((For Modern day – low fantasy! Themes of this thread are taken from the group; The Order of the Black Rose! So you get a PG-rated glimpse here! Anyone Modern-fantasy welcome- though it is prefered character can 'hide' in mundane society like magic and supernaturals are hidden secrets for full allure!
OPEN to as many people that can be handled! ))
It was that time of year to celebrate the Summer Solstice, also known as Litha. The Masonic lodge of the Order of the Black Rose produced an annual festival that was open to all to attend. While the main focus was to pay homage to the pagan gods, it also proved to be a useful way to intrigue new people into the induction of a Secret Society for those deep in the occult. Invitation to these events was lightly published to New York City events with an attendance fee of $50 per person. Of course, it was geared to adults, but the Society was always scouting for minors to join later when they turned 18.
Dress code? Something loose, casual, free flowing, comfortable or bathing suits. It is encouraged to be elegant at this location even in such casual clothes and swimwear.
The festival was an all-day affair, serving fresh fruits, seeds, nuts, raw foods, fresh squeezed juices and refreshing alcoholic drinks to loosen up spirits. The Masonic lodge was called the Dionysus County Club offering many amenities... but for this event, the primary location being used was the lovely indoor pool, patio and beautiful Garden where a maypole was placed.
The host of the day was none other than the infamous Atlas Quinn. He was known in New York for his restoration of old beautiful paintings on display at the local museums and galleries. He was old blood in the city, attending most of the 5-star restaurants and most prestige venues, charities, fundraisers, cocktail parties and political gatherings. He had a reputation for being quite the flirt but also quick to wit and insults that were like brushing your lips with silk. He was an intellectual man who somehow was intrigued bey everyone who stepped foot through the doors and into a room with his presence. Often he stole the room, and no shy person seemed to escape his eyes in the shadows of the edge of the room.
Today would be no different as the man of the hour stood before a cold iron pit filled with wood. He raised his glass to the opening speech of this festival. “Today we celebrate Litha. A day in which we witness the battle of light and dark… Here we light the ever burning fires well into the night to pay homage to the sun. For is has given us its light, its warmth and energies… It has helped us grow our foods and it burns our darkest woes. I light these fires in ritual… and all those who desire to rid themselves of their pain, fear, anger, hate… all in which ails them… they might write it on parchment and burn these negative energies to bring them inner power and brightens before we begin our journeys to the darkest nights.”
Upon his words Atlas flicked a match and cast it into the pit in an eruption of flame to begin the bonfire. Slowly did he raise his glass in pause as he continued “Lift your glasses with me, brothers… sisters.. Let us toast to the brightest star and enjoy this day as here.. with family and hearth.” With the cheer and applause of attendees Atlas drew his drink to his lips as closed his eyes to let the sun kiss his skin. It was only for a but a moment before he looked for new faces to greet among his festival party.
OPEN to as many people that can be handled! ))
It was that time of year to celebrate the Summer Solstice, also known as Litha. The Masonic lodge of the Order of the Black Rose produced an annual festival that was open to all to attend. While the main focus was to pay homage to the pagan gods, it also proved to be a useful way to intrigue new people into the induction of a Secret Society for those deep in the occult. Invitation to these events was lightly published to New York City events with an attendance fee of $50 per person. Of course, it was geared to adults, but the Society was always scouting for minors to join later when they turned 18.
Dress code? Something loose, casual, free flowing, comfortable or bathing suits. It is encouraged to be elegant at this location even in such casual clothes and swimwear.
The festival was an all-day affair, serving fresh fruits, seeds, nuts, raw foods, fresh squeezed juices and refreshing alcoholic drinks to loosen up spirits. The Masonic lodge was called the Dionysus County Club offering many amenities... but for this event, the primary location being used was the lovely indoor pool, patio and beautiful Garden where a maypole was placed.
The host of the day was none other than the infamous Atlas Quinn. He was known in New York for his restoration of old beautiful paintings on display at the local museums and galleries. He was old blood in the city, attending most of the 5-star restaurants and most prestige venues, charities, fundraisers, cocktail parties and political gatherings. He had a reputation for being quite the flirt but also quick to wit and insults that were like brushing your lips with silk. He was an intellectual man who somehow was intrigued bey everyone who stepped foot through the doors and into a room with his presence. Often he stole the room, and no shy person seemed to escape his eyes in the shadows of the edge of the room.
Today would be no different as the man of the hour stood before a cold iron pit filled with wood. He raised his glass to the opening speech of this festival. “Today we celebrate Litha. A day in which we witness the battle of light and dark… Here we light the ever burning fires well into the night to pay homage to the sun. For is has given us its light, its warmth and energies… It has helped us grow our foods and it burns our darkest woes. I light these fires in ritual… and all those who desire to rid themselves of their pain, fear, anger, hate… all in which ails them… they might write it on parchment and burn these negative energies to bring them inner power and brightens before we begin our journeys to the darkest nights.”
Upon his words Atlas flicked a match and cast it into the pit in an eruption of flame to begin the bonfire. Slowly did he raise his glass in pause as he continued “Lift your glasses with me, brothers… sisters.. Let us toast to the brightest star and enjoy this day as here.. with family and hearth.” With the cheer and applause of attendees Atlas drew his drink to his lips as closed his eyes to let the sun kiss his skin. It was only for a but a moment before he looked for new faces to greet among his festival party.
The elusive Lady Lysandra, as many in the New York fashion circles were beginning to call her, was in evidence to another of the events the Club was now offering. It made sense, got her face out there still, but to a limited audience. As of late the beautiful bombshell of a fashion CEO had been harder to spot outside of limited attendance sort of events, or her own shows. And even those had become less frequent. Rumors circulated, as they did, but nothing had been confirmed on the lovely blonde and why she was turning into a ‘recluse’, or so the fashion gossip would say.
She still looked the part of her role, blonde hair styled perfectly, and the sleek striped one piece suit covered by a black, sheer wrap around sarong on her waist. A pair of black sandals keep her feet off the bare floor, but that seemed to be the extent of her nod to fashion tonight. For she was embracing the theme, and running with it. She mused over Atlas’ speech, as he had done well yet again. He didn’t even need cards, she was pleased. As he finalized the opening of the event with the bonfire lighting, she would applaud with the rest of those gathered.
Much as he paused to enjoy the sun, she would do the same, soaking in the moment with the rest of those that observed these sorts of festivals and holidays. She had a glass of juice, electing again not to drink anything beyond juice or water. While she could have approached the man she knew, she instead elected to be the social butterfly she usually was, and wandered those gathered slowly, pausing when someone snagged her attention, or complimented her choice of clothing.
Before long, she had decided to stop poolside, kick off her sandals and sit herself on the edge of the pool, so that her feet and legs could dip into the water, but the rest of her remain rather dry. It gave her a good view of the space, and still be approachable, either from the water or from the areas around the pool. Blue eyes would watch, measuring and filing information away as she saw connections that might be made, or groups gathered to linger. That was one of the elusive lady’s favorite things to do. Watch and gather information, to hoard and use when needed. For underneath the bombshell exterior was a mind that could challenge many a soul and still come out without a scratch.
Coy, flirtatious and readily will admit she loves to be told of her beauty or other such compliment. Not vain to a fault, but close. The woman exuded power and prestige, while still drawing someone’s interest, be it for connections or for a drink and conversation. Now, it was time to see just who came calling on her attentions.
She still looked the part of her role, blonde hair styled perfectly, and the sleek striped one piece suit covered by a black, sheer wrap around sarong on her waist. A pair of black sandals keep her feet off the bare floor, but that seemed to be the extent of her nod to fashion tonight. For she was embracing the theme, and running with it. She mused over Atlas’ speech, as he had done well yet again. He didn’t even need cards, she was pleased. As he finalized the opening of the event with the bonfire lighting, she would applaud with the rest of those gathered.
Much as he paused to enjoy the sun, she would do the same, soaking in the moment with the rest of those that observed these sorts of festivals and holidays. She had a glass of juice, electing again not to drink anything beyond juice or water. While she could have approached the man she knew, she instead elected to be the social butterfly she usually was, and wandered those gathered slowly, pausing when someone snagged her attention, or complimented her choice of clothing.
