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Post by hilathic on Aug 10, 2008 11:43:18 GMT -5
Having been gripped by a deep despair that morning and almost unable to live with with himself, Hilathic had drug himself down to Zero's in the hopes of playing his music and freeing his soul. The other bleakers in Zero's seemed to be in the same funk he was, the atmosphere was dreary and bleak. The only songs that would come to him where dark and foreboding. Yet he played for the others, his emotions lost in his music. Thoughts of Wraith ran through his mind, and he was glad she was not here. He was glad to be hidden from her.
The more he played the more the despair and meaninglessness of the universe crashed down upon him.
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Aug 10, 2008 12:07:41 GMT -5
The door bangs open, permitting a gust of fetid night air to sweep through. A figure shrouded in the enveloping folds of a black baladrana steps into the common room, striding purposely up to the bar without even taking the hood off.
"I'll 'ave an ale, beer, mead, or whatever it is ye're servin this eve." A woman smirks at the tiefling bartender from the shadows of her cowl. Not even waiting for him to take her order, she hoists herself up onto the nearest stool and watches the depressing crowd.
Easy pickin'. She chuckles, and cracks her knuckles. Light flashs off a hint of dull barbed metal, before the menacing gauntlets disappear again. Ignoring the musician - the sod was naked so she doubted he had anything worth taking - she combs the glum faces, seeking an easy peel.
Sometimes Sensates with heavy purses came here en route to the Blood Pit, and not all of them stood out like the gaudy peacocks that they were.
The Blood Pit. The Sinker-in-training restlessly cracks her knuckles again. It wasn't open yet, and wouldn't be until darkness had settled completely over the city of doors. Then the action would really heat up.
She frowns. She needed jink and fast. Her friends were behind in their rent, and faced eviction, or worse, if they couldn't pay up within the next few days. They'd been so good to her, even on her worst days, since her arrival from Xaos. She felt obliged to return the favour, and help them out of a tight situation. She knew the same would've been done for her, had the roles been reversed.
As each jarring note from the tiefling's harmonica cuts through her soul like a whip, Quicksilver decides on a course of action...
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Post by hilathic on Aug 10, 2008 13:58:11 GMT -5
The empty glass sitting in front of Hilathic had more holes in it then the theoretical meaning to existence that some would preach. Lowering his harmonica for a moment, he reaches for the pitcher that sits at his table and pours the foamy liquid into his cup. Ignoring the stream of ale leaving his cup and splashing to the table, Hilathic brings the cup to his mouth and empties most of the liquid down his chest onto the floor. Licking the brew from his fingers he brings the Harmonica back to his lips and begins to quietly play a very dark and sinister dirge, enhancing the somber mood of the room.
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Post by hilathic on Aug 11, 2008 7:01:21 GMT -5
Looking around the room he was suprised to see how few bleakers where actually in attendance today. Normally Zero was packed with a large crowd of those who contemplated the meaninglessness of existence in the cage. This morning it looked as though the crowd had a larger mixture of wannabes today. Those who melancholy lives had become so monotonous that they could no longer stand to breath the air of their stale existence where he in droves today. Maybe it was not just the Hive that had this dark cloud of doom floating over it this day.
Hilathic had stopped playing again and several patrons where looking to him as though his harmonica was the only thing holding them to their mortal coil. Lifting his harmonica once more this time he played to the beat of a poet on stage reciting an epic poem of lose and tragedy. The poem was something Hilathic had heard or read before, though the poet tried to make it seem as if it where his own. Not caring if anyone else noticed Hilathic closed his eyes and played on, helping the poem have more passion with the notes of his harmonica.
Musical Talent
Harmonica 16 or less.
[dice=20][rand=096330785898000151585660518450961632980727716820537318713489779554]
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Aug 11, 2008 12:59:25 GMT -5
For the fashionably depressive, the artfully insane, Zero was the place to see and be seen. A veritable hot-spot for bleakers, bleakniks, their groupies and camp-followers. A good place to make a mark and peel a sod blind... if his pockets weren't riddled with holes. Slapping a few coppers down on the counter top and collecting her mug - it was little more than a philosophical statement - Quicksilver gets up and makes her way through the crowd.
Choosing at random, allowing whim and instinct to guide her, she picks a table between the anonimous musician and the terrible poet. Insinuating herself into the group and their conversation, the Sinker in training sits down without even being invited and props her dirty boots on the table. Taking out a dagger and whetstone she begins to sharpen the blade with slow deliberate strokes. Her barbed, blood-spattered gauntlets glitter menacingly in the lamp light.
"Say, would any o' you bashers be in'erested in a li'l wager?" She inquires of the morose looking men and women seated around her.
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Post by hilathic on Sept 23, 2008 17:32:14 GMT -5
Watching the odd looking woman while he played, Hilathic could only wonder what drew her to this place. She was obviously not a bleaker. Maybe she was here to cause trouble. While Zero was not know for that type of behavior, Hilathic knew other Bleaker dives where bullies liked to pick on the bleaker populous that was down trodden. Listening to the woman asking the bleakers at the table if they would like to make a wager, Hilathic thought to himself, he may turn the tables on her. While all this played out in Hilathic's head, his music went from melancholy and remorseful to jubilant and giddy.
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