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A Night in Karnstein
Posted: Wed Mar 17, 2021 9:16 pm
by Johana
EARLY NIGHT
THE SILVER CANARY, Karnstein
It was the small hours of the night. The sun had long since receded, and the crowds had all but been lulled into their homes. Lorien was a cold place, and Karnstein was decidedly rural. There was little reason to be out at this hour, where not even the heat of the sun touched skin. The night seemed darker, with not even the streetwalkers of the cities present. Each shadow deeper, each flame brighter, it had become a world of contrasts within mere hours. Such was the life of those that lived here.
There were no fields to sow this night. No hay to pile into bales. The caravans were slated to leave during the early morning, the distant promise of agriculture the only such boon that this place offered. A pulse of sorts, where one might not expect it, resounded from one establishment. A distant, soft sort of sound. Along the cobblestone streets, there were few shops and public venues that burned lantern light at this hour, yet only one or two had their first floors burn with such a light. Within one, lay the origin of the strange sound.
A sleepy melody filled the air. It was the strumming of light, yet full bodied strings. Slow in tempo, it was at home with the crackles which softly churned within the hearth. The Silver Canary was wrought of hardwood, paneled and planked, nailed tightly together. The floors were clean, and there were plenty of lanterns this night. Not a single soul was in sight, as the slum strum of chords meandered forth. The barman behind the finely sanded counter had long since nodded off at his post, hands folded at his chest as he sat.
Leaned back upon a chair of wood, upholstered with only a cushion of wool, a long-haired figure sat before the hearth. Pale fingers softly gripped the neck of the stringed instrument, made of wood almost as blanche as the flesh its wielder. Orange light danced from this side of the room, its warmth still radiated out. There was no sense in keeping a place like this open at such an hour, and yet here it was: warmed and welcoming as though it were the middle of the day. The common room only shared by two.
Johana's teal eyes were kept at a half lid. Darkly hued gloves, which traveled up to her bicep, protected her fingers from the endurance run her performance had become. Her heeled riding boots had come unlaced as a matter of comfort, and the corset beneath her finely brocaded dress had been loosened. Her hair, which now fell down to the small of her back, had long since came free of the braid it was kept within. It was not by the hands of a man, however. No one had succeeded at their attempts at wooing Johana today.
Instead, that wearied attention had been focused upon the sounds which softly pressed upon the air itself. Fingers slowly strummed, pressed, and allowed the notes to halt. Johana had found a tune, one that inspired something very peculiar. It was a strange, phantom sensation of tiredness. Something she had only heard during the oft forgot minutes in the dark, or during the softest of winters. It was nostalgia. Yet, it was not aimed towards any one thing that truly existed: it was for a time that, indeed, had never.
There was no need for lyrics. At least, that was what Johana had told herself. The energy from which such a thing could be derived simply wasn't present. There wouldn't be anything that could be came up with at this hour, let alone anything good. She knew when to hedge her bets and simply allow the creative juices to flow rather than be too experimental. It had been hours since she had last stopped playing. Her teacher had long since packed his bags. The messenger from her father had long since been told to leave several times over. Time had flew.
A soft breath had escaped Johana's lips. A slow flutter of the eyes. A careful lean back into the chair in which she sat. Though her fingers moved, she could begin to feel the strain ease from her body. The melody which filled the air with this strange, distant nostalgia was enough to allow Johana's mind some freedom in its wandering. The sensation was there, but what was it that she felt nostalgic for? If things had gone different, what would be changed, as the sands of time slipped through her fingertips and onto the floor, never to be scavenged again?
A small home. A small family. A quiet life upon somewhere cold, where a warm fireplace was always near. Where the vignette of one's eyes were always tinted a warm sepia. Expectations, none.
Yet, it was not enough to bring a smile to Johana's lips. If there were lyrics to such a song, would it help the visualization? The concept of the feeling was present, those were indeed the images that had made their home within her mind, and yet, that was not enough to spark the muse within to do anything than what it already did. The dull comfort was a sensation that proved to be a double edged sword. In its simplicity, one could simply imagine what they wanted. What then, would it serve to someone who was raised to think only of what others wished?
