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Golden-Hatted Smile
Topic Started: Jan 21 2012, 08:17 PM (80 Views)
Azrael
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Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;
If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,
Till she cry "Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,
I must have you!

-Thomas Parke D'Invilliers


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"Ah, how did I wind up in here? It must have been the wind, bitterly billowing until it finally drove me into the arms of salvation. I am an enviable creature indeed to seek out comfort in the depths of a cup. What a detestable taste, reminiscent of weakness. It is far too familiar. Ah, the player in the corner. His mandolin is out of tune, but even so it fits the melancholy of his tune. Is it a eulogy? I wonder. The slow cadence reeks of ennui, and the voice has an idle disparity to it. The rough manner in which it is sung, however, brings its nature into question. The language is unfamiliar to me, but is of no consequence. The mild irritation it elicits is not enough to deter me from my salvation. The gin stings on the way down, leaving hints of apple on the underside of my palettes."
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"Vagabond.

It's not a flattering title, is it? The immense flamboyancy, the fanfare of trumpets, they do not accompany the wanderer. I travel, I journey, for the adventure. Complacency grips the common man and strips away his independence, but the autonomous man has boundless power, because he controls himself fully. If there is one thing I have learned in my life it is that the essence of a man can be measured in the features of his face. The pomp of modern civilization is not what I speak of; it is the glint that flashes in every man's eyes, depicting his life's story in a flash. It is the pale scar that writhes on his cheek, telling it's vivid tale of conflict and regret.

My destination is never set, but my goal is. I seek the satisfaction of life; being made alive through the forges of humanity. Vagabond they call me, but seeker I am and always will be."
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Azrael
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The old man in the corner was at it again. He picked up his mandolin and begun a song, lewdly at first, but falling into a somber cadence. His voice cackled as he struggled through the first verse in a language long forgotten. He spluttered out the final lines on a slant and paused. The room fell silent around him. Several heads shook in disbelief, or perhaps exasperation. Nevertheless, he encapsulated the entire room. The eyes of regulars and teetotalers alike stuck to him as he lifted a bottle of gin to his lips and spilled its contents over his beard. Setting the bottle down, he struck up a tune.

And it began. He teased the melody from the depths of his mandolin, fingers dragging against the strings. A round of winces passed over the onlookers. He doubled over as he continued, eyes snapping open with a lucid intensity. The fingering ceased its stuttering, taking on a clipped, precise working. Notes blended into bars; bars into lines, until the song could no longer be distinguished as a separate entity.

The old man took a breath, his first since dropping the bottle. The first syllables escaped his mouth in unison with his playing. At the second refrain, the two diverged. His voice quivered against the mandolin, filling the hollow spaces beneath the notes. Weaving the sounds together, a melancholy settled. He approached an adagio, and the spell fell apart.

His voice cracked and his fingers slipped. Everything stopped. Leaning back in his chair, he dropped the mandolin to his lap. He grabbed the bottle of gin and drowned himself in it. With the entertainment having run its course, attention drifted away from the old man. Conversations resumed. The music was already fading from the minds of the onlookers.

One man, however, continued watching the old player. Dressed in northern wool, the man looked the part of a traveler. He stood up, short sword swinging at his hip, and meandered his way over to the old player. He tipped his hat upon approach, making a gesture towards an empty chair. The old player nodded, and the man sat.

"So," the old player began. "What do you want?" He produced an oil cloth as he spoke. With deliberate care, he polished the mandolin, cloth leaving a glistening trail as it passed.

"Your song left quite an impact," the other man noted. "I particularly enjoyed the way you doubled up on the second refrain before splitting the aspects apart."

The old man looked up. "You some kind of musician?" he asked.

"Perhaps. I prefer the term 'connoisseur,' but such a label conveys with it a deal of arrogance that I am unwilling to accept." Leaning forward, he smiled.

"Ah, I see. Was that all you wanted?" The old man diverted his attention back to his mandolin. He caressed the neck as one would a lover, gently smoothing away hints of dust and fingerprints.

"No," the other man said. "It came to me that I am unfamiliar with the language in which you sung. I don't think I have heard a language quite like it before." His brow crinkled. "I cannot describe it, but I feel as if I should know the language. Even without having heard anything like it, there is something... familiar in it." He shrugged helplessly.

The old player let out a fully-bellied chuckle. "Aye, I've heard that one before. I do not have the faintest clue what language it might be." He mirrored the other man's helpless gesture. "Strike me for a liar if you will, but it's true."

"Then how have you sung it?"

"Aye, that's the question, isn't it?" He put the cloth down on the table and packed the mandolin into the case beneath his chair. "But, it just came to me one day."

"Came to you? What do you mean?" the other man leaned forward intently.

"It is as I said. I was playing here one night as I usually do, and all of a sudden I felt something well up inside me. My fingers started moving on their own, and my throat started churning out syllables that didn't make sense. But the crowd was fascinated. Ah, but I don't need to get into all of that, do I?"

"No, that won't be necessary." Fingers drummed against the table. "Thank you for your time, sir..."

"Rodrick," the old player supplied. "Rodrick Forewin. Oldest minstrel in these parts. And you are?"

"Gabriel. Gabriel von Rickert," he said.

"Von? You some kind of noble?" Rodrick's voice sharpened.

"Perhaps one of my relatives was," Gabriel said. "But me? No. I'm just a wanderer without a home. The road is my tent, and the stars my dream." He smiled.

"Ah, is that so." Gabriel's smile fell. Rodrick continued, "Well, in any case, how about a drink?"

"I would love one."

"Good, you can buy for the both of us." Rodrick barked out a laugh.

"On second thought, perhaps another time."

"You too stingy to humor an old man?"

"I jest, I jest," Gabriel said. He called out to the waitress. "Ah, send a little something nice our way, if you please."

Rodrick cut in, "Nice? Bah! Give us the nastiest, foulest piece of work you can get your hands on. The tab's all his, after all!"
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