Ashan 11, 712
Early Afternoon
Early Afternoon
Musical Inspiration
Pretty much sums up my vision for Pash’s relationship with Ari’nne.
Buskerfest.
Where in Zanik’s name had this celebration been in all of Pash’s freshly-minted twenty arcs of life? Truly, he’d been trapped in Ne’Haer for far too long. He knew it now.
The tall Biqaj had practically drowned in it all, senses overwhelmed in a cacophony of all the right, very right, oh so right, Ilaren-herself made, utterly perfect ways. The previous two trials were a warm, happy blur of far too much drinking (if Rharne had nothing else going for it, and it had plenty in his opinion, the alcohol was worth writing home to Elijah about, just as he’d requested), far too much singing, and not at all enough touching (never enough touching). He'd played his lute, he'd sang in some taverns, he'd danced in the street, and he'd even made out with a lovely pair of self-professed Thunder Priestesses, but being a stranger to the city, Pash honestly had no way of confirming the truth of their claims nor did he even care. The seafaring minstrel had finally dragged himself from his cheap but clean inn room at The Harpy, only a little hungover, to shoulder his lute and sail back into the rhythmic current that was already echoing through the streets, ready to repeat everything and then more from the trials previous.
Vendors filled the air with food and drink, their voices hawking their wares for so many nels above the hum of musical instruments, the buzz of voices, and the sweet ring of song. Pash slipped himself into a line, digging calloused fingers into his meager pockets to hope for just a few more unspent silver nel, just enough perhaps for some breakfast. His palm revealed a bit of lint and some copper, the musician frowning with a grumble under his breath, forced to duck out of line again with a rumble of hunger and a glare at the Ymiden sun. He’d just have to busk for a meal, of course, which wasn’t really the challenge. The challenge would be finding a street corner not already occupied by some three piece band or a fistful of drummers, surrounded by a small crowd of swaying, dancing celebrants.
He heard it before he saw it, though, above the laughter of a couple beside him, above the hoarse call of a vendor and his food onnastick, there was the hint of a warm, moving tune that caught his ear. Violin, perhaps, faint but oh so enticing. Lagoon blue eyes swept the cobblestone crossroads he found himself in, the unwashed, already drunk masses of the Earth Quarter almost entirely obscuring his view, grinning at him, bumping into him, talking above the song. His stomach protested, but still he strained. There.
A dark-haired woman stood alone on a makeshift stage, the bright patchwork of her skirts catching all the right light in the almost-afternoon sun. She was indeed playing a violin, and she did so with a grin on her face that even from this distance may have literally caused Pash to hold his salty breath for a trill. He moved through the crowd, a calloused hand here, an excuse me there, until his tall self hovered at the edge of the circle that had gathered around the stage. Plenty of people were dancing, clapping, laughing. She played for them, and it was obvious to the young minstrel that she not only enjoyed her music in a way that felt familiar but that she knew how to work a crowd, too.
She looked up then from watching the dancers closest to her, from giving them a bit of a show, to let her steel grey eyes wander the rest of her audience. Her curious look fell on his and lingered in a way that would have perhaps made a lesser youth blush. Pash, on the other hand, winked, though the tempo of the drum in his chest may have picked up and the ache in his head may have faded for a trill or two. Just there. For that moment.
Her gaze shifted to his instrument, his grandfather’s mother-of-pearl inlaid lute that was slung over his sea-built shoulder and something in her expression shifted, too. Pash felt something: a warmth of excitement spread from the back of his neck and crawl down his spine. Anticipation. Expectancy. Want. The reactions were normal enough, rising naturally within him with his insatiable curiosity and eager hedonism, and he thought very little of just how strongly the tug of them seemed to be within the tangle of this thoughts, ignorant and content to flow with the current the trial brought him to sail in without question.
With a sway of her hips and an undeniably attractive flourish, the dark-haired woman stepped to one side on the small stage and paused in her music with an obvious note, the bow of her violin languidly pointed to his mostly bare chest and the most obvious of invitations curling her lips,
“Come on an’ see if you can keep up with me, why don’t you?” Her voice was like honey and it rang out above the heads of those gathered before her stage. Heads turned and all variety of eyes fell upon the tall Biqaj, unable to hide the color that rose unbidden to his tan, salt-weathered cheeks.