Paramours had to be rejected, for the noble line forbade it. Johana could not sleep in this tavern's common room, propriety forbade it. It was only in this hour that she could do whatever she wished, alone, surrounded by the distant souls which slept in buildings of their own. There would be no whispers of Johana's actions, outside of her insistence on playing this instrument for so long. Perhaps it would only fuel the suitors and their desires for a match, intrigue and mystique like firewood to a flame. Her father's decision overriding her own choice.
Her eyes pressed closed for a moment. A soft breath escaped her lips, index finger stretched and pressed, formed a new chord. The song was slowly being changed. With the mood grasped between fingertips, it was being explored. Just how many times could the feeling arise from these notes, until it comes from something completely unrecognizable? The musical grounds in which Johana tread were by no means experimental, but they were perhaps one of the only means of feeling anything genuine.
Re: A Night in Karnstein
Posted: Wed Mar 17, 2021 11:15 pm
by Levy Roriksuhn
In the world of Atharen Levy was just a grifter running from his responsibilities out in the badlands. It was a barren and desolate shitscape, literally nothing but an endless traverse of junk and sand with the occasional tumble weed as far as the eye could see. And yet despite how harsh it was, he missed the comfort of the place he’d grown accustomed to call home.
Somehow the melodious sound reassured him that this was not home, it distracted the wryly coyote from business.
Levy had followed the caravan for a spell. All in a vain attempt to follow up on a lead that inevitably went nowhere. It was an act of pure desperation to follow it up this far, as he’d refused to head back empty handed. He needed to find a solid connection for his illicit dealings in the badlands. Levy knew he couldn’t be a merchant without inventory, and unfortunately that was the one thing he didn’t have.
The sound of chords drew him from the outside, as he parted ways from the caravan with an expectation to follow it back from whence he came in the morning.
The sound was delicate yet both intricate and simple. He had an appreciation for the music even if its lulls did make his eyes heavy. But he quickly perked up when he realized the bartender had fallen asleep at his post.
Part of him was tempted to try his hand at stealing a bottle, and while he was by no means a thief. That should have been an easy job, as his mind began cranking out a game plan before he came to his senses and rejected it for a different scheme.
There were other distractions that had caught his attention, a cute bard that was keeping the music going and rocking her own cloths off in the process. Naturally he’d wait it out because she was doing all the work for him after-all. But his reasoning was it would be rude to interrupt a woman while she was playing with herself. He got it, she was busy strumming her chords looking for the right note to curl her toes and make her night.
In the meantime he’d politely get the barkeeps attention, just a gentle tap on the shoulder with a keen wolffish smile as he kept himself quiet as not to interrupt the performance.
Signaling to the bartender that he wanted to do a shot with him, he made a silly little show of it as he worked up the nerve to take that shot of vodka with him as he artfully poured a bottles contents without spilling a drop. It was fun as the rim of the shot glass braced itself against his lips and the bartender was smiling with a bit of a chortle as they leaned them back and taped the glass on the bar counter. The barkeep was having such a good time he offered another one on the house, but Levy rejected the offer putting coins on the table and opting for three shots this time he wanted to include the only other occupant in the room waving this intriguing mystery over.
“Hey you’ve been playing that thing all night, how bout you come over and play with us? Might as well come get your shift drink, it’s on me.”
His idea was to be a source of fun, his reasoning is girls that go to bars are looking for the same thing he was. A fun time out with a happy ending, so his focus was a positive and inclusive vibe as he’d come to the realization if he’d done nothing she may have just nodded off.
Re: A Night in Karnstein
Posted: Thu Mar 18, 2021 1:18 am
by Johana
EARLY NIGHT
THE SILVER CANARY, Karnstein
Even as Levy walked in, there was no attempt at waking the barkeep. As far as Johana was concerned, even if the world had decided to burn down overnight, it could wait just a moment longer until she found something closer to what she had sought. That strange twinge that had seemed to all but bud within her chest; not quite longing, yet it was most definitely something that could not exist without some inkling of something missed, something that came before. Fingertips kept pressed upon the neck of the instrument's pale headboard, notes carefully plucked.
It was the actual attempt at talking, which made her ears perk. A slow flutter of the lids, a shift of silky thigh length hair. Johana's attention slowly shifted to the side, with a slow lean of the head soon to follow. There was a brief pause. While Johana wasn't the most perceptive, far too lost in her own head to pay attention to the world around her, it was still slightly surprising to see someone around at this hour.
From the light at the hearth, her face could be better seen. It was a face that quite obviously bore little in the way of hard labor. Clean, clear, and free of quite a few telltale markings of the working classes. With pale, yet plush lips, she seemed quite well off, all things considered. Even the brocade in which her dress was wreathed in, though it was used in accents rather than being of whole cloth, spoke to such volumes. It was something that her father had insisted she wear if she were to be seen outside: it was important for the sake of posterity and propriety.
"Mmmhf?" The bartender grunted, his eyes fluttered, though the one with the long scar across it lagged behind, "Don't disturb the guest."
The words that left the stout man's lips were that of a bassy baritone. His skin was swarthy, his mood morose, and his posture ramrod straight. One had to be strong to run an establishment that presumed to be open at this time of night, though his behavior seemed to imply that this wasn't a common enough occurrence. Regardless, he seemed willing enough to oblige the request. As he rose to a stand, a stature which barely scraped at five foot two, his joints popped. Just by his face alone, one could easily tell he was a man in his late forties, or early fifties.
"Come now Twain, his efforts naught vain, a drink for the road?" Johana's voice was as delicate as glass, soft to the ears, though the melody was simple, paired with a strum, "The air is cold, no need to scold, no need to goad."
"Do you gotta rhyme, M'lady?" Twain grunted as he pinched the bridge of his nose, "Awful easier to just speak normal talk."
Twain was used to Johana's shenanigans by now. It was more than a mere occasion that she would pretend to be 'bewitched to speak only in rhyme', often as an attempt to scare off any would be suitor with no lyrical talent. But this place in specific? She had played that trick one or two many times. The bartenders had long caught on, though they knew better than to hint as such to those that tried to woo the noblewoman. It was free entertainment, and it wasn't the smartest move to piss off her father while in Karnstein, limited as his reach may have been.
Johana slowly strummed the instrument as she sighed. It wasn't long at all before she rose to a stand, soon followed by a stretch of the legs. If there was one thing that could be said about her, it would be her dedication to her craft. There were few that were willing to sit in public and practice until their fingers bleed, to such an extent in which they find new ways to circumvent such an unsightly outcome. But, here she stood, first time in what felt like hours, as she slowly began to walk towards the two at the bar.
Even without the corset's tight pull, it would become evident on how pressed in her waist was at the sides. Johana's movements weren't necessarily fluid, but carried the mild grace of an amateur dancer. Limber enough to be noticeable in movement, but not quite enough to impress. Wide hips and thighs pressed against the fabric, providing shape to a silhouette that it likely had to be altered to accommodate. Narrow shoulders provided a pleasing bell-shape to the body, though, perhaps disappointingly, the bust, if it could even be called that, was left entirely concealed by lace.
"I do not see the harm in being disturbed. My lesson was... Midday, was it not?" Johana let out a distant chuckle at that notion, as she tucked her stringed instrument beneath her arm and found a seat next to Levy, "And must you call me 'M'lady' in front of everyone? It gives it away."
"You know what'd happen if I didn't." Came the gruff reply, with a greyed brow raised.
A click left the side of Johana's lip, "Point taken."
Though Johana was happy to live in anonymity, her father was aghast by the idea. The commoners knew to tense around him. They also knew not to indulge her insistence on familiarity, otherwise bad habits would form. Habits that, invariably, would be punished if caught at the wrong place at the wrong time. Edmund, the von Fairwyne patriarch, was a noted narcissist.
Slowly, those heavy lashed eyes glanced over to Levy, the instrument slowly slid to the side of the chair, leaned against the counter's wall. A brief consideration. Johana was fairly certain she had never seen this man before. Yet, to call him a foreigner would be a bit too far, there were an unending slew of humans in Lorien, and there wasn't enough time to meet them all. So, rather than the assumption of distrust and being an outsider, Johana decided on a far more amicable approach: it was easier to be nice than to just be suspicious right off the bat. There was no reason to.
"Well, if you insist, good man. I don't find the need to decline." Came those soft spoken words, left like a hint of honey between those lips as she let out a breath and leaned against the bar slightly, "And what brings you here, at this time of night?"
Re: A Night in Karnstein
Posted: Sat Mar 20, 2021 7:13 am
by Levy Roriksuhn
Levy was the kind of guy that didn’t necessarily lie, but went to great lengths to keep facts about himself of a dubious nature discreet. Like there were things you just couldn’t unzip and wave vulgarly around the room, it might be fun in the moment true but you’d most likely regret it in the morning. Had to tip toe cautiously in these cat and mouse games when the bartender blurted out ~m’lady, which made him realize he was no longer home in the lawless imperial bad lands.
She was right about him being a foreigner but the only thing dirty about that was his policy on foreign affairs. He was standing a mediocre 5’9 but what made him stand out was his broad shoulders that sat atop a real strong frame by the looks of it he came off like he was an oafish brute but he was more of a talker then fighter. His coat concealed the bulge of his firearm his only real insurance policy for silver tongued devils like himself.
A scoundrel that only knew how to play one sided relationships that were doomed from the start. Doubling down on substance abuse and issues with alcohol, no job was dirt poor broke and dealt drugs from a shack while living a nefarious lifestyle with the chariot riders of the dunes that screamed fast track to some dark gloomy dungeon. Only thing he was missing was a few tats to pretty him up a bit and hed be utterly irresistible to the opposite sex.
On one hand this lyrical enchantress was filthy rich a fabled retirement plan. On the other he’d be swaying in the breeze dangling from a tree if he got caught breaking some m’lords lovely daughter in on this here bar top. Levy was a renaissance man, a firm rock hard believer in if there is a will there was a way.
Levy was quickly assessing the danger as he scrutinized the object of his desire while evaluating its worth. Sometimes you couldnt put a number value on some works of art because they were priceless and a woman of unlimited curves with wealth to match half out of her cloths well it certainly caught his attention.
And this Johana was a masterpiece he needed to paint with several strokes of his brush.
Or was she the cheese on some elaborate trap?
Soft delicately spoken words snapped him out of his daydream as they floated in the air like audible candy, asking him what he was doing so late in the evening.
”I’m just studying a broad” he said casually with a smug shit eating grin as he was telling her upfront he was checking her out before shifting the topic ”so what’s a noble doing out this late? What would the neighbors say if they caught you with some peasant’y pissant like myself?” Levy didn’t belong In a world of titles he was a self proclaimed bad boy living the outlaw dream with a gun in his hand and a gleam in his eye hustling his way to the top.
Re: A Night in Karnstein
Posted: Sat Mar 20, 2021 8:55 pm
by Johana
EARLY NIGHT
THE SILVER CANARY, Karnstein
Perhaps there was a world in which Johana had taken her father's advice seriously. Where these long nights of song and strums were replaced by dark evenings in the hazy candlelight of an inn's back rooms. Where there were schemes and plots in place of aloof, disinterested games. Perhaps the local Lords could be wrapped around her finger, if she truly tried to dedicate herself to mortalkind's oldest form of deception and subterfuge. The prospect of marrying up was easy, when one knew how to play the game of hearts: a shame she found nobles boring.
"And what would they speak,"
"What answers do they seek,"
"To a prize nary won?"
"For what could they ask,"
"In hopes of an unmask?"
Slim fingers slowly strummed the instrument as she leaned back against the counter. Johana's eyes half lid as she took on a trained tone of voice, raised a few octaves, and eased into something that was closer to something which fitted a basic melodious tune. Her deep blues settled upon Levy, dark locks of hair slid forth like inky tendrils of a squid, spilled out from over her shoulders and onto her lap. Her thick, supply lips softly parted as the tune was found, offhand pressed into the neck of the instrument, a new chord found, a mood began to set in stone.
"Indeed they jabber,"
"The rabble does blabber,"
"About a tale since spun."
"What comes of my nights,"
"Naught ends in fights,"
"Against my strings,"
"A trail of rejected rings,"
"Their talk still not done."
"So what then of the talk,"
"And what's written in chalk?"
There was an indeed a trail of rejected suitors. Stuffy nobleman with pockets lined with coin, bereft of any sort of personality that Johana found interesting. The locals spoke hushed words about the local Lord's daughter, who all but seemed to completely be uninterested in such refined matters. Strange were the words that were exchanged, a kind of look that even the bartender behind the counter had, towards the lady's choice in hobby. It wasn't even the choice of instruments, but instead the absolute dedication to it, how many nights had been spent strumming tune after tune.
Johana let out a breath. The words themselves weren't hard to sing, but the rhyming scheme was quite long. It was a new attempt at something a bit more extensive. Something that relied on the spoken word far more than the instrument that lay beneath. It wasn't something that she preferred, but it was enough fun to keep going regardless. As she set her shoulders back, nimble fingers against the firm wooden structure of the instrument itself. Even with the slight bulk of the gloves that she wore, it was obvious that her fingers were slim, and bore quite the speed to them in this task.
"And yet here you are,"
"With no name so far,"
"Should thine exploits be known?"
"An infamous highwayman?"
"A mage of great lifespan?"
"You speak of me as a Lady,"
"But what of thee,"
"Who speaks of scandal alone?"
"Surely a sailor from distant shores,"
"Or a soldier from violent wars?"
"He who too walks the night,"
"Far from common sight,"
"Should you not as well be known?"
"Perhaps a powerful mystic,"
"Surely nothing simplistic?"
The words soon found their way out from Johana's lips with ease. As her eyes slowly closed, the tempo eased. At first, the words came out fast, almost as though they sought to trip up Levy, get him to stick to one identity or the other, much like an overly enthused fan, before it eased into an almost jovial, satirical sort of tone. While not mocking, the extremes in which Johana mused about Levy's existence was clear upon the air. He had introduced himself as a mere peasant, but there was almost an invitation present, to become something else entirely, if only for as long as the night reigned.
"From a distant land comes he,"
"Who claims only to study,"
"His mind pressed to whetstone."
"What arcane knowledge does he seek,"
"Among the libraries of the meek?"
And suddenly, the tune stopped at a single strum of the fingers. Just as suddenly as the song had began, it had ended. Johana's fingertips slowly stretched as she let out a soft breath. A break was necessary at this point. The lyrics were enough to take energy, and without a muse which drove forth energy from nothing, there was no way of going further than what had already been gone. The fact that this far had been accomplished was a miracle enough, as far as Johana was concerned. It wasn't long before the instrument was brought to rest against the side of the counter, near her feet.
Her eyes slowly fluttered open as she let her limbs rest. Though the day had been long, there was only the matter if being strenuous on the arms. She rolled her arms, just slightly, to allow them some form of rest as the air filled with silence once more. Soon after, the drinks would arrive, slid forth by the bartender as Johana's gaze glance about, just for a moment longer. She was content, for the moment, to enjoy an almost feline sense of detachment, before a slow glance was cast back at Levy.
"Though, I know better than to drink at this hour." She chuckled, heavy lashes formed into a wink, "Perhaps you should drink for the two of us?"
It was the tone in which it was delivered that seemed to deviate from the song. Though still soft, there was nothing there that seemed to imply that same singsong quality of voice. Instead, her sound had returned to its natural, rested state as she leaned against the counter, bathed in the dim light of the tavern's comforting flickers. She was comfortable here. That much was certain, more than likely some kind of regular, and that much was obvious just by the way she conducted herself here, even so late into the night.