oddsandends | 38th ♫ | No time like the present! Let's set out on a quest!

Few things in the world are as old as songs. The melodies change, sometimes. The reasons for singing them often don't.

[He's hovering, he knows, but he has no option to sit and wouldn't accept an invitation to even if it were offered. It's interesting, besides; there's clearly a power in her voice, and he can taste the flavor of its magic. It makes for a curious experience. If she asked him to return a lost love to her with that voice, he'd find himself tempted to agree, even while knowing all the while that her wish would be beyond even his power to grant.

He bends, idly depositing a pair of coins in her hat, then rises up again to face her.]

If I offer you a boon, will you sing a different song for me?

[The coins' clinking surprises her. While, yes, a few revelers have tossed her some change with laughter and good cheer, she hasn't had anyone tip her so seriously. It's not as if she needs it; the hat is there as a joke more than anything else. Her fingers keep moving, up the strings this time, lingering among the higher notes. Color her intrigued.]

I might, should I know the tune.

[And she knows many, many tunes, for her tender years.]

I believe you needn't offer a boon as well as your coin. Is it not the custom to fulfill a patron's request?

[It's always two coins, with him. Always just two: one for each eye.]

Your song is worth more than that trifle, to me.

[And he smiles, beneath his mask — a surprisingly sweet, friendly expression.]

I'd like to hear a song of life. Not of love, not of heartache. One that sings of the things that make life worth living.

[Even if Diora's fingers don't pause, the woman herself does. It's... a strange request, and not one she knows how to answer immediately.]

...Many would say that love and heartache are exactly those things.

[Her face, her voice give nothing away. But even as she speaks, her playing hands shift them both into another key as easy as breathing. As soon as she begins, she knows that this is a more personal question than she realized; she could have answered with something trite, some ode to birdsong and sunlight.

But instead, she sings at first of a storm. A night. And a girl.

In another universe, this song might have been written about something terrible. But for Diora, whose voice rises clear and aching on the high notes and falls, light as a sigh, on the ah la la la de day--somehow, this song is about life. About yearning.]

[It's the sort of song that Life would like, he thinks idly as he listens, and it wins his immediate approval because of it. She never favors the songs people write that try to sweeten what she is; she rails against the notion, complaining that it's no different than judging a book by its cover, or taking anything else at face value. Life is cruel, life is long, life is sweet and bitter in equal measure; life is full and rich and comprised of so much more than sweet memories and crystallized moments in time, so different from death with its plain and simple finality.

He listens patiently, hanging on every note, and when she's finally finished, he nods, reaching up quietly to remove his mask and pull it away from his face.

Beneath it are a young man's features — a straight nose, soft black eyes, aristocratically pale flesh, white teeth behind lips naturally inclined to turn up in a smile. It's far better than a skull face, to be sure. Far better than whatever conception of death each individual person carries in their heart, as well. But he's not on the clock, right now, and here on a personal jaunt, so for now he can look any way that he wants.]

That was beautiful, milady. Well worth any boon I could possibly grant, and more.

[Her fingers still for just a moment on the strings, mutely surprised that the man should remove his mask. Diora, on her part, leaves hers where it is; she wants to be free, tonight, and the only freedom she will ever know is not to be who she is.

But, though she's never seen him before, he still feels like an old acquaintance--someone she's known distantly all her life. A neighbor, perhaps, or a servant's child. But she knows he is none of those things.

(Diora's mother died in childbirth. Her death still haunts their home, hanging over her father. Shadowing his sister's steps. A ghost named Alora stands between them like a wall in the dark, impenetrable, but reliable, something they know will always be there.)

Diora finally returns his smile, gracious and perfect, and dips her head modestly.]

It is only song. It cost me nothing but a moment to give it, and the moment itself has been boon enough. I came out tonight to sing.

[She doesn't often have the opportunity. Not when her father fears the backlash should others discover the power of her voice. Marrying into the Leonne family, she'll have even fewer chances, she knows. She smiles a little more, lowering her chin.]

Though I do find myself curious what boon you would offer a stranger in the night, milord.

A friendly sword, perhaps, is the likeliest answer. But I admit I've never been much of a commonplace person.

[He takes a half-step to the side, sweeping out his arm in an elegant gesture, putting on a touch of a show; it's enough to move his cloak away from his side, revealing a distinct lack of a sheath and sword belt about his waist.]

So, then: perhaps an answer that no one else could offer you — assuming you had the right question to ask.

[Why. He gets that question a lot, and sometimes it's meant for him, and sometimes it's meant for Life, but it's never as rhetorical as it should be. Why, why, and sometimes the only answer there is is simply, "because."]

Or perhaps an ending, to something you wish would end. I have a great deal of influence over endings, though less so with what precedes them.

[Her hands finally leave the harp, its song stilled.

His words don't make sense at first. All this time, she's seen before her any other festival-goer, if a cleverer and more intriguing stranger than most. But Diora di'Marano is the daughter of a mage. When she realizes what he might be, she pales behind her mask.

On nights like these, men are not so different from other creatures. Their worlds are not so distinct.]

Who are you?

[She asks softly, lifting her fingers to her mask, though she doesn't lift it yet.]

A kindly stranger. Or at least kind, though perhaps not so much of a stranger as it may seem.

[He sees the way her face goes paler, of course. He sees all sorts of things, knows where and how to look for them.

He doesn't step away, doesn't offer her the comfort of retreating to put more distance between them. But he doesn't advance, either, and his features stay as soft and open as they'd been before she'd started to recognize who and what he is.]

Men fear me because they forget that it is within me to be kind. You won't forget, will you?

Never.

[She says it and she means it. She's still not sure of his identity, but she hears his voice and the truth within it. Whoever, whatever he is, she does know him. And what he offers, he can offer in kindness.]

Never, as long as I may live, should a whisper my voice outlast the eldest of songs, will I forget this night. Milord.

[And, sitting as she is on the lip of the fountain with her harp before her, still her bow is graceful and perfect. And true. She's not one to fear gods or spirits, but this man... she is but a girl, and even she can feel the awe of the oldest things.

She straightens, dark hair slipping out of her hood, and lowers her mask for him.]

I... will not ask why you have come to me tonight. But I do not fear you. [She pauses for a beat, a quarter rest.] Will you... be at the wedding?

[Diora can't imagine what else might draw one like him to speak with her on this night.]

[He can't help it; the mention of the wedding amuses him, and though it's not at all appropriate to smile at the question, he can't help but let his lips turn up in a grin.]

If I were to come to the wedding, milady, there would be no wedding at all.

[It's so funny, really. He's never invited to weddings.]

Welcoming me there would undo your vows from the moment they're made. After all, you'll only swear your hand to that man until the moment I part you from him — no more, no less.

[But that's his cue to take a step back, respectfully, because it's also the moment when she'll have just enough information to put together his identity if she tries, and that makes it a good moment to emphasize to her that he has no intention of extending his own hand to her, not now and perhaps not for a very long time.]

I've known many girls who've sought me out instead of their bridegrooms. Forgive me when I confess that I hope you won't be among their number.

38th ♫ | No time like the present! Let's set out on a quest!

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