In the Dark of Night

[gilshem ironstone]

The night is a still one.  The lapping of water on to the nearby docks is punctuated by the gentle sounding of the bells on the buoys.  Candles burned low in the wire cage on the stage inside the Silver Buckle and a lone figure sat on the bench, sipping the last of his hosts proferred ale.  He sat as a statue, barely breathing, taking in every minute change in the sonic atmosphere that every building created.  The unique mix of air flow, boards settling and distant movement of inhabitants.  

It was if the building were a life unto itself, possessed of breath, warmth and definitely memory. Gel'larian closed his eyes and sent himself back to a time long before, when the war against Bloodstone still raged, and he was barely an adult, still waiting to discover his passion for archery or bowyery, his sojourn to the Breath of the Muse a laughable idea, his love for Zarianna being held by another.

He opened his eyes and tried to remember where the bar had been when the Freelancer's had been the inhabitants.  Looking at the walls in place, that now define the sanctum of Elohanna's ward, he recalled meeting a beautiful barmaid that spun a tale of fantastic proportion: women bound as riders, travelling the threads, love and woe, excitement.  That story nourished him as he trekked across Alindor, then Rilara.  It gave him courage as he spied those Raksasha, reminded him that heroes must live another day as well.

A laugh escaped as he recalled waking up at the Bindstone from that encounter, and the memory of actually enjoying the brush with death.  It had pushed him to write a silly song that he had only peformed once.

How did it go?

More mutters as he spins around to the face the keyboard.  A few keys are pressed in a haphazard fashion.  Chords are tested for their ability to jog a feeling or impression.  Eventually he alight upon a familiar beginning, and a satisfied grin dances to the surface.

Thats it.

The dance of his fingers refines itself, until an old structure comes in to relief.  The elf hums a little as he becomes more and more familiar, the memory seeming to come not from his mind, but his muscles.  On reflex his hum becomes words.

Now here's a story, 'bout a little bitty elf,
Aw shucks I think thats me.
Been travelling 'round this old world,
Happy as can be.

Happy that is until I went,
and found myself some strife.
One of Bloodstone's evil demons,
Done tried to take my life.

The lyrics escape him again, and he hums a little more.  Demons, demons, demons: A Balor wreathed in flames rising from a hilltop in the Goblin Wastes, tearing him apart.  No fond memories there.

He shakes it off and finds his tune had become more haunting and drew some of the light from the candles.  He smiled and made a silly turn in the musics progression and the candles flare up a little.  He refuses the call of the woeful past, and instead folds his hands in his lap listening to the silence once more.  Ebbing vibrations from the piano.  A rat in a dark corner of the pantry.  A rustle from the newest guest of Elohanna's ward.

Indeed, no time for introspection anymore.  If he had learned anything from the human bard who now called himself master of this inn, it was to savor the present.  And so it goes, and so it should be.  Once more he places his hands on the keys, and letting the cooling sensation of the ivory excite his fingertips, he begins to play.

Heedless of the volume he trots out a majestic tune, his eyes closing as the sound swells.  Reid promised him a duet.  Time to remind him.

[RollinsCat]

Melanna was sleeping on a cot, covered by a soft blanket and according to Minu, not in pain.   That brought a brief smile; she'd been missing a while.  It was good to see her whole, moreso for Daniel he was sure and the rest of the Poetr clan.

His smile vanished in a twist of his lips when he left the clinic and stood in the hallway by the gaming room.  Where Daniel had stood.  Where Tyra had stood after refusing their help, their trust - well, Minu's, to be fair.  Gel's piano playing was on the edge of his consciousness as he unfocused, remembering.  It was an odd soundtrack to his thoughts.  The elf's tenor was muted by the corner of the stage wall.

"One of Bloodstone's evil demons,
Done tried to take my life..."

Evil demons.  Was that what made her the way she was?  Would an exorcism help?  Muse, for Ty's sake, he'd perform it himself if he thought it would make a difference.  

He'd tried.  He'd tried to love her, tried to get along with her, tried to understand her - and the very thing she'd offered up as a road map to her inner self, those ridiculous Axioms; as if a list of rules was an substitute for the passions and dreams of a person; she had broken.

