slipped languidly past his lips, he also mused on the word savage. He read the winged male in sidelong, surreptitiously eyeing him even as he studied the stick.The flash, there or not, had him wondering just how --vicious the man got. While it could have been a flare for the dramatic, as much as anything, an impossible edge hid within the pain and sorrow. One which whispered teetering signs of madness. What --precipice did the man stand upon?

“You want me to play,” He stated blithely, “Out here?” Flicking the paper stick into the grass, some park attendant was liable to get it later, he then stuffed his hand into his pocket and curled his violin case into the crook of his arm. “If you want a show, then I’ll be headed for the fires. I don’t mind the play,” In fact, he almost always welcome the practice, “But I ain’t going stop and drop everything to play in this culvert.” It seemed impractical to him, to be quite honest.

With that, the dark-eyed miscreant made to move on ahead. He seemed to have no qualms going through the peculiar male, if that’s what it took, stepping around so that they would only brush shoulders as he passed.

[Pocky]

Adagio grin-grimaced at the definition of passion. He nodded first then shook his head, the baring of teeth disappearing until he was staring at the violinist without expression.

Lightly he moved up the embankment until he was on flat ground. Adagio cuddled the lute to his leather vested chest and gestured for the way to be lead. He raised a hand to pluck a single strand of long hair out from between his lips and flicked his hair so it would fall behind his shoulders.

"We will go to the fire," Adagio announced calmly. His muscles were no longer strained or tense, his posture sagging at the shoulders. His lips had a hint of a turn up at the corners. When the violinist passed him, Adagio's brushed fingertips against the back of the musician's hand. His touch was light but hot.

[Macabre Beauty]

Touch. Something he was --entirely unaccustomed to. Were he the jittery sort, he might’ve pulled his hand away as though it was seared. As it was, however, his eyes dropped to consider where the tips made contact. This, of course, while moving toward the camp site. Heat. So whatever manner of --peculiarities the man hosted, vampirism wasn’t one of them. Unless he was aged and well fed, but the flash of, well crimson feathers? Kind of.. Yeah, they were crimson feathers… Leather wings he’d seen once while hallucinating, or had he been respectively clean that eve? The creature he met in the park, he can’t remember if fabricated him or not. Tonight though, he was painfully clean.

Through the course of his musings, the musician finally made it to the camp sites. Several tents sat in small clusters, some boasting the modern dome styles. While others, more communal, sectioned off squares of turf with canvas and tarpaulin doors flared out; open and welcoming to the fires they sat around, the squared tents convexed in a crescent that offered privacy to the site once the fires died and respective members of the party retired.

Much like the Carnival, the campsite thrummed with life. However, the atmosphere provided here --proved more intimate. Instead of the hasty bustle of tourists and sight-seers eager to get everything in, the camp site bore evidence of seasoned faces. People that helped run the place as though it were a well oiled machine and, in turn, understood how best to see out the night after a long day’s run. Each little bundle of tents had it’s own gaggle. And one could tour the fires openly finding different opportunities of entertainment at each individual site.

The group he ran with, hosted some of the larger tents. With tinier ones tucked away for those who wouldn’t be drawn to the cots when the larger ones closed. As Mish entered their site, he offered the group lead a wave then settled his case on a nearby bench. After popping it open, he plopped the collection hat on the adjacent table then, with reverence, withdrew his instrument and bow.

He sought to exit the site as his guest approached. Silent and, should the man truly want a performance, expecting to be followed. Not to say he strayed far, but moved to one of the more isolated fires --set up to warm and lend light to the dome tent situated nearby. Here, he began the first chords of a sonorous lament; warming up with a tune that taunted his mind.

[Pocky]

Adagio followed the violinist as the rats followed the piper, needing only the promise of music over the melody itself. A calm had settled within him as he moved into the musician's life, absorbing each campfire scene as they passed it. His gaze roamed faces and touched on various body postures along with their subsequent language, heard pieces of conversation that evaporated like floating embers, inhaled smells of food and fire and people.

Still hugging his lute to himself, the strings against the leather of his vest so they were hidden away, his feet whispered on dirt and grass before they came to a halt. He saw the hat go out once the case was up and looked from hat to case, both of them money-capturing objects. Without supplying coin in either one, Adagio moved behind the musician until they were in a new area, a smaller and more private place that pulled a smile from the corners of Adagio's lips like a masterful puppeteer tugging strings.

He sat cross legged on the ground to one side of the violinist, where the flames would light up his face and present his expression. Adagio hugged his knees and listened, his eyes also reflecting the small fire that warmed and crackled.

[Macabre Beauty]

He felt more than saw the taller man settle. For as soon as the first scale worked into it’s lift, his eyes had slid shut. Lids shuttered out the world, sealing one of the most common senses with a thin layer of  skin. Lash, a fine silver if one looked close enough, feathered against his cheek. The light from the fire refracted off the holographic hues dyed in his hair, purple and cerulean seeming faucted in the shine. Base, mids, highlights --he took his time with it; or --someone did.