Before long, she had decided to stop poolside, kick off her sandals and sit herself on the edge of the pool, so that her feet and legs could dip into the water, but the rest of her remain rather dry. It gave her a good view of the space, and still be approachable, either from the water or from the areas around the pool. Blue eyes would watch, measuring and filing information away as she saw connections that might be made, or groups gathered to linger. That was one of the elusive lady’s favorite things to do. Watch and gather information, to hoard and use when needed. For underneath the bombshell exterior was a mind that could challenge many a soul and still come out without a scratch.
Coy, flirtatious and readily will admit she loves to be told of her beauty or other such compliment. Not vain to a fault, but close. The woman exuded power and prestige, while still drawing someone’s interest, be it for connections or for a drink and conversation. Now, it was time to see just who came calling on her attentions.
It had been whispers and curiosity that had brought the blonde youth; rumors of things that could perhaps warrant interest or concern, implications of connections. If more than the slightest bits of it were true, surely it would take a mad fool to go to the domain of such people, to a gathering in which one would surely be surrounded by them. But... he could not say with certainty that he was not a mad fool. And besides, even pool water and salt water were still, indeed, water.
Thus, this young man who did not look old enough to yet drink walked among the attendees, a placid smile hiding the excitement and fear that stirred within him. Mad fool, indeed. He had made his effort to blend in well enough, though; snug, black trunks were surely acceptable at a fancy pool party, and he had even come in a button-down shirt, light grey, though it presently seemed more appropriate to let it hang open. It was hardly an impressive display, however, and the bag he kept slung across his shoulder had seen better days. At least no one had seemed perturbed by him paying entry in cash and showing up already barefoot.
How he would have loved to properly soak everything in... but even at his age, he knew he still had reason to be wary. Oh, but that, too, was proving delightful. Their little ritual with the fire, too, was sweet; as he joined in lifting his glass of white wine, he almost wanted to find some thing to write upon a bit of paper and burn. It seemed like fun! And yet, nothing he cared to throw in came to mind at present.
His eyes wandered back to the pool for the umpteenth time; for a pool party, so few seemed to be paying it much attention. Of course, many clearly had not come with the intention of actually going in the water, decorated as they were around their assorted swimming attire - and even not-for-swimming attire. There was a woman there, one who earlier had tugged his attention just the slightest bit more than most others present. She was much too skilled for him to see through it, but he was sure he had detected a glamour. The young man had avoided her earlier for exactly that reason: it told him only just enough to make her a greater potential risk, though she could as easily be nothing to worry himself over.
Something more of interest, first - assuming, of course, he could. The man with the pale hair scanned again for the one who had provided the speech. Getting a word in to him would no doubt be tricky with the attention the man commanded, but that was hardly reason to not try. Draw in, relax nearby, find a moment, know that he might simply be brushed off... It was still a pleasure listening to the golden-eyed man speak, but his voice was secondary for the moment. When the chance came, the youth asked with a polite smile, "Pardon... I heard someone say that you are Atlas Quinn. The art restorer?"
Thus, this young man who did not look old enough to yet drink walked among the attendees, a placid smile hiding the excitement and fear that stirred within him. Mad fool, indeed. He had made his effort to blend in well enough, though; snug, black trunks were surely acceptable at a fancy pool party, and he had even come in a button-down shirt, light grey, though it presently seemed more appropriate to let it hang open. It was hardly an impressive display, however, and the bag he kept slung across his shoulder had seen better days. At least no one had seemed perturbed by him paying entry in cash and showing up already barefoot.
How he would have loved to properly soak everything in... but even at his age, he knew he still had reason to be wary. Oh, but that, too, was proving delightful. Their little ritual with the fire, too, was sweet; as he joined in lifting his glass of white wine, he almost wanted to find some thing to write upon a bit of paper and burn. It seemed like fun! And yet, nothing he cared to throw in came to mind at present.
His eyes wandered back to the pool for the umpteenth time; for a pool party, so few seemed to be paying it much attention. Of course, many clearly had not come with the intention of actually going in the water, decorated as they were around their assorted swimming attire - and even not-for-swimming attire. There was a woman there, one who earlier had tugged his attention just the slightest bit more than most others present. She was much too skilled for him to see through it, but he was sure he had detected a glamour. The young man had avoided her earlier for exactly that reason: it told him only just enough to make her a greater potential risk, though she could as easily be nothing to worry himself over.
Something more of interest, first - assuming, of course, he could. The man with the pale hair scanned again for the one who had provided the speech. Getting a word in to him would no doubt be tricky with the attention the man commanded, but that was hardly reason to not try. Draw in, relax nearby, find a moment, know that he might simply be brushed off... It was still a pleasure listening to the golden-eyed man speak, but his voice was secondary for the moment. When the chance came, the youth asked with a polite smile, "Pardon... I heard someone say that you are Atlas Quinn. The art restorer?"
Atlas was glee filled for his event once again had gone off without hindrance. Why, even the allusive Lady Lysandra had showed her face without scorn; for if he had messed up his speech he was quite certain she would have yelled across the garden at him and thrown ‘que’ cards like they were money off a balcony in some rich display. Though her display was always rich as he stared at her from afar. Her suit left too much to the imagination. Yet his brandy coated lips could not help the smile still.
He could have approached her, but he knew her too well and loved to see her flinch in displeasure as he called her name loudly from across the fresh cut grass and hedges .”Lysandra, are you hiding from me?” he’d coo her name like it was forbidden and he had told all the world. “Come hither.” He beckoned her with the raised of his hand and curled of his fingers like he might control her mind. Far from it truly, for she was one of the only women in the world he couldn’t seem to control. Quite the opposite actually, for she could have his lips at her feet like a Goddess had she demanded it. Thank goodness she never did… in public.
As he waited ever so patiently as he did, his golden eyes lurked to one side of him where a young thing stood with his current name on his tongue. Even a profession which made the seemingly boyish stranger have him at a disadvantage. Within seconds he had forgotten about harassing the woman at the pool with his playful ways and turned his undivided attention to the blue eyes. For a quiet moment Atlas sized him up, from head to toe and then back to lingering at eyes he did not know. For a moment he thought the youth might be an innocent soul, and while he could not see and aura he could ‘feel’ it.
“Indeed I am.” He resisted the urge to ask if he was the pool boy come to clean the filters. Hos weight shifted to one hip as he turned to face Jackson. “I see people love to speak my name… or talk about me in general. I am flatter… But you have me at a disadvantage…. You are?” he would seek a name, carless if it was his real or a façade, but a name non the less so he did not reduce him to pet names upon introductions.
“Are you seeking me for business or pleasure? Perhaps both?” no, he would not see any concept of an invitation or why anyone was here, for he did not care. If they came per invite or party crashing, either way they deserved to be here. “Or have you come to purr my name to my ears? I gladly accept if that’s the case… as it never gets old.” He grinned deviously.
He could have approached her, but he knew her too well and loved to see her flinch in displeasure as he called her name loudly from across the fresh cut grass and hedges .”Lysandra, are you hiding from me?” he’d coo her name like it was forbidden and he had told all the world. “Come hither.” He beckoned her with the raised of his hand and curled of his fingers like he might control her mind. Far from it truly, for she was one of the only women in the world he couldn’t seem to control. Quite the opposite actually, for she could have his lips at her feet like a Goddess had she demanded it. Thank goodness she never did… in public.
As he waited ever so patiently as he did, his golden eyes lurked to one side of him where a young thing stood with his current name on his tongue. Even a profession which made the seemingly boyish stranger have him at a disadvantage. Within seconds he had forgotten about harassing the woman at the pool with his playful ways and turned his undivided attention to the blue eyes. For a quiet moment Atlas sized him up, from head to toe and then back to lingering at eyes he did not know. For a moment he thought the youth might be an innocent soul, and while he could not see and aura he could ‘feel’ it.
“Indeed I am.” He resisted the urge to ask if he was the pool boy come to clean the filters. Hos weight shifted to one hip as he turned to face Jackson. “I see people love to speak my name… or talk about me in general. I am flatter… But you have me at a disadvantage…. You are?” he would seek a name, carless if it was his real or a façade, but a name non the less so he did not reduce him to pet names upon introductions.
“Are you seeking me for business or pleasure? Perhaps both?” no, he would not see any concept of an invitation or why anyone was here, for he did not care. If they came per invite or party crashing, either way they deserved to be here. “Or have you come to purr my name to my ears? I gladly accept if that’s the case… as it never gets old.” He grinned deviously.