“Aye, a’right then.” His reply was anything but as simple as it sounded, his baritone voice no less loud than her own, capable of carrying across a shipyard, of carrying through a bustling tavern the same as hers. He grinned, but something in the hull of his chest fluttered as he made his way through the expectant glances, hoisting himself up on the stage as if it was the deck of his sloop, ignoring the stairs. He slipped his lute off his shoulder to the applause of the crowd, casting an emerald-hued sidelong glance to the woman who was grinning back at him, freckles and sweat and eyes like storm clouds.
She didn’t tell him a thing, just bit her lip for a trill at the intensity of his gaze, laughing and returning her violin to her shoulder. Looking back at the crowd, she began to play. The tempo was fast and the notes made for dancing, and Pash only hesitated for a bar or two to catch his own wind for the melody, calloused fingers finding their places on the courses of his lute and quickly tossing himself into the tune as accompaniment. The woman’s smile may have faltered, stuck now once she realized the tall Biqaj could indeed improvise along side of her without any trouble.
So she glanced at him, her challenging expression softened by a wordless curiosity, deciding without speaking to enjoy a good set of playing together, the two instruments a lively duet for the dancers and the listeners to celebrate to.
Buskerfest
Earth Quarter, Rharne
Earth Quarter, Rharne
Note
This column is Ari’nne’s perspective. The left is Pash’s.
The throngs of Rharne crowding the streets to drink and dance and listen to good music, and quite honestly, Ari’nne’s favorite trials of the whole arc, everyone ripe for the enjoying, everyone so overflowing with celebratory feelings. Irresistible.
She’d paid good nel to be on stage that afternoon, having followed a quiet four-piece band that hadn't kept the crowd dancing as well as they should have, much to her chagrin. As she stood and tuned her violin, the dark-haired human was alone under the judgmental wants of their gazes. The gathered crowds were already drunk, or perhaps even still buzzed from the festivities the night before, and her grey eyes took in their expectant faces with a broad grin, settling her instrument in place on her shoulder.
Her lively tune began with an achingly slow build as if she enjoyed the act of toying with the anticipation of her audience, the strokes of her bow drawing on their doubts for a few bits before she settled into a rhythm that met their approval. Looking up, she caught glimpses of their faces, holding glances, strumming not only the waxed strings of her instrument but the delicate threads of their unseen feelings, playing a tune in the hearts of a few members of the gathered bodies in a just the right way to set the course of the entire crowd.
Then he caught her eye, tall and grinning, but more than that, listening. Biqaj by the looks of him, windswept and bordering on scruffy. The lute over his shoulder, the crystal depths of his gaze as he unabashedly met her own. Ari’nne smiled, unfaltering in her tune as the colors of his tangle filled her senses.
She cut her song short, enjoying the vibrant surprise, and as she leveled her bow at the handsome creature’s mostly bare chest, the dark-haired human played her words like her instrument, honeyed voice inviting enough that she didn’t need to tug at a single thread,
“Come on an’ see if you can keep up with me, why don’t you?”
Of course he wouldn’t say no. He couldn’t.
“Aye, a’right then.”
Up on stage he came without hesitation, and if she let herself indulge a lingering glance at all of him, well, it was clear he didn’t care. Could he even play that decades-old thing he slid off his shoulder, his fingers finding their places? Immortals, Ari’nne hoped so. Ilaren herself could punch her in the face if she’d made the wrong choice.
With a grin and a toss of her raven-black tresses, she didn’t even bother to give him a warning, picking back up where she left off playing, much to the delight of the crowd that had watched their exchange with amusement and excitement.
The tall Biqaj listened for a few bits, and while she couldn’t watch his face and play, she recognized his pause as a mark of a careful musician. When he joined in, he did so without the kind of caution she expected. He simply sailed into the current of her melody, the warm chords of his lute complimenting the vibrant sounds of her violin. It was more than she’d expected and it was all the human musician could do not to falter in her surprise.
So she pulled him along with her, thrilled to improvise with a musician who could more than simply keep up with her talents—he could have stood alone had he wanted to. They thrilled the crowd, stopping more in the streets with their mutual enthusiasm, satisfied passers by dropping coins in the violin case Ari’nne had placed near the edge of the stage.