His focus wasn’t on his hair, however. Instead, he indulged in the heat that wrapped itself about his legs, hugging his body as it crept upward from limb to torso. He stood near enough for the flames to lick him, should the wind catch right. A stark silhouette absorbed in sensation and sound. As the warmth of the fire worked into him, his body became more relaxed --the draw of his bow more languid in movement. Dexterous fingers worked the frets with a practiced precision, understanding when to pull pad along string to draw one note out into the next.

It would be --difficult to pinpoint how long he stood enraptured in song. Because on his own, the miscreant found it --too easy to trot the paths of his mind in musical canter. Winding the hidden corridors with sonorous and sinuous sounds, taunting and teasing the taste of scales and arpeggios into play. When he wrapped up, he remained dauntingly still. As though the final draw may have ended the music --but whatever thoughts it heralded failed to cease.

At length, he pulled in a short breath. Then, exhaled it in a huff from his nose. His eyes opened to stare sightlessly forward. Before the presence of present company pulled his focus back into the moment. Dark eyes darted to the lute-hugging male then. Had he remained?

[Pocky]

Had the violinist opened his eyes, he would have observed Adagio's body shift supply with every lilt and sway of the music, the curious glint of his hazel orbs picked out by the red glare of the flames, the grim arrangement of his mouth. As the portamenti filled the still air around them, Adagio's arms loosened, his knees lowering and his back straightening. The starved quality left his lips, loosening and then ripening them with every note. His tongue tasted the air and wet lips in anticipation.

His eloquent hands - no strangers to the siren of song themselves - hovered above the course of his lute in abject sympathy, a ghostly description of the torment the boy wrought with his violin evident in the dance of Adagio's fingers. No strings were plucked, no frets pressed but every crotchet, minim and semibreve manifested itself in muted reflection above the instrument cradled so earnestly in his lap. The cant of his shoulders touted his concentration and the stillness of his breaths broadcast his devotion to the performance.

When Mishca finally did open his eyes, his captivated audience was right there, standing silently before him, gaze alight and leer intent upon the boy. His arms held his instrument to his chest once more and his lips curled upward in a manner that suggested satiation. The coda's echo had barely died upon the air when Adagio's stare of congratulation landed upon Mishca's countenance, heated and urgent.

[Macabre Beauty]

He should've been surprised to find his audience standing so close. And, on some level, perhaps he was. His music held him in thrall when he played. Absorbed his being in a manner that caused all else to lose relevance. Even the technical tactics of tempo became only a thin shell of confinement.

If it weren't for the urgency in the talller's gaze, his lips wouldn't have pinched into a pursed frown. He had played, done his part, but the man seemed almost… expectant now. The leer that pricked only a few moments earlier hadn't been any help. But, he rather --ignored the suggestion that could've been hidden.

He didn't appear to mind the stare down. But, if the odd Male failed to offer more than a lew starved gaze; the miscreant would seek to step around him as to return to the larger campsite.

[Pocky]

The musician--not talking, not reacting--was grabbed by the shoulders except he wasn't. Movement of Adagio's hands were sudden, the lute disappearing when he released it in order to not-quite-grip the violinist's slender upper arms. His hands curled near them, so close that heat radiated off one of his palms, the other side blocking the warmth of the fire but giving off a different kind of sensation--one that precluded touch.

Adagio's right hand drifted upward to not-touch the side of the musician's face, his own expression melting into something that hovered between lust and gratitude.

"I will need you again," he said, his voice low and rumbling in his chest. He took a step back and this time there was no flash of wings, they were just there on his back, large and red and appearing to look heavy. There was enough time to see them, to identify them, to understand that they belonged to him, and then they were wide and snapped back, the noise sounding much like sheets flapping in the wind on a line.

Adagio sped into the air, high enough for the musician to be a speck on the ground, the fires as small as fireflies in darkness. He flew north towards his caves, satisfied with what he had captured tonight. Music instead of darkness and it was enough, for now.

[Macabre Beauty]

Snagged again, caught up by the shoulders but not --captured? Indeed it felt as though he were grasped by energy, not the sudden curled hands of a new --fan? Admirer? Actually, he didn’t know what sort of --individual the lutist was. He noted, much earlier, the guy looked like a wild-man, free untamed hair, bared feet that crossed the hazardous carnival grounds without a second thought.

Need. That word, the tone it he purred it in. When had he last been needed. A heavy skepticism crept into the ebon staring back. Needs, of course, were relative to the person declaring them. One could say the troupe needed him --but, another could argue their needs could also be met by another violinist.

A low ‘humph’ pensive and heavy answered the ..er Angel’s response. The wings were out again. And he’d be lying --if he told himself he didn’t want to tug on those crimson feathers. Comb through them to ascertain their reality. Of course, the thought proved perishable as the Dark male winged away --but those had truly been wings.

Bemused, and expressionless in thought, he wove his way back to the larger camp site meditating on the evening’s course of events.