Lysandra glanced in Atlas’ direction at the call from across the lawn and pool area, hearing it echo and rebound a bit in the large room. Of course he would be a thorn in her side by calling direct attention to her, and he would see the hint of vexation that crossed her expression for a moment. But gracefully did she reply, they were among mixed company, so she could let things go she wouldn’t always, called out as loud as he had been, “Patience is a virtue, Atlas.” She didn’t add that she wouldn’t dream of not acknowledging him more.
But much to her relief, another took his attention for the moment, so the glamoured woman could continue to luxerate at the poolside. Feet and legs slowly kicked back and forth, her eyes momentarily closed to soak in the relaxation. She wanted to give Atlas the appropriate amount of time to soak in whatever admiration the new young man might be offering, before she interrupted. After all, it would seem that the pair (Atlas and Lysa) could sometimes catch people, and cause them to be torn between who to flatter more in the moment.
Her eyes opened, surveying the conversation progress, and slowly drawing herself back to stand. Lysa took the towel offered by the attentive staff nearby, drawing her legs and feet off slowly. Sliding her sandals back on, she would slowly make her way through the party goers, again pausing as this person or that recognized her from her brand or other ways as well. Her roots and limbs covered or sank into many pies and pots in this city, and while some might not know her face or her name, they would know of her influence.
So, she was polite, she was sociable, the usual delight at any event. Finally, she had made it to join Atlas and his latest admirer, or so she thought, Jackson. After taking a drink from her glass, she would muse, “Pardon the interruption, but you beckoned? I realize I may be a bit tardy to that summon, but can you blame me? The water felt so nice. The contrasting temperatures is always so intriguing, do you think?” She had asked the question of Jackson, as if ignoring Atlas after the initial question directed to him.
With a pleasant purr to her voice, she would offer a greeting to Jackson, “Lady Lysandra. There, now you know who I am, now please, proceed with the conversation Atlas apparently wished me to interrupt, for he should have known I would not leap to his beck and call like an eager puppy.” A wink was given to Jackson, clearly Lysa was taunting Atlas, and just from the context, he would be able to gather that the pair was previously acquainted. While she waited for the conversation to include her further, or just to see what they were speaking of, standing off to Atlas’ right and Jackson’s left.
But much to her relief, another took his attention for the moment, so the glamoured woman could continue to luxerate at the poolside. Feet and legs slowly kicked back and forth, her eyes momentarily closed to soak in the relaxation. She wanted to give Atlas the appropriate amount of time to soak in whatever admiration the new young man might be offering, before she interrupted. After all, it would seem that the pair (Atlas and Lysa) could sometimes catch people, and cause them to be torn between who to flatter more in the moment.
Her eyes opened, surveying the conversation progress, and slowly drawing herself back to stand. Lysa took the towel offered by the attentive staff nearby, drawing her legs and feet off slowly. Sliding her sandals back on, she would slowly make her way through the party goers, again pausing as this person or that recognized her from her brand or other ways as well. Her roots and limbs covered or sank into many pies and pots in this city, and while some might not know her face or her name, they would know of her influence.
So, she was polite, she was sociable, the usual delight at any event. Finally, she had made it to join Atlas and his latest admirer, or so she thought, Jackson. After taking a drink from her glass, she would muse, “Pardon the interruption, but you beckoned? I realize I may be a bit tardy to that summon, but can you blame me? The water felt so nice. The contrasting temperatures is always so intriguing, do you think?” She had asked the question of Jackson, as if ignoring Atlas after the initial question directed to him.
With a pleasant purr to her voice, she would offer a greeting to Jackson, “Lady Lysandra. There, now you know who I am, now please, proceed with the conversation Atlas apparently wished me to interrupt, for he should have known I would not leap to his beck and call like an eager puppy.” A wink was given to Jackson, clearly Lysa was taunting Atlas, and just from the context, he would be able to gather that the pair was previously acquainted. While she waited for the conversation to include her further, or just to see what they were speaking of, standing off to Atlas’ right and Jackson’s left.
"Jack's son," the youth cheerily shared, though it came out quick enough to more sensibly be interpreted as "Jackson." Either way, it was as useful as "Nemo." From there, he hesitated. It was indeed only art he had meant to ask about, but the way the man spoke seemed like such an invitation, and would it not be rude to turn an invitation down? So he had told so many, himself.
When an interruption arrived, the willowy young man first could not decide whether to be annoyed or grateful for the spare moment. Upon the realization that it was that woman from the pool, Jackson did not even notice himself briefly lick his lips a chill pulsed through him. Panic, he presumed. Yet, on the outside, he still appeared utterly at ease.
"Jack's son," he repeated in return to the woman's own introduction.
He looked between the pair. Lover's quarrel? A better question, perhaps, would be of the chances he would ever risk facing either again in the future, for this seemed too tempting to prod and play with.
"I favor unheated outdoor pools," he shared in answer to her question. His soft words seemed to carry an earnest humility rather than any any intent toward conflict. They also did not suit the majority of the modern youth he appeared to be. "But I'll admit that the decoration is lovely, even if some of it does get up and walk around." He nodded toward Atlas, and looked into his eyes instead as he proceeded, "I was only trying to decide whether to pursue asking Mr. Quinn about the art he restores or to instead admit I find his voice to be superior to mine, especially for purring."
Jackson had no shame whatsoever in his own voice, of course. It had its appeal and served him well, be it in speaking or singing. It did not stand out as this man's did, though.
His gaze returned to the woman, and proceeded to switch between them. "But if the two of you needed to discuss something important...?"
When an interruption arrived, the willowy young man first could not decide whether to be annoyed or grateful for the spare moment. Upon the realization that it was that woman from the pool, Jackson did not even notice himself briefly lick his lips a chill pulsed through him. Panic, he presumed. Yet, on the outside, he still appeared utterly at ease.
"Jack's son," he repeated in return to the woman's own introduction.
He looked between the pair. Lover's quarrel? A better question, perhaps, would be of the chances he would ever risk facing either again in the future, for this seemed too tempting to prod and play with.
"I favor unheated outdoor pools," he shared in answer to her question. His soft words seemed to carry an earnest humility rather than any any intent toward conflict. They also did not suit the majority of the modern youth he appeared to be. "But I'll admit that the decoration is lovely, even if some of it does get up and walk around." He nodded toward Atlas, and looked into his eyes instead as he proceeded, "I was only trying to decide whether to pursue asking Mr. Quinn about the art he restores or to instead admit I find his voice to be superior to mine, especially for purring."
Jackson had no shame whatsoever in his own voice, of course. It had its appeal and served him well, be it in speaking or singing. It did not stand out as this man's did, though.
His gaze returned to the woman, and proceeded to switch between them. "But if the two of you needed to discuss something important...?"
Atlas shifted some as he rolled the name of the young man over his mind to find some semblance of if he should be known or not. However, there was no draw to the front of his mind immediately of any importance or concern for ‘Jackson’ was an incredibly common human name. It seemed impossible to determine and Atlas quickly cared little at all. “So you are.” He stated swiftly as the edges of his smile twitched with uncertainty. Had he been less of a demon and less of a relaxed event he might have been disturbed by this ones’ calm demeanor.
Lazily did his eyes drift to the sow that was Lysandra, and there he greeted her as such. “Oh… you have finally graced me with your presence.” He stated sarcastically. It seemed her taking her time had offended him, or at least this would appear so. Dully did he stare at her as she tangent to a stranger, yet again to embarrass him. Of course, it wouldn’t work, it hardly ever did. “Never mind.” he told her, just to sour her mood on purpose that she came all this way for nothing. Blatantly did he turn his attention back to Jack’s son tow which he had heard yet again and did not take notice the very short pause between the words.
Atlas scoffed with a chuckle, apparently greatly humored before the ‘décor’ comment. It was enough for Atlas to look back to Lysandra with a soft “I like him, he can stay.” He grinned, satisfied that she was reduced to ‘decoration’.
Further was Atlas flattered by the compliment of his voice. He lofted a brow as his shoulders relaxed, soaking in the feed of his ego. “No… The decoration has little important to ever say to me that isn’t formatted in insult or yelling.” He mused further. “You though… Jackson, seem to have a lot of interesting things to say.” He’d address like seeking more flattery. “Please tell me more about your observations of me.”
