The 23rd of Glade, 121
Late evening, Karling Inn
Arkash was unrefined. It was something that Johana's ears perked at. In all her life, those that sang, were usually trained to do so. The suitors who lingered in the chambers of her familial estate bore the training afforded to the likes of bards. They weren't the kind that simply decided to sing as though there wasn't anyone watching. For in the end, a single misstep in the eyes of Court could ruin one's whole reputation. The eligibility for marriage drops, the moment that that the illusion of grandeur is dropped. A game of peacocking which knew no end. And yet, in Johana's mind, there was something different here. Something raw. The dead flavors of talent and practice were replaced with something primal. It was like sinking teeth into raw meat after eating a lifetime of sweets.
Though the fingers did not pause, though Johana's heart did not hang upon every word that left Arkash's lips, there was a flicker of something behind her amber eyes. She leaned to the side, as the hand approached. The movement was little more than a roll of the shoulder, in truth. However, what Arkash would immediately notice, would be the sheer fact that it was not only a movement that allowed his close approach, but seemed... Baroque. Johana's head leaned back, the thigh-level hair swept back against the man. The narrow expanse of her shoulder was readily available. If there was a artist among the crowd, this would be a moment that would have inspired a particularly touching composition. It was a pose Johana had learned from a play she was forced to watch.
"A nameless man from a faraway land,"
"Beckoned to come hither into the night,"
"With not even the morning light in sight,"
"Offered with outstretched hand,"
"He whispered of a past most dark."
"He, the slipper of chains,"
"The bird which flew from its cage,"
"The grand escape upon the stage,"
"Freedom pumped through his veins,"
"Whose very being was a spark."
"A man not in name, but in legend,"
"Whispered beneath bated breath,"
"He who dodged untimely death,"
"He who should not be reckoned,"
"Shall stain history with ink so stark."
"Beckoned to come hither into the night,"
"With not even the morning light in sight,"
"Offered with outstretched hand,"
"He whispered of a past most dark."
"He, the slipper of chains,"
"The bird which flew from its cage,"
"The grand escape upon the stage,"
"Freedom pumped through his veins,"
"Whose very being was a spark."
"A man not in name, but in legend,"
"Whispered beneath bated breath,"
"He who dodged untimely death,"
"He who should not be reckoned,"
"Shall stain history with ink so stark."
Here. It was here. The muses were alight within Johana's fingers. Guided by the unseen, the unaffable, the undeniable, the sound began to take shape. What she felt was new. It was thrilling, terrifying, perhaps stunning, though the music which called forth from the strings were still as flawed as ever, there was something there now. No longer was the melody merely correct with flaws, it had feeling, something that could not be replicated, no matter how many books and talent one was given. Chords were dashed with ease, from the depths of Johana's instincts. A musical instructor would have slapped away her hands, it had fallen too far from the script, too far into waters unknown for someone as inexperienced for Johana to handle. And yet, it happened regardless.
Johana's eyes closed. Goosebumps formed on the back of her neck. The hand upon her shoulder could almost feel the tremble that the harpist had experienced. It was the epiphany that many sought from the drugs offered at salons, among the artists. The moment fleeted, burned upon the very air itself. This would pass, crumpled up and withered, forgotten as far as the world was concerned, but in this moment, there were only two things that Johana even considered being worth attention: the melody, and Arkash. No longer was Johana the muse, the object sung after in song, for she had found her own. A reason to strum. A reason to splay those fingers forth, gripped around delicate strings, plucked only in time with heartbeat.
Her neck leaned to the side. Pressed against Arkash's skin, head tilted back just a mere inch. An invitation, as he stood in front of the window of the cold world outside.
"Long may he evade the firing squads,"
"Crush the fangs which catch his flesh,"
"Against dark fate does he thresh,"
"And with such divine odds,"
"He will live to see yet another morn,"
"The Patron of lovers and scoundrels,"
"Beneath warm breath he blesses,"
"A firm hand along a Lord's tresses,"
"A name who is a curse to all councils,"
"No oath other than his own, sworn."
"Crush the fangs which catch his flesh,"
"Against dark fate does he thresh,"
"And with such divine odds,"
"He will live to see yet another morn,"
"The Patron of lovers and scoundrels,"
"Beneath warm breath he blesses,"
"A firm hand along a Lord's tresses,"
"A name who is a curse to all councils,"
"No oath other than his own, sworn."
Arkash could feel the warm flesh spike in heat. Though the human did not blush, not yet, he could quite clearly feel against the pale skin that he was doing something right. Antithesis to what the song had implied, however, it was not his prowess, not yet. In truth, Johana had entirely been ruined from birth to understand such things. The context of genuine sensation had been lost from the upbringing of her noble lineage. The impotent screams of a dying bloodline of minor nobles, barely even an estate to their names, imprinted upon Johana's very being. It was ink that dripped upon stagnant water, or perhaps a river that finally carved into it, allowing in just a taste of something fresh. Why here? Why now? After all this time?
"But his efforts were in vain this night,"
"There was no lass to swoon,"
"Obscurity beneath a new moon,"
"Something which does not match sight,"
"His hunger was misplaced."
"There was no lass to swoon,"
"Obscurity beneath a new moon,"
"Something which does not match sight,"
"His hunger was misplaced."
As Johana sang in a soft tone, a reality set in to her mind that hadn't been considered until right this moment. Indeed, there was something to be concerned of. The fears slipped from her father having found out of this late evening dalliance, and were instead pressed upon something more immediate. A nigh-audible swallow. Something that could not be directly said in public. Johana's patriarch had insecurities she did not share. But, if such an insecurity was played upon, the ire would shift from Arkash to herself. Something she had evaded until this point, but the man's pride was too great to have smashed right this moment. He had accidentally raised her one way, and he was insistent upon this being something that would remain as such, out of arrogance.
