Music

"Peasse to you," Svarshan returns as the pair of sylvanori leave. He waits a space, for their footfalls to pass a while before turning back to Shizen. "And you as well. Many of the wordss were a ssurprise to. Me. I had not heard of the Grimsstalkers. Thesse are new words."

A flick of the tail. Thought. "Thiss ritual they proposse. You are a part of it?" he asks of her.

"It is news to me." Shizin seems increasingly embarassed now, ducking behind blue hair for a moment but keeping dawn-tinted eyes on the sith-makar. For a long moment the bard is silent, seeming to seek out words with care for them and finding it difficult. "But the danger is not." The reptilian pauses, then laughs. "Ssa. Then one ssupposes they will be glad of more. Performerss at the sseremony. What have you heard of the. Dangers?" he asks. He puts the slate he'd been holding thus far to the side. On it in chalk, are a number of symbols and writings. If words, symbols, could /look/ angry, or /feel/ angry, these do. Beside him is a cotton sack that smells of salt, faintly.

The dawn elf smiles eyes flickering toward the writings. "Have you not heard?" Shizin looks for someplace to sit, and finding one lowers onto it with care and grace. The dawn elf continues to look discomforted, every word said seeming to be drawn out as though talking is a difficult thing. Svarshan follows the look to the words. "One guardss," he says, voice low-pitched, and quietly wry. "One doess not possess the ssenses of the hunter, or the sshamans. And sso one askss them. Nor sshould thiss one assume, that hiss sstory iss the full one. Not if he iss to guard."

He looks down at the slate then, and takes out a waterskin. Twists off the lid. "If I may." Shizin motions toward the slates and tilts the head to the side questioningly. Without a word the bard questions the slate writings, and then with a light flush growing on either cheek that turns the tattoos on either temple an interesting shade of purple Shizin speaks again. "What do you write?"

"Words," Svarshan says wryly. "One huntss demons for the. Dragonfather, keeper. Thosse are demon words," he says. And as he does, the slate feels...somewhat slimy. Sour. The sith-makar lifts the lid, and hands the sildanyari the waterskin. He shakes it as he does, and indicates the slate. "You will not want to. Sstare at it very long."

For a long moment Shizin looks not at the words but the waterskin, accepting it with delicate fingers. The slight redness on the pale skin of those fingers suggest that Shizin has been twisting hands back and forth nervously beneath the robes. A slight mue of concer slips over the dawn elf's face before pouring the water carefully so as to not splash over the slate. Lavender eyes lift to Svarshan. "Such dangerous work. It calls to you?" Those same eyes lower again quickly.

"It iss the Dragonfather'ss will. But perhapss...perhapss all warrior-casste are called to it at one time. Or another. We /protect/," he says, the words firming. The air then, takes on a different tone. A blanket of safety, of strength. He doesn't comment on the twisting and gripping. Aye, he may glance that way, but he says not a word. It is, perhaps, a deliberate choice--personal or cultural?

Once the words are gone entirely Shizin offers the waterskin back to Svarshan, smiling just a little at the now-clean slates. Then with a soft sigh that sounds pleased the dawn elf looks up. It seems like the aura of strength affects Shizin greatly, allowing the elf to sit up straight and relax for perhaps the first time since their meeting. Enough so that Shizin again meets Svarshan's eyes. "If you feel the will; it calls to you." The elf lets long fingers rub over the soft material covering knees. "You protect, as I make music." "Ssa," the reptilian replies, warmly. He drops his chin into his palm. "Mussic. And what would you do with thiss mussic?" he asks him. "One heard a troupe in the. Garden the other day. They ssung and. Danssed with--" he fights for the words, and eventually settles. Wraggles his claws over his head in a way that might be a pair of wings.

"Would thiss be. You?" he asks. The look is a look of curious, if kind amusement--or at least, a decent approximation. Scales aren't known for their expression. Not usually.

Shizin laughs the sound light and warm and musical, shaking long blue hair back and forth before finally pulling out a harp. "I play old songs." The bard sends delicate fingers over the strings, handling the harp like something precious and fragile. The harp itself is clearly a piece of masterwork. Something built to last, but beautiful in its creation. The sound that Shizin makes is a beautiful one, but there's something dangerous lurking in the tune, a subtle menace. "And some of my own." There's a gentle tap from a metal ring that Shizin wears and it builds a rhythm on the wood of the harp.

In the space of a few seconds Shizin builds a song. A song of subtle menace and the wilds. It suggests without words the concepts of a tainted wilderness. The sound of streams broken, tainted by thrills along the lines of their bubbling. A base line of harsh taps. It builds and then there is at the end a note of victory... for one side or the other it is impossible to tell before the impromptu song fades away into nothingness. It lasts only a little bit, but something of the music lingers in the air.

The inner lids flicker. Svarshan then leans back, his expression relaxed as Shizen plays. He blows smoke into the air--no cigar. Just a trait of the People.

-End-