(Untitled)

[mogget_cat]

There is sweet music coming from the bar's piano, tonight: a high, lilting almost-melody hovering above a slow, deliberate foundation of bass chords. Soaring notes wind like a kite this way and that, catching itself to pause in the air for a long moment, until the tension sends it stumbling, shifting again on the breeze to one side or the other.

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[ostro_goth]

Teja sits and just listens, not wishing to interrupt his friend.

The music speaks to him of many things remembered, and things wishes for and never granted.

[mogget_cat]

Sometimes one does not know what to wish for, except to wish that one knew how to wish for something one does not know one wants.

The deep, resonating bass chords echo the high, sparse melody, supporting it. The song pauses, seeming to have found resolution, the tension only revealed and growing as the foundation chords change, forcing the melody to shift like a small stack of pebbles pushed too fall, falling with clear, sweet tones. The tensions in each moment of rest, unseen fault-lines within the earth, grow until it must give way, falling like the contents of a kaleidoscope into a new arrangement of sounds and feelings.

[ostro_goth]

Teja listens, rapt; and in his mind, images appear. His parents, the monks, Hildebrand and Hilde. Totila. Lykos, Dresos and Myrtia. Totila. Adalgoth. Totila, Julius and Valeria. The three of them, dead in the evening Sun at Taginae. Adalgoth, on Mount Vesuvius, kissing his lips as he is dying. Eirene. Asher. Tonio. Xaldin, then Charlie. Charlie, hurt grievously, in the infirmary. Asher again, then Charlie. Adalgoth, in his house in Gotland, drinking cider with his dead king. And Charlie, again.

Losing, and having; holding, letting go; hating and loving. And always, wanting.

[mogget_cat]

Each shifting of the melody, notes falling into new patterns, bones cast to tell the future, carries that ache, not just the needing but the need of something to need. A love, a friendship, acceptance, freedom, peace, learning, growing, living. Anything.

The notes and chords and kaleidoscope pieces fall each time in new patterns, sometimes completely different but never truly lost. And sometimes, the result is beautiful. It is life. A tiny Charter, perhaps, or the beginning of one, but one whose life is no longer than the length of the song that holds it.

[no_saber]

It is a dangerous sound, a seductive sound, and the young padawan who is curled up on the couch reading up for one of her Senior Padawan finals in three weeks suddenly gives herself a shake, blinking in shock.

That shock is transmuted into a 'wtf, yo' look for the piano and it's very white musician.

[mogget_cat]

Very white indeed. His shock of white hair matches the stark white clothing he wears (loose at the neck and wrists, feet left bare), and his skin is the color of bleached bone. His fine-boned hands move deftly, but with no unnecessary force, upon the keys.

The warm, enveloping harmonies are easy to sink into, the slow and deliberate foundation chords and the subtle, winding half-melody hovering above. They catch at the heart, the familiar ache in one's chest of wanting something more than what one has. Of needing that something beyond one's reach.

[no_saber]

Reflexively she pulls on the deep, calm currents of the Force, countering the sweet commands of the music. However, curiosity isn't only for cats. The Padawan is confused at how music could have such a strong affect, and, abandoning her reading, creeps closer for a better look.

[mogget_cat]

That desire to grow and change, to have something worth seeking, to have something to seek rather than having attained it, is intrinsic to Life itself, anchored in the hearts and minds of every living thing. This being, impossibly bright against the warm earth-tones of the bar, casts that aching need into the air as sound.

Each shift of tone begins contented, resolution seemingly found at last, but each time the tension grows as the need becomes apparent, until the pressure is too much, and the pieces-chords-notes fall into a new arrangement, like the cast of colorful bits within a kaleidoscope being turned. It stays, until the tension is too much, and it falls into a new pattern.

Everything that had come before is still there, not lost, only in a new arrangement. A new picture, a new self, changed, content, the melody whispering high above the sturdy chords. Until some new need arises.

[mogget_cat]

Yrael's music holds the aching need to grow and change, the need for something to seek, and the fear of stagnation, of decay, of fading. Ganymede's words pull the Bright Shiner from his reverie, causing the music's effect to soften considerably.

"Thank you," Yrael says, turning his head to smile slightly at Ganymede.

[mogget_cat]

"Because I am pensive, Ganymede," Yrael says, fingers moving absently over the keys. "And so many of those with whom I would enjoy the springtime are not here."