Lazily did his eyes drift to the sow that was Lysandra, and there he greeted her as such. “Oh… you have finally graced me with your presence.” He stated sarcastically. It seemed her taking her time had offended him, or at least this would appear so. Dully did he stare at her as she tangent to a stranger, yet again to embarrass him. Of course, it wouldn’t work, it hardly ever did. “Never mind.” he told her, just to sour her mood on purpose that she came all this way for nothing. Blatantly did he turn his attention back to Jack’s son tow which he had heard yet again and did not take notice the very short pause between the words.
Atlas scoffed with a chuckle, apparently greatly humored before the ‘décor’ comment. It was enough for Atlas to look back to Lysandra with a soft “I like him, he can stay.” He grinned, satisfied that she was reduced to ‘decoration’.
Further was Atlas flattered by the compliment of his voice. He lofted a brow as his shoulders relaxed, soaking in the feed of his ego. “No… The decoration has little important to ever say to me that isn’t formatted in insult or yelling.” He mused further. “You though… Jackson, seem to have a lot of interesting things to say.” He’d address like seeking more flattery. “Please tell me more about your observations of me.”
It was a good thing that Lysa could not hear Atlas’ thoughts, otherwise he might find himself gripping a tender part of his anatomy after it had a reminder introduction to her foot. She listened to the interplay of the two men and chuckled, “Ah well, I will leave you two to flatter each other, as I am bored with it already. Your ego could use less stroking Atlas, but I suppose that has never stopped you from begging for it.” She lifted a brow and then glanced back to Jackson, studying him a bit.
She felt like something about him should ping in her mind, but she couldn’t quite place him just yet. Perhaps she had met him before and forgot. She added to Jackson as an aside in reaction to Atlas’ comments slyly directed at her, “I do I have to admit that any event I attend does have the lovely decoration of my attire, though I am far more than mere accessory or prop. And if the silver tongued devil here didn’t take so much enjoyment in needling me, he would hear kinder purrs of pleasantries to grace his ears. For I am capable of a whole range of expression, contrary to his opinion of me.”
After taking a drink, she would smirk at the two men, only lingering because no one else had yet approached to steal her attention away. But she was only half giving them eye contact, clearly doing so to needle Atlas back. As if his presence was boring for her, and she couldn’t wait to find anyone else of interest or intelligent conversation. It would soon be clear to Jackson that the pair was well known to each other, and rather antagonistic in a fashion that again spoke to familiarity of patterns and personalities.
She felt like something about him should ping in her mind, but she couldn’t quite place him just yet. Perhaps she had met him before and forgot. She added to Jackson as an aside in reaction to Atlas’ comments slyly directed at her, “I do I have to admit that any event I attend does have the lovely decoration of my attire, though I am far more than mere accessory or prop. And if the silver tongued devil here didn’t take so much enjoyment in needling me, he would hear kinder purrs of pleasantries to grace his ears. For I am capable of a whole range of expression, contrary to his opinion of me.”
After taking a drink, she would smirk at the two men, only lingering because no one else had yet approached to steal her attention away. But she was only half giving them eye contact, clearly doing so to needle Atlas back. As if his presence was boring for her, and she couldn’t wait to find anyone else of interest or intelligent conversation. It would soon be clear to Jackson that the pair was well known to each other, and rather antagonistic in a fashion that again spoke to familiarity of patterns and personalities.
Oh, but this Atlas man was easy, responding so well to praise while having so much that could easily be praised. Jackson was not above feeding such a thing, either. It had often enough worked well to get him favors, proximity, privacy... or simply trust enough to walk forward and step into the lovely water.... The images that danced through the young man's mind would surely ruin that pleasant voice, though.
His light blue eyes refocused. No, no, he mustn't forget what a risk it might have been to even have come here. Fun, such fun, but... yes, with all that waste and runoff, he had to remember to deny himself some. And, already it seemed he had misjudged, misspoke. And he was trailing away from his original intent entirely! But really, did that matter when there was such fun to be had?
"I-"
Finally the youth's relaxed cheer broke for a moment. Uncertainty lingered in his pause. He looked at this Lady Lysandra, and then down to the artificial stone beneath their feet.
"I apologize. My intent was to acknowledge you among the lovely things here, not to demean, but, well... I suppose I have no silver tongue, myself. And perhaps I have not yet learned to hold my alcohol, which would be a pity, because I have very much enjoyed this wine." Jackson lifted his gaze back to Atlas. "What I first came over for though, sir, and if you will allow observations beyond what can be immediately heard and seen... is, indeed, your work with art restoration. I've seen some of your work, and you do an exquisite job. But I feel... negatively about the practice, even as glad as I am to see the works beneath the ages of grime. Maybe if I knew why you do it, or what sort of effort goes into it, I might not feel so negatively?"
The vague "negatively" seemed a presently sufficient word. It was not necessary to explain how, the first time he had knowingly observed a painting that had been restored, the very concept had left him fighting the urge to shred the thing.
"I come more from music -proper music, not lifeless recordings - where a piece can only be fully appreciated as it is played. I think things are all the more beautiful when access is limited - the temporary, the rare, that which requires effort...."
His light blue eyes refocused. No, no, he mustn't forget what a risk it might have been to even have come here. Fun, such fun, but... yes, with all that waste and runoff, he had to remember to deny himself some. And, already it seemed he had misjudged, misspoke. And he was trailing away from his original intent entirely! But really, did that matter when there was such fun to be had?
"I-"
Finally the youth's relaxed cheer broke for a moment. Uncertainty lingered in his pause. He looked at this Lady Lysandra, and then down to the artificial stone beneath their feet.
"I apologize. My intent was to acknowledge you among the lovely things here, not to demean, but, well... I suppose I have no silver tongue, myself. And perhaps I have not yet learned to hold my alcohol, which would be a pity, because I have very much enjoyed this wine." Jackson lifted his gaze back to Atlas. "What I first came over for though, sir, and if you will allow observations beyond what can be immediately heard and seen... is, indeed, your work with art restoration. I've seen some of your work, and you do an exquisite job. But I feel... negatively about the practice, even as glad as I am to see the works beneath the ages of grime. Maybe if I knew why you do it, or what sort of effort goes into it, I might not feel so negatively?"
The vague "negatively" seemed a presently sufficient word. It was not necessary to explain how, the first time he had knowingly observed a painting that had been restored, the very concept had left him fighting the urge to shred the thing.
"I come more from music -proper music, not lifeless recordings - where a piece can only be fully appreciated as it is played. I think things are all the more beautiful when access is limited - the temporary, the rare, that which requires effort...."
// Sorry for the delay, I have had creators block all day but don’t wish to hold up the thread! //
Atlas grinned as his drink came to his lips, unable to help his glee as he had so successfully bothered Lysandra. Tis was the game after all, he had adored getting under her skin for centuries as their relations were always bittersweet. It was surprising the two never really ended up a couple; there might have still been a betting pool on it.
Atlas raised a hand like a puppet mocking Lysa’s every word like a mockery behind her back. but of course he did so right in front of her. his head tilted towards Jack’s son only as he hesitated to speak.
“Do not apologize to her.” he would try to warn. “If you do, she might never let you live it down and you will be forever groveling at her feet like a peasant to a goddess of wrath. Give her and inch, and she she will rule your entire world.” He cute the air with his palm. “Frankly, I think she prefers the tongue and cheek. I have seen her get bored of groveling as much as she likes to be admired for the decoration she is.” He stated with the rock of his shoulders. Of course, he knew her too well. He wanted to ease the youth’s mind that she was less offended then she might have seemed.
It was the last of statements made from this Jackson that had Atlas lose his smile for but a moment. like a flicker of an old movie, for it was back within a few seconds of absence. “I see. So you like the grime and decay of the world such that you think it is more beautiful. There is certainly nothing wrong with that… save for art, unlike music cannot be replayed in new symphony. It cannot be done better nor worse for no artist has the same hand. A brush is not like an instrument, its free, unhindered, to be played as however an artist wishes.” He paused licking his lips before he continued on.
“When an artist dies so does the notes to play their symphony. Art restoration is not to remove the beauty of age but to preserve the only memory of a sheet of music. To keep its brilliance so young souls such as yourself might see it and feel positive… or negative about it… to inspire new music.”
He shrugged slightly as he added “Have you know that some paints are still so thick with paint that they are still wet beneath their crust today? Event in restoration they are not lifeless… ever still moving.. changing….and frankly new art is about as tasteless as modern recordings of music. “ the last sentence stated quite dully for he was not impressed with what he had heard of this generation.
“Though it cannot all be restored.” He would add with a swirl of his glass of brandy. “But since you asked more specifically why I do what I do… it is because …” he hesitated because it had a lot to do with his two thousand years upon this world… “Paintings are like brief windows to memories of the past. The act of cleaning and repairing them is like… like an act of relieving a moment in time. To be there in its pain, sorrow, happiness, fertility.. to taste the fruit in the bowls, hear the music played, and to kiss lips that are now long gone. It is therapeutic.”
Atlas grinned as his drink came to his lips, unable to help his glee as he had so successfully bothered Lysandra. Tis was the game after all, he had adored getting under her skin for centuries as their relations were always bittersweet. It was surprising the two never really ended up a couple; there might have still been a betting pool on it.
Atlas raised a hand like a puppet mocking Lysa’s every word like a mockery behind her back. but of course he did so right in front of her. his head tilted towards Jack’s son only as he hesitated to speak.
“Do not apologize to her.” he would try to warn. “If you do, she might never let you live it down and you will be forever groveling at her feet like a peasant to a goddess of wrath. Give her and inch, and she she will rule your entire world.” He cute the air with his palm. “Frankly, I think she prefers the tongue and cheek. I have seen her get bored of groveling as much as she likes to be admired for the decoration she is.” He stated with the rock of his shoulders. Of course, he knew her too well. He wanted to ease the youth’s mind that she was less offended then she might have seemed.
It was the last of statements made from this Jackson that had Atlas lose his smile for but a moment. like a flicker of an old movie, for it was back within a few seconds of absence. “I see. So you like the grime and decay of the world such that you think it is more beautiful. There is certainly nothing wrong with that… save for art, unlike music cannot be replayed in new symphony. It cannot be done better nor worse for no artist has the same hand. A brush is not like an instrument, its free, unhindered, to be played as however an artist wishes.” He paused licking his lips before he continued on.
“When an artist dies so does the notes to play their symphony. Art restoration is not to remove the beauty of age but to preserve the only memory of a sheet of music. To keep its brilliance so young souls such as yourself might see it and feel positive… or negative about it… to inspire new music.”
He shrugged slightly as he added “Have you know that some paints are still so thick with paint that they are still wet beneath their crust today? Event in restoration they are not lifeless… ever still moving.. changing….and frankly new art is about as tasteless as modern recordings of music. “ the last sentence stated quite dully for he was not impressed with what he had heard of this generation.
“Though it cannot all be restored.” He would add with a swirl of his glass of brandy. “But since you asked more specifically why I do what I do… it is because …” he hesitated because it had a lot to do with his two thousand years upon this world… “Paintings are like brief windows to memories of the past. The act of cleaning and repairing them is like… like an act of relieving a moment in time. To be there in its pain, sorrow, happiness, fertility.. to taste the fruit in the bowls, hear the music played, and to kiss lips that are now long gone. It is therapeutic.”
The mocking hand of Atlas was smacked soundly with her free hand, “You are an adult, the childish behavior doesn’t suit someone of your age Atlas.” She then looked to Jack’s son and smiled brilliantly at the apology, “Oh, forgiven darling. You redeemed yourself with the lovely comment.” But again she was looking to Atlas, a brow arched at his comments. She couldn’t actually argue with part of it, but she still retorted to the glib man next to her, looking at Jack’s son while she did it, as if it was such a trial to deal with Atlas.
“Apologize to whomever you wish dear. Ignore him, he is an old man at heart, one that doesn’t like to let go of things or understand that I deserve as much attention and adoration as he does.” She leaned over, and whispered loudly, “A secret, between us, I think he is truly the one that wishes to rule the world, with all the bossing around and demanding personality he has. As if he was above it all.” Straightening she would add, “Though, he has a point. Grovelling only works for so long before it becomes predictable and boring. But again, I am a bit more than pretty decoration, for regardless of his opinion, I do have a sharp mind behind all the flash.”
With that, she would wink to the young man, and comment to Jack’s son before Atlas spoke up, “Be mindful, engaging in his talk of his work. You might be here all night, and find yourself beating yourself up over some ‘misguided’ thought.” The more the pair of Lysa and Atlas interacting would demonstrate that in some ways, that it was almost a game, one would throw shade at the other, and then it would be the sweetly venomous words tossed back. The worst game of hot potato, only the ‘potato’ was veiled or not so veiled insults, or other such words.
She did actually respect what Atlas did in the mundane world, however, appreciating the art as the artist had intended, not what time would make it. So, she let him speak without interruption or mocking nature, instead inspecting the young man still engaged in the conversation. Something was still tugging at her mind, and she realized that he must be a Fae race. That had to be what was scratching her senses. In fact, as soon as she noted it to herself, the lingering nudge in her mind faded.
A smile curled her lips a bit, as Atlas wound down, and she would comment idly, “Though I know this will go to your head, I do appreciate hearing you speak on art. You are well suited for the restoration process, given the passion you put into it.” GASP! A compliment without a bit of shade to it. She fully expected some melodramatic response from the man that had vexed her for many, many years.
“Apologize to whomever you wish dear. Ignore him, he is an old man at heart, one that doesn’t like to let go of things or understand that I deserve as much attention and adoration as he does.” She leaned over, and whispered loudly, “A secret, between us, I think he is truly the one that wishes to rule the world, with all the bossing around and demanding personality he has. As if he was above it all.” Straightening she would add, “Though, he has a point. Grovelling only works for so long before it becomes predictable and boring. But again, I am a bit more than pretty decoration, for regardless of his opinion, I do have a sharp mind behind all the flash.”
With that, she would wink to the young man, and comment to Jack’s son before Atlas spoke up, “Be mindful, engaging in his talk of his work. You might be here all night, and find yourself beating yourself up over some ‘misguided’ thought.” The more the pair of Lysa and Atlas interacting would demonstrate that in some ways, that it was almost a game, one would throw shade at the other, and then it would be the sweetly venomous words tossed back. The worst game of hot potato, only the ‘potato’ was veiled or not so veiled insults, or other such words.
She did actually respect what Atlas did in the mundane world, however, appreciating the art as the artist had intended, not what time would make it. So, she let him speak without interruption or mocking nature, instead inspecting the young man still engaged in the conversation. Something was still tugging at her mind, and she realized that he must be a Fae race. That had to be what was scratching her senses. In fact, as soon as she noted it to herself, the lingering nudge in her mind faded.
A smile curled her lips a bit, as Atlas wound down, and she would comment idly, “Though I know this will go to your head, I do appreciate hearing you speak on art. You are well suited for the restoration process, given the passion you put into it.” GASP! A compliment without a bit of shade to it. She fully expected some melodramatic response from the man that had vexed her for many, many years.
((No worries on my part at least, this is already fairly rapid-pace for me. 
Especially since I'm working on coming out of more than a year's block.))
It was... becoming difficult not to laugh at the way these two poked and prodded at one another. There was some minor reassurance in it, as well as a charm in how they used little warnings to naive little him to further their efforts - though the lady did a better job of making herself seem earnest.
However, the accusation that Jackson favored grime and decay earned another glimpse behind his outward placid demeanor, just a flash of a snarl that was quickly replaced by a mere polite concern. It was a small help that Atlas put in such effort to relate things to music, even if it was patronizing. After all, the man thought he was speaking to but a boy, or was at the very least acting as so, and that was significantly by Jackson's own effort.
"It is not at all that I favor grime and decay," the blonde boy countered, no matter how tolerate he had had to become of such things in certain places. "And I have actually tried thinking of it as you describe, that the sheet music might usably last well beyond its creator and much longer than an individual painter. I have even tried to focus on how music, by that nature, will be played by many different musicians in its lifetime, while a painting or statue or other more visual art can, at best, only be copied. I guess I must admit, too, that just as a performance can be made without attachment or passion for the piece, so, too, can artwork be copied with passion put into it, and it might even improve upon the original at times. But my worry is that this restoration... is akin to rewriting the original. That you are not simply dusting a thing off, nor producing a copy, but reintroducing it permanently changed, subtle as those changes may be. To dig deep enough to discover paint still wet, that... that is surely passion you are removing from the canvas forever."
He paused in his tirade. Atlas had spoken of feeling as he worked, not simply analyzing or digging. What works the young man had seen of his had been quite skillful, too; he had seen restoration efforts that had very much ruined their works, but that did not seem to be an issue here. Seeing the works as living, placing himself into them... and if soiled crust was the alternative anyway... A smile returned to Jackson's lips, and this time is was not merely a mask.
"But, I suppose, since the alternative is the slow death of an artwork anyway... if the true original is to be lost no matter if it is left to fade or... reprocessed..." His eyes had wandered off, but now fixed themselves once more upon the golden ones. "...at least that change is not without its own devotion in your works, and the results I have witnessed truly have been lovely. I have to admit, too, that the assorted 'modern arts' plentifully drown out such wonderful classics already, though at least some of it is not so wretched, and I can always pray that the classics will inspire more."
Jackson sipped at his wine as he considered. He glanced again toward Lysandra, and considered that she was likely not the only among those gathered to be concerned about. Why, even with just the eyes he had, Atlas certainly must be something interesting, and these two made doubtful how simply human any attendee present was. If he were to do anything that might get him extra attention at the moment, though, it would surely be best not to start with something that might be seen as an attack, no matter how subtly he had learned to feed through the ages. A little expression could help to distract from that urge, as well.
Smiling again at Atlas, the youth slipped a pale hand into his worn bag and brought up the narrow end of an instrument case within it. "Since you have allowed me a glimpse at your passion, perhaps I might offer a glimpse at mine?"
Especially since I'm working on coming out of more than a year's block.))It was... becoming difficult not to laugh at the way these two poked and prodded at one another. There was some minor reassurance in it, as well as a charm in how they used little warnings to naive little him to further their efforts - though the lady did a better job of making herself seem earnest.
However, the accusation that Jackson favored grime and decay earned another glimpse behind his outward placid demeanor, just a flash of a snarl that was quickly replaced by a mere polite concern. It was a small help that Atlas put in such effort to relate things to music, even if it was patronizing. After all, the man thought he was speaking to but a boy, or was at the very least acting as so, and that was significantly by Jackson's own effort.
"It is not at all that I favor grime and decay," the blonde boy countered, no matter how tolerate he had had to become of such things in certain places. "And I have actually tried thinking of it as you describe, that the sheet music might usably last well beyond its creator and much longer than an individual painter. I have even tried to focus on how music, by that nature, will be played by many different musicians in its lifetime, while a painting or statue or other more visual art can, at best, only be copied. I guess I must admit, too, that just as a performance can be made without attachment or passion for the piece, so, too, can artwork be copied with passion put into it, and it might even improve upon the original at times. But my worry is that this restoration... is akin to rewriting the original. That you are not simply dusting a thing off, nor producing a copy, but reintroducing it permanently changed, subtle as those changes may be. To dig deep enough to discover paint still wet, that... that is surely passion you are removing from the canvas forever."
He paused in his tirade. Atlas had spoken of feeling as he worked, not simply analyzing or digging. What works the young man had seen of his had been quite skillful, too; he had seen restoration efforts that had very much ruined their works, but that did not seem to be an issue here. Seeing the works as living, placing himself into them... and if soiled crust was the alternative anyway... A smile returned to Jackson's lips, and this time is was not merely a mask.
"But, I suppose, since the alternative is the slow death of an artwork anyway... if the true original is to be lost no matter if it is left to fade or... reprocessed..." His eyes had wandered off, but now fixed themselves once more upon the golden ones. "...at least that change is not without its own devotion in your works, and the results I have witnessed truly have been lovely. I have to admit, too, that the assorted 'modern arts' plentifully drown out such wonderful classics already, though at least some of it is not so wretched, and I can always pray that the classics will inspire more."
Jackson sipped at his wine as he considered. He glanced again toward Lysandra, and considered that she was likely not the only among those gathered to be concerned about. Why, even with just the eyes he had, Atlas certainly must be something interesting, and these two made doubtful how simply human any attendee present was. If he were to do anything that might get him extra attention at the moment, though, it would surely be best not to start with something that might be seen as an attack, no matter how subtly he had learned to feed through the ages. A little expression could help to distract from that urge, as well.
Smiling again at Atlas, the youth slipped a pale hand into his worn bag and brought up the narrow end of an instrument case within it. "Since you have allowed me a glimpse at your passion, perhaps I might offer a glimpse at mine?"
Atlas smirked as Lysandra swatted at his hand and called him essentially a man-child. He was. But he didn’t much care what other people thought of him, and often spoke his mind whether it was desired or not – or if Lysandra was going to yell at him about it later.
Of course, he didn’t mean it to be patronizing, for he didn’t know enough about Jackson to truly intend to be positive, neutral or negative about him. The only reason he drew on music was because the youth had mentioned it as something, he was more familiar with. Lysandra was quite right, he could go on for days about his work and explain it in different and meaningful ways. He cast a glance at her as she complimented him, giving her a cheeky wink. He was full of surprises; art restoration was something most overlooked on the happenings of his life.
Of course, it seemed to him that while Jack’s son might have not fully agreed with the practice, he did seem to understand and appreciate the meaning behind it. It was nothing that brought a joyous smile to Atlas, but meek and pleasant enough smile remained as Jack’s son replied to what he had offered in his views.
As Jack’s son offered a tell of his own tale in passions, Atlas bowed his head as if he was honored for such a thing. “I would be delighted to have a glimpse.” He chirped, for knowing fears and passions.. hindrance and motivations… they were the things all Watcher’s desired to know. The hidden profession behind the human façade – and yet so freely did Jack’s son offer his. Who was Atlas to decline something so… free?
The golden eyes cast to Lysandra for but a moment, but of course she would know that even if she was uninterested – she didn’t get a say. Atlas desired what he desired and anyone would fine themselves hard pressed to stand in his way.
Of course, he didn’t mean it to be patronizing, for he didn’t know enough about Jackson to truly intend to be positive, neutral or negative about him. The only reason he drew on music was because the youth had mentioned it as something, he was more familiar with. Lysandra was quite right, he could go on for days about his work and explain it in different and meaningful ways. He cast a glance at her as she complimented him, giving her a cheeky wink. He was full of surprises; art restoration was something most overlooked on the happenings of his life.
Of course, it seemed to him that while Jack’s son might have not fully agreed with the practice, he did seem to understand and appreciate the meaning behind it. It was nothing that brought a joyous smile to Atlas, but meek and pleasant enough smile remained as Jack’s son replied to what he had offered in his views.
As Jack’s son offered a tell of his own tale in passions, Atlas bowed his head as if he was honored for such a thing. “I would be delighted to have a glimpse.” He chirped, for knowing fears and passions.. hindrance and motivations… they were the things all Watcher’s desired to know. The hidden profession behind the human façade – and yet so freely did Jack’s son offer his. Who was Atlas to decline something so… free?
The golden eyes cast to Lysandra for but a moment, but of course she would know that even if she was uninterested – she didn’t get a say. Atlas desired what he desired and anyone would fine themselves hard pressed to stand in his way.
Lysa rolled her eyes a bit at his wink, and gave him a reluctant smirk in return, shaking her head a bit in amusement at herself. She let the young man speak, not bothering to interrupt. After all, it was much more a conversation between the pair of them in that respect. She had no vested interest in the interaction yet, beyond being social and it also gave her the opportunity to harass Atlas a bit.
At the offer for music, she would perk with interest a bit, as it could certainly be a treat if someone had talent for their passion as well. The look from Atlas was met with a cheeky smirk, and half shrug. What else did she have to do today? And there was really no one else of interest to speak with yet, so why not linger and hear someone share a gift of music. She purred softly, “That does sound lovely, please, share.”
The blonde woman would lift her glass to take a drink as she waited. Her blue gaze shifts between Atlas and Jackson, returning again the youth. He was stumping her, mostly because she was resisting prying or trying to get closer and get a better sense. Perhaps that was the true reason she remained, for the musician was a mystery and from the realm she had once lived. It drew her, whether she realized it or not, a bit to zero in on those she couldn’t place. She would be observate, likely to Jackson’s dismay.
But without much more to add at the moment, she would simply observe, and hopefully also enjoy the demonstration of Jackson’s skill. Also, what instrument it was, for she couldn’t tell from the case just yet.
At the offer for music, she would perk with interest a bit, as it could certainly be a treat if someone had talent for their passion as well. The look from Atlas was met with a cheeky smirk, and half shrug. What else did she have to do today? And there was really no one else of interest to speak with yet, so why not linger and hear someone share a gift of music. She purred softly, “That does sound lovely, please, share.”
The blonde woman would lift her glass to take a drink as she waited. Her blue gaze shifts between Atlas and Jackson, returning again the youth. He was stumping her, mostly because she was resisting prying or trying to get closer and get a better sense. Perhaps that was the true reason she remained, for the musician was a mystery and from the realm she had once lived. It drew her, whether she realized it or not, a bit to zero in on those she couldn’t place. She would be observate, likely to Jackson’s dismay.
But without much more to add at the moment, she would simply observe, and hopefully also enjoy the demonstration of Jackson’s skill. Also, what instrument it was, for she couldn’t tell from the case just yet.
The young man glanced briefly about and shifted aside a little to ensure he would not be in anyone's way - and, more importantly, to reduce the chance of any passers-by bumping into him. He slipped the strap of his old bag from his shoulder, and as he set that down along with his glass, he pulled out the rest of the case, already easily recognizable in its complete size and shape as a violin case. It didn't look to be in much better condition than the bag itself. The instrument inside, however, was clearly very well cared-for and looked to be worth more than the youth's own life, nevermind any of the rest of his belongings. The wood was dark and rich in color, the rings created a lovely variegation in the hues, the polish appeared to be without a scratch, even though there was some subtle wearing on the chin guard and along the underside of the neck.
"Any requests from the gracious host or the lovely lady?" he asked softly, settled fully back into that polite, relaxed cheer. Already he was tightening the strings, but not yet testing the sound, seeming certain of exactly how much he loosened them last prior to storage.
It had actually been... quite some time since he had given any sort of impromptu concert such as this. Outside of playing only for himself, it was also uncommon for him to play simply for someone's enjoyment rather than to draw in sustenance, whether that was some poor individual victim, or a crowd to feed upon more passively, more subtly, in some public space. There had even been a few small bills lingering in the case, only briefly visible before he set it down on the bag with the lid closed, that no doubt identified him as a street performer.
Relaxed and focused on this little moment to play as he appeared, though, Jackson was, in fact, noticing how attentive Lysandra seemed whenever her attention was on him. Even with all of her looking around - perhaps moreso even because of it - the woman hid it poorly. And if he were honest, it left him feeling a touch exposed. His concealment methods differed from her glamour and were, very often, more difficult to recognize, but as skilled as she seemed with that glamour, he had no way to even guess what all she might be able to tell. Further still, even when he had offered to play, he knew that associating himself with music at all could aid in identifying him, and he was aware how having a violin played further into some of his own stereotypes. He had, at least, taken care not to stress any ties to the water; he was among the many present who had not even bothered touch the water yet. Though, quick as the woman had been to prompt for his opinion regarding the pool, it might already have been too late for that - or any attempt to hide anything from her - to matter at all. Then again, he might also have been crediting her too much while he was keeping himself so restricted.
"Any requests from the gracious host or the lovely lady?" he asked softly, settled fully back into that polite, relaxed cheer. Already he was tightening the strings, but not yet testing the sound, seeming certain of exactly how much he loosened them last prior to storage.
It had actually been... quite some time since he had given any sort of impromptu concert such as this. Outside of playing only for himself, it was also uncommon for him to play simply for someone's enjoyment rather than to draw in sustenance, whether that was some poor individual victim, or a crowd to feed upon more passively, more subtly, in some public space. There had even been a few small bills lingering in the case, only briefly visible before he set it down on the bag with the lid closed, that no doubt identified him as a street performer.
Relaxed and focused on this little moment to play as he appeared, though, Jackson was, in fact, noticing how attentive Lysandra seemed whenever her attention was on him. Even with all of her looking around - perhaps moreso even because of it - the woman hid it poorly. And if he were honest, it left him feeling a touch exposed. His concealment methods differed from her glamour and were, very often, more difficult to recognize, but as skilled as she seemed with that glamour, he had no way to even guess what all she might be able to tell. Further still, even when he had offered to play, he knew that associating himself with music at all could aid in identifying him, and he was aware how having a violin played further into some of his own stereotypes. He had, at least, taken care not to stress any ties to the water; he was among the many present who had not even bothered touch the water yet. Though, quick as the woman had been to prompt for his opinion regarding the pool, it might already have been too late for that - or any attempt to hide anything from her - to matter at all. Then again, he might also have been crediting her too much while he was keeping himself so restricted.
//sorry for the delay again and the small post – lots a housework, had to take a lot of time away from the computer //
Atlas glanced to Lysandra for a moment as she too seemed to be interested in what the youth had to offer. Though he was not quite sure what to expect other then a potential of music… vocals? Perhaps but the conversation had suggested and instrument of a classic verity. And it seemed he was not wrong when the instrument was produced. Curious that he carried it with him, but then… Musicians often took their tools to parties in hopes for more exposure, so he thought little of it.
He paused in thought as golden eyes went to the skies but in humble view of the sun in which he was born of… but also to think on a song. “Perhaps, Lacrimosa, by Mozart. I have a fondness for that particular piece.” He would state confidently “Perhaps you will do it justice.” He stated optimistically. “for your sake I hope so, as Lysandra here knows, I am not above speaking my mind if I hate it.” he stated simply a smile crept upon his lips.
Despite this being an event open to the public, he was still demonic underneath it all, and he was not ‘good’ one for the corruption of innocence and devious ploys were of his nature and game. He had not hesitance to it not matter age, gender or species. He was not truly given enough to see through the veil that Jack’s son was anything more then human. Unlucky for him, it meant Atlas would venture to toy with him untill no more could be taken… or untill he proved he was not human enough to be worth Atlas’ games.
Atlas glanced to Lysandra for a moment as she too seemed to be interested in what the youth had to offer. Though he was not quite sure what to expect other then a potential of music… vocals? Perhaps but the conversation had suggested and instrument of a classic verity. And it seemed he was not wrong when the instrument was produced. Curious that he carried it with him, but then… Musicians often took their tools to parties in hopes for more exposure, so he thought little of it.
He paused in thought as golden eyes went to the skies but in humble view of the sun in which he was born of… but also to think on a song. “Perhaps, Lacrimosa, by Mozart. I have a fondness for that particular piece.” He would state confidently “Perhaps you will do it justice.” He stated optimistically. “for your sake I hope so, as Lysandra here knows, I am not above speaking my mind if I hate it.” he stated simply a smile crept upon his lips.
Despite this being an event open to the public, he was still demonic underneath it all, and he was not ‘good’ one for the corruption of innocence and devious ploys were of his nature and game. He had not hesitance to it not matter age, gender or species. He was not truly given enough to see through the veil that Jack’s son was anything more then human. Unlucky for him, it meant Atlas would venture to toy with him untill no more could be taken… or untill he proved he was not human enough to be worth Atlas’ games.
Atlas had faded to background noise as Lysa watched the youth draw a violin out of the case. It would appear that her interest dropped off, bored almost. Her focus seemed to have softened, as if she was just listening. She nodded to agree with Atlas, not really caring what was played, but chuckled at the observation, “Indeed, he does have a rough side to that silvered tongue.”
The words were dropped there, certainly innuendo, or could be taken at face value. But she waited, as Atlas did, for the youth to play. Would she be able to connect the dots, as he played, who knows. But, she did enjoy good music, as evident by the fact she was lingering around to her and had at least added a bit to the comment from Atlas.
//sorry for the short reply, muse is being fickle.//
The words were dropped there, certainly innuendo, or could be taken at face value. But she waited, as Atlas did, for the youth to play. Would she be able to connect the dots, as he played, who knows. But, she did enjoy good music, as evident by the fact she was lingering around to her and had at least added a bit to the comment from Atlas.
//sorry for the short reply, muse is being fickle.//
Jackson smirked, faintly, as he brought the violin up and briefly tested the strings with a light touch. The sound earned a little more attention for the trio, though nothing outstanding.
"I suppose that would make you the god to be asked for mercy, Mr. Quinn," the youth assessed, showing that he was, at the very least, familiar with the piece. He closed his eyes. "And leaves me as the guilty man to be judged."
He briefly considered playing it as "properly" as he could, but that would have spotlighted his voice rather than his instrument and brought background too into the fore. Something of a reversal, though, that could suit.
Silence. The bow then began slide across the strings for the halting notes that opened the piece. At the start of what was meant to be sung by a chorus, however, the violin shifted in to instead cover those mournful notes, and a well-control slight shake in the young man's hand made it sound as though the instrument was, indeed, crying. At the same time, he opened his mouth to continue the paced, wandering notes that gave the piece more structure, his high tenor that slipped up at times to countertenor matching well with the sound of the violin. As he proceeded, extended choral pauses featured instead shifts in the violin, with a lighter pressure to let it appear in those moments as its own background support alongside Jackson's voice. More resolute points in the piece were granted a cease in his shaking hand for purer tones, only for the shake to return for that uncertain hope in the prayer. Though there was no way to further fill the void of supporting instruments to achieve the full epicness the piece was meant to have, he still managed to build upon the drama by embracing that loneliness, leaning into the sense of some lone survivor of an unfathomable tragedy. While it would be easy to hear the push toward hope and peace as a progressing recovery from the pain, there was something subtle in how Jackson now played it that hinted instead that that was only insanity-touched denial, and it set a vague, unseen danger into the long, closing notes of "Amen." Ultimately, while it did not suit to compare to an orchestra, there could be no denying his singular mastery of his instrument.
His mouth closed and he breathed deeply as he lowered the violin. He had not yet lifted his face when he opened his eyes and smiled at Atlas. For that instant, there were many who might feel that look was a somehow threat to do to its recipient whatever had been done to the subject of the music he had just played. But that perception could easily melt away as Jackson's face lifted, returning to that relaxed and almost angelic cheer. "So... does God have mercy for me?"
The few minutes it had taken to play had, of course, brought a great deal more attention over, and quieted much of the surrounding conversation.
"I suppose that would make you the god to be asked for mercy, Mr. Quinn," the youth assessed, showing that he was, at the very least, familiar with the piece. He closed his eyes. "And leaves me as the guilty man to be judged."
He briefly considered playing it as "properly" as he could, but that would have spotlighted his voice rather than his instrument and brought background too into the fore. Something of a reversal, though, that could suit.
Silence. The bow then began slide across the strings for the halting notes that opened the piece. At the start of what was meant to be sung by a chorus, however, the violin shifted in to instead cover those mournful notes, and a well-control slight shake in the young man's hand made it sound as though the instrument was, indeed, crying. At the same time, he opened his mouth to continue the paced, wandering notes that gave the piece more structure, his high tenor that slipped up at times to countertenor matching well with the sound of the violin. As he proceeded, extended choral pauses featured instead shifts in the violin, with a lighter pressure to let it appear in those moments as its own background support alongside Jackson's voice. More resolute points in the piece were granted a cease in his shaking hand for purer tones, only for the shake to return for that uncertain hope in the prayer. Though there was no way to further fill the void of supporting instruments to achieve the full epicness the piece was meant to have, he still managed to build upon the drama by embracing that loneliness, leaning into the sense of some lone survivor of an unfathomable tragedy. While it would be easy to hear the push toward hope and peace as a progressing recovery from the pain, there was something subtle in how Jackson now played it that hinted instead that that was only insanity-touched denial, and it set a vague, unseen danger into the long, closing notes of "Amen." Ultimately, while it did not suit to compare to an orchestra, there could be no denying his singular mastery of his instrument.
His mouth closed and he breathed deeply as he lowered the violin. He had not yet lifted his face when he opened his eyes and smiled at Atlas. For that instant, there were many who might feel that look was a somehow threat to do to its recipient whatever had been done to the subject of the music he had just played. But that perception could easily melt away as Jackson's face lifted, returning to that relaxed and almost angelic cheer. "So... does God have mercy for me?"
The few minutes it had taken to play had, of course, brought a great deal more attention over, and quieted much of the surrounding conversation.
Atlas smirked in amusement as Lady Lysandra backed up his venomous ways. It only broadened to a larger smile as Jack’s son decided to further stroke his ego in comparing him to that of a God. It also humored him considering what he was and what he knew himself not to be. But in no way did he correct the youth for it didn’t seem all that necessary. What was but a pamper of the word when compared to other things that could be done?
He gestured to the young thing with the circle of his hand for him to carry on, for he was waiting patiently; patience could be a virtue of his if he chose it, but it was not often exercised unless it was something of great importance of both life and death. Of course, a small play of music in the garden on a festival hardly qualified, thus Jack’s son had limited opportunity to keep his attention.
Though when Jack’s son began to play his violin in earnest it melted the features of the demon. For a moment, like a snake he was hypnotized by the rhythm of the bow playing against the strings, and the lips of the youth who beckoned the music out of the inanimate object like a true magician of the art. Ethereal and illuminating to emotion.. Atlas’ golden eyes slinked shut so he might hear the truth behind the notes, not of the song but how this particular individual chose to portray it. And while it was no master orchestra that could beckon the soul to sleep out of his vessel, it had an eerie tug against his chest like that of a siren. Truly, beautiful, and powerful in its own way.
When the strings vibrated to their inevitable end, Atlas lingered before the youth with a stillness; his eyes would new bring the dawn to the garden with their light and fire. Instead he lingered in great contemplation. His eyes cresented ever so slightly as he tilted his head to the daring gaze of the youth as he looked to him. the cheerful question was met with a soft scoffed chuckle that was low and calm.
“Jackson, I find you worthy of my mercy this day and free to play in my garden.” He gestured out to the property and crowed gathered. Of course, it was not technically his property, but it might be perceived as such as the host he was.
He gestured to the young thing with the circle of his hand for him to carry on, for he was waiting patiently; patience could be a virtue of his if he chose it, but it was not often exercised unless it was something of great importance of both life and death. Of course, a small play of music in the garden on a festival hardly qualified, thus Jack’s son had limited opportunity to keep his attention.
Though when Jack’s son began to play his violin in earnest it melted the features of the demon. For a moment, like a snake he was hypnotized by the rhythm of the bow playing against the strings, and the lips of the youth who beckoned the music out of the inanimate object like a true magician of the art. Ethereal and illuminating to emotion.. Atlas’ golden eyes slinked shut so he might hear the truth behind the notes, not of the song but how this particular individual chose to portray it. And while it was no master orchestra that could beckon the soul to sleep out of his vessel, it had an eerie tug against his chest like that of a siren. Truly, beautiful, and powerful in its own way.
When the strings vibrated to their inevitable end, Atlas lingered before the youth with a stillness; his eyes would new bring the dawn to the garden with their light and fire. Instead he lingered in great contemplation. His eyes cresented ever so slightly as he tilted his head to the daring gaze of the youth as he looked to him. the cheerful question was met with a soft scoffed chuckle that was low and calm.
“Jackson, I find you worthy of my mercy this day and free to play in my garden.” He gestured out to the property and crowed gathered. Of course, it was not technically his property, but it might be perceived as such as the host he was.
Lysa had waited, her attention sharpening as it should as the music began. The sounds, the way he married his voice with the sounds drawn from the instrument, it stilled her. She had thoughts circling, the pondering of what he might be still there. It was solidifying into some story she had once heard, of a race that favored such instruments, but she couldn’t recall the name or more of the story. It had simply been too long since she was in Fairy, and had not encountered one like the youth playing before.
So, as the song drew to a close, she would glance about those who had wandered closer and smiled pleasantly, her croon added to Atlas’ comment, “It would seem you have a rapt audience, should you wish to continue.” She glanced at Atlas and then back to Jackson and gave another smile, “It has been delightful to meet you, and I must thank you for the beautiful demonstration of your skill. But if you gentlemen will excuse me, I am going to go snag the ear of someone I have been hoping to speak with. Enjoy the rest of the evening.”
With that, the blonde wouldn’t wait for more than about a minute, before she would slip off into the crowd.
//Lysa out.
//
So, as the song drew to a close, she would glance about those who had wandered closer and smiled pleasantly, her croon added to Atlas’ comment, “It would seem you have a rapt audience, should you wish to continue.” She glanced at Atlas and then back to Jackson and gave another smile, “It has been delightful to meet you, and I must thank you for the beautiful demonstration of your skill. But if you gentlemen will excuse me, I am going to go snag the ear of someone I have been hoping to speak with. Enjoy the rest of the evening.”
With that, the blonde wouldn’t wait for more than about a minute, before she would slip off into the crowd.
//Lysa out.
//
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