Garden Romance
Who : Kevin
When : August 5th, around 12 pm - 1 am.
Where : The garden
Rating : TBA
Summary : By invitation only. Please ask to join through my msn, as this is a very sensitive and highly personal moment for the character involved.
Note: All references within [] mark the timeline of the music. Also, I just want to say that anyone can comment on this post and have their character watch or listen to Kevin, preferably on their own. But if you want to interact with him, as in interrupt and talk with him, please ask first.
The night was warm, the late summer breeze only lazily ruffling the leaves of the small birch tree, as if for show. The grass bent smoothly, softly against its hand, letting the moon reflect its light off the shiny surface and painting the garden a silver floor. The white orb in the sky was cut in half, shaded by the shoulder of the earth breaking the light from the sun. It was calm, quiet, the dark blue cloak of the sky stained by only a few black and granite gray clouds.
Kevin was standing on the right side of the tent set up for him, wearing a pure white dress shirt. It was open almost all the way down his chest, the last few buttons fastened solely to keep the shirt from flