| Step on a Beat; Prp: Sulla | |
|---|---|
| Tweet Topic Started: Jul 12 2013, 01:42 PM (87 Views) | |
| Vianne | Jul 12 2013, 01:42 PM Post #1 |
![]()
Newborn
|
The woman has a knack for finding the things she wants. Sitting in the back corner at the library, her head stays buried in a sheet music booklet for the violin. Oh, this one has some killer tunes. Wouldn't Caden love to hear a few of these? When she thinks nobody's watching, the musician tears out a few songs, folds them nice and crisp, before stuffing the little squares into a pocket. Flipping back through, she stumbles across The Music of the Night from The Phantom of the Opera. That one definitely goes into the pocket, and feeling nostalgic, she rises to find a computer to do a little digging. Donning head phones, courtesy of the library, and the mouse, she finds the scene she longs to listen to. One link leads to another, and within an hour's time, Vianne finds herself emerged in a wealth of good, powerful music. Hands fold to rest in a fist up under her chin as she watches bows draw, string quartets, full orchestras, and finally, a few opera scenes. Music is beautiful, soothing and clear in an otherwise chaotic world. There had been a time, long ago, when the woman might have once given everything, to hear sounds sweet as these come from her own violin for a crowd of expectant faces. Maybe she could have stood before a backdrop of pale blue lights, dressed in a pretty gown, with pleasantly applauding hands echoing all around. Vianne can only click the next link. Various opera and orchestra pieces, of a higher musical caliber than Vianne's ever been party to, drift softly through the headpiece. Listening, the woman is as content as she'll ever be, browsing through links and listening in full to all the videos her cursor skirts across. Something curious soon finds its way beneath that little black arrow. Brows furrowing, she clicks the name included in the video link. Sulla? Now isn't that funny to find an opera singer, with the same name as- It's him. Mouth agape, the woman stares at the little figure on the screen, belting out strong, beautiful notes. She cannot understand the language, but the musician knows the boy that sings. Having stumbled onto a block of pure gold in a mine full of coal, she flies through the search engine. Article after article, famous names surface. She clicks print for what must be a dozen times. The voice is sheer brilliant, even with the sad sound quality of the old headphone set. Imagine, hearing that voice in person! Bless her lucky stars, someone in Blackwater has the voice of an angel, and will appreciate music as a fellow musician. How could no one know?! Flying off her seat, she collects those documents without laying down the few coins it would take to pay for the paper cost. No one pays the regular visitor any mind, as usual, in this tiny community library. Speeding down the backroads with a fistful of papers, she comes barreling home. Imagine her luck, Giles is here with Billy. Sulla will be here as well! Excited, she takes little time in swinging by her room to grab her bow and violin by the neck. Wheeling after a scent, she finds the boy in the living room. A hand shoves the papers at him and a giddy face smiles. Wild hair everywhere, she might as well be some crazy fangirl of his glory days singing across the globe. "Look at these!" She's too excited to stand still, and bounces on her toes. No one else would appreciate her fiddling like a true-blue famous opera singer. He cannot lie to her now; the proof was in that handful of printed articles and old newspaper excerpts. "How come you never told me! Man, we coulda been playing for years now!" Shuffling up closer, Vianne plops herself down on the couch and readies her bow. "C'mon, c'mon, we gotta find us a piece." Give her a song! Bow pointing from herself, to Sulla, she states, "I'll play, you sing." Having stepped on a beat, this musical notion has grabbed her by the ankle, and it ain't letting go. Someone else knows what good music is, and Vianne is near beside herself, thrilled, and ready to play alongside a famous opera singer. |
![]() |
|
| Sulla | Jul 16 2013, 12:54 AM Post #2 |
|
Newborn
|
They have been gifted with the beauty of air conditioning yet do not allow its use. It is a million dollar question he cannot figure out. Money? Billy has Giles around her fingers, and as uncomfortable as that makes him, it also means days he spends in the cabin, the many yet few he spends in the wolves’ den, should not be spent blistering in his own sweat. Summer days are even uncomfortable to him and pain is beyond him. How the three rednecks stand to even remotely live in this house is beyond them though they’re stripped down to their bras. Sweat trickles off his face though he has never been much of a man to sweat. Heat and cold tend not to get to him for once they hit the point of being painful he goes numb. Telling the difference between temperatures to the finest degree has been always near impossible but any man knows hot. The boy has always been prone to not dress suit and tailored, but fine. Sulla could survive if the money was nonexistent but if Giles is going to be buying the buck tooth lass cars he deserves fine clothing. Equipped with the old, broken in leather wallet the teenager in the beginning of the cult had went and bought himself something nice. Today is too hot for nice jeans and hoodies; today he is adorned in Nike: athletic black shorts with a white strip down the side with a blue, graphic running shirt. He had not been locked up in this hellhole all day. Giles has never been an early riser with alcohol torn through his system but Malphas kept him up all night. At the crack at dawn, sleeplessly exhausted Giles had awoken him from his slumber. The witch surprisingly is a physical fitness freak. Determined to keep himself lifting cars and Sulla in well shape; the men had run around the old city until Giles was drenched in sweat like a hog. The inability to feel pain cut a well to do athlete. Boundaries are hard to follow when you cannot feel them. Cabins might seem cozy but this is too tight for his liking. It is buzzing with life. He is yet to be antisocial but introverted enough where he needs five minutes each day to breathe alone. It thrives with activity, leaving the healer without a place to concentrate. He cannot even hear his own thoughts between Sabra’s growls, Billy’s hollering and Vianne’s jingles. More prone to be outside yes, but that does not diminish he is hear with a job. The adviser of the cult (could it even be called that yet with only two men?) is supposed to be Giles eyes and ears. He listen more than anyone guesses he does. He catches things like a filter does impurities; little things that should be left unnoticed are processed and filed neatly away. As innocent as he may seem, as little trouble as it seems he does not cause, he will always be the vessel’s boy. Malphas’ men might be confidants of Blackwater, but they are thinly so. Devil and men know only how to watch for their own hides. Vianne is an interesting character. Out of the hard, rough lines of Sabra and the questionable, wobbly lines of Billy, Vianne is a happy middle. The happy-go-lucky girl is a bit of sanity. She is kind enough to him, even initiating conversation with him. Out of the questionable characters this cabin has come to hold she is unbelievably unquestionable. There is a naïve innocence there that makes him wary but welcomes him with open arms. He has yet to call her a true friend but nevertheless she is an acquaintance. Not even a note is taken as wheels grind through gravel, far too light to be the familiar ford. He does not even note her, barely haven taken his seat on the couch as she is coming inside. She goes to her room first, unnoticed until she comes at him like the roadrunner. Feet run through the air as she holds her violin by the throat. Papers are clutched and suddenly, quite literally they are in his face. Time is not given to respond as he tries to see what just the articles hold. He can’t read any of the writing but he knows what it is. Laconic as ever, his breath catches. It is the most emotion he as ever shown, the slight pause of his breath as suddenly he ceases to breathe. ”Look at these!” She demands in excitement but he is thinking I would rather not. A past he has spent a good year running from has come to smack him straight in the face. So it is true, a man can never truly outrun the ghosts of his past. "How come you never told me! Man, we coulda been playing for years now!" She speaks as if she does not know the damage. He cannot tell what articles she printed but there had to be at least one of the tragedy: a family found dead and fourteen believed killed. The world mourned the loss of an edging brilliance while the light of a prodigy died down to the ambers of a family home. Heat edges across his cheek unlike the clamminess around them. Heat that haunts him in his dream clutches at his heart in these few moments. Before he can protest, wits at hand, she sits down next to him on the couch. A fiddle at hand, a familiar instrument he remembers thrumming softly in the background with his voice in days of riches rests easily on her shoulder. "C'mon, c'mon, we gotta find us a piece." She points to herself unseen by the boy, "I'll play, and then him, “you sing.” Flabbergasted but not for long, Sulla knows he needs a response quick. Memories thrash their way into his head of spotlight and training. Before he is swallowed by them like Jonah and the whale, he steadies his voice to respond firmly. ”No.” Emotion fails to peak its head in his words. It is all a rush and it happens so quickly, quicker than a man should be allowed to think. Nothing falls from him giving any hints. The boy shoots up before He attempts to lock eyes with her but falls short, staring in the general direction he had felt her sit down. There is silence that echoes between them as he looks at her. The stare should speak thousands, tell her something is wrong, that she has gone too far but those words are best left unspoken. The stare is as emotionless as he always is, and the face falls with a lack of it, only a straight line. He is impossible to read but his actions, chosen, whisper he will not do what her heart desires. ”I do not sing,” he begins. He feels it is best to leave out the part where he demands where she found them. It is not that hard to google a name and he curses himself for not going by the alias on his fake social security card; even the supernaturals were not creatures he would like sniffing around his past. ”Not anymore.” It was wise to add that on. He sang at some point in his life, a life that is no longer but he does not want the woman coming at him that she has proof he does. ”I apologize,” he finally says after taking a few seconds of silence with a straight face. He is not sorry he does not sings, simply sorry to let down her hopes. Vianne’s dreams are a hard one to crush, as minor or major as they may be. (cannot make response at 1:30 nope) |
![]() |
|
| Vianne | Jul 28 2013, 10:46 AM Post #3 |
![]()
Newborn
|
The wheels on her happy train come grinding to a halt at the sound of a single word. Devoid of emotion, that abrupt refusal stalls her in her tracks. The violin slowly lowers from it's recently found perch below her chin, only so eyes can better stare at the boy. Has she heard him right? Sulla's own gaze stares over her shoulder, but the two of them might as well be locked looking directly at one another. Tension conveys meaning well enough, though Vianne cannot comprehend why. The dark void of emotion in his eye leaves no room for negotiation. He does not sing. But how can he not? The musician had meant well, despite this bombardment of papers and the overwhelming enthusiasm of an excited Vianne. Is it a crime to be this eager to play a duet with someone who surely must have an equal appreciation for music? She's not sure where she's gone wrong. In her mad dash home, she scarcely even skimmed the articles. How could he let her down like this? It's harshly disappointing and terribly confusing. Sulla has always been an enigma of a fellow, the still harbor to Giles' raging hurricane. She's never known him to be a man given to bouts of emotion of any sort, and he gives no indication now concerning the thoughts that must be swirling somewhere up in that head of his. While he's a hard one to figure out, she certainly hasn't expected this reaction. Confused and silent, she can only stare. What singer would choose not to sing? Vianne and her violin, why, it's like the songbirds sing! Birds cannot silence their trills and warbles, and neither can Vianne and her strings. What's this sorcery Sulla speaks of? The woman cannot possibly understand. Neither can she acknowledge an apology. It's not that he can't sing, but that he won't, and that has her blown clean away. It takes her a moment before she lays the fiddle across her knees and leans forward like she's searching for something- missing emotion, perhaps, or a guilty flicker of the face. Regret or fear, give her some reason to blame his silence on. Nothing surfaces. Eyes narrow out of concern, but also disbelief. Carefully enunciating every word, she voices her take on the matter. "You've got all the magic in the world… But won't use the most powerful you got." The ability to awe audiences and lift spirits is nestled in that body somewhere. He possesses a gift and a talent, but refuses to use it. Sulla still has it, of course, but now keeps it to himself. There's no forgiving keeping songs unsung. Why? "…Frog in your throat?" It's a funny way to ask, but Vianne is dead serious. Edited by Vianne, Jul 28 2013, 10:49 AM.
|
![]() |
|
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous) | |
| « Previous Topic · Blackwater · Next Topic » |








2:49 AM Jul 11