NO CHILD IS YOUR ENEMY.  And in her fervor to win, or to be right, or be admired, or to do something good...he didn't know anymore which, and wondered if he'd ever known...she had hurt a child, killed and maimed and threatened the guilty and innocent alike.  Oh, some of those caught up in her Masked Avenger routine were doubtless guilty.  He did believe that.  But she'd even said it; the ends did not justify the means.  And he was too jaded and he knew her too well to believe that she'd take her own admission to heart.

Minu had gone to bed angry at him for refusing to be sympathetic, for forcing Tyra to speak for herself, for yelling at her repeatedly.  Dammit, he should know.  He lived with the woman when Ty was a child, he knew better than most how little Tyra understood about how much of her troubles was her own making.  And more to the point, how many times she'd been handed opportunities to slap them away from pride or some deep need for drama or something.  Infuriating.

He should feel something.  She was his child's mother, ostensibly, and the one single time she'd told him about how she found Ty - the whole, unvarnished, complete truth - he'd believed her.  He had not repeated the story and never would.  She'd made clear the consequences and he believed her on that as well.  But that was the last time he believed in her, and with that heavy on his heart he went upstairs to write some letters.  One quick one to each member of the Coalition, another separate to Gurn, detailing where she could be found and her last requests before leaving to be jailed.  And one additional, resigning his membership.  He couldn't do it anymore.  He did not believe, could not believe, that she could run an orphanage, not after what she'd done to that child.  He would not sign his name to what she had become.  He would not advocate protecting and nourishing children with her in charge.  He.  Would.  Not.

The letters would go in the morning.  Gel's arrival, shortly after Daniel and Tyra's departure, was a welcome distraction and their conversation had brought him some much-needed smiles.  He still had Amaria to help, Thalia to figure out, Dom to gain or lose, an angry girlfriend, an older child coming home soon, and a summons to Krandor to (eventually) respond to.  

Yep.  No better time for some music than now.  He grabbed the railings and swung over the stairs to the tavern floor, landing with a thump.  He'd try and reach out to Gel, see if he could further elevate the archer's musical mood with his song as he raised his own.  No better time.

[gilshem ironstone]

As Andrew approached he made no greeting other than to slide over on the piano bench making room the man.  His hands took control of the treble part of the keys, temporarily thinning out the music to something resembling a Goranite music box.

Nights like these remind me I have a life outside of bows and travel and danger.

He looks at Andrews hands to get a feel for where the music will take them.

[RollinsCat]

Darker, pounding, but oddly fitting as a counterpoint to the music-box feel of Gel's playing; harmonious discord.  Or dischord...a brief smile from him and he played the thunder to Gel's rain, letting his anger at Tyra and his frustrations at everything else vibrate through the massive ironwood piano's strings.

[gilshem ironstone]

He smiles a little as Andrew vents, happy to paint the sonic picture with him.  What good is creation if it always turns out how you expect?  He does his best to create the rhythm, the mysterious exotic rhythm, that only nature has perfected.  His smile widens as he imagines Zarianna sharing her embrace with him as a downpour soaked them on their trip to Voltrex.

Nature may rage, but always relents in the end, and so Gel hoped for Andrew's fierce heart.  He tried to give as much colour and variation to the theme they played as was possible; let the man explore every facet of his hurt, and let the experience of that soothe him.  The notes came in many expressions: languid and rolling, staccato, erratic, under-stated, hammering; as many variations as can be felt.

He began to revel in the reverberation of the piano from the high ceilings.  Each image reminding him of the emptiness that art can fill up.  The intertwining of his heart with Andrew in that moment can only be rivalled by the deepest and most passionate love.  They both gave with all their being, no thought of themselves, each other, perfection or goals.  In this space they created, all was exposed for what it was: the breath of a moment.  They sowed seeds in the earth of eternity and they reaped the quiet of the soul.

In the end they weathered the storm.  The sonorous improvisation was quelled by whatever desire compelled them to create it in the first place.  The patter became a trickle, and their music returned to the place from which it came.  Silence.

[RollinsCat]

He was out of breath and sweating.  Gel wasn't, of course.  Bloody elves...he laughed at himself.  He'd meant to do something else entirely and ended up raging about his son's mother, his other son's mother, and - everything.  A litany of hurt and indecision one note at a time, and Gel had matched him across the keys.

Stars and frelling song, that felt good.

He had to look around.  In that space of time he'd been too wrapped up in the sound to be aware of anyone watching and that was when he revealed more of himself than he intended.  Honne, in spades.  Tatemae was always hard to recover after an episode like that.  Well - he'd come to trust Gel, so it was only that much more now.

"You know, if anyone had actually been listening, we'd never hear the end of it...they'll have us picking out curtains together."

[gilshem ironstone]

He smiles and closes up the keyboard carefully, feeling sated for one night.

Well considering how often I get mocked by those near and dear to me, I think I could take this one.  I hear enough about kissing Raz as it is.  Just part of the background noise.

[RollinsCat]

That got a loud laugh.  "Raz kisses okay.  But I shamefully admit I was a doxey, he paid me to do it - I wanted another lottery ticket for Steel's opening day giveaway."  He stood from the piano, relaxed, his bad mood still shivering the rafters but far above him now, and ran a thumb over his upper lip.  "So who does that reflect worse on - him or me...?"

[gilshem ironstone]

"You, but only because you have further to fall.  Not much further though."

He sighs wistfully, looking out again at the floor of the tavern, this time moved by the companionship shared with Andrew; one time rival, then colleague, now friend.  Jealously and fear transformed in to love and respect, such is the power of Ilsare.

"You have a good thing here Reid.  A really good thing.  You should be proud."

[RollinsCat]

"It's taking shape.  Every voice on this stage, every painting hung, every person who brings a flight of imagination or fancy - it shifts and forms.  Every day I look around, it's a little different, and a little more blessed."  He moved to the harp, touching the newly restrung instrument to produce a caress of sound.  "I'm proud, but not for owning it.  Perhaps - well, yes."  A nod to himself.  "Daniel and I had a conversation once on the difference between pride and joy.  And in this case, he's right - I take joy, not pride, in the way the Heartsong sounds here."  Another stroke of the strings.  "A young woman in my care was able to play again here, thanks to Ilsare.  A Voraxian sang a song here - spontaneously created art.  Even if it was about getting trees drunk.  Don't ask."  He caught Gel's expression and grinned.  "I know, but it tickled me to see the performance.  Every bit of inspiration is one step closer to Her.  And we've had Rocky Howling Wolf perform, and another Ilsarian elf, Karn, has come by and entertained, and myself, and you...so yes.  Joy."  A lingering look around the hall.  "I'm in the mood for a little more of that, if you're not tired."  He reached for his violin case, then paused and withdrew his hand.  Instead, he picked up cloth-covered mallets and moved behind the large Telish drums stacked by the gong, tapping them slowly, increasing the tempo little by little.

[gilshem ironstone]

He watches Andrew take up the mallets and feels a little lost at first.  He had never really travelled the Throne lands, could not think of a single recital of their music he might have heard.  He thought he should wait a few bars and discover what musical world he was being led in to, but his nature took over.  Without time for thought or planning he began to speak in the guttural language he knew so well.

"A waart az poaazkark 'aazhk.
 Ak waaatth az lak'ko thur'n.
 Ak waannth az wahazan pourto.
 Ak lazgath lo zhurhhaath t'nn."

The dwarven words pound out in a slow, rhythmic way and he lets Andrew drive them with his studied beating of the alien instruments.

[RollinsCat]

Dwarven words fit the new beat.  He didn't play drums often, not in the traditional way.  Not the way he was playing now.  It was an old reflex, one he had to work into; it had been a long, long time since Huangjin.  'You can play an instrument without good timing, if that's what you want.  If you are to play in THIS theater, you WILL know tempo - intimately.'  Master Rouch.

He'd forgotten too much.  Gel was pacing him with voice, waiting to see what came of it.  He felt himself letting go and heard the rhythm of Ilsare's heartbeat on the stage - the tempo picked up, passionate and wild, as he moved the mallets from drum to drum.  Not tension or anger this time but a desire to pound and feel the air shiver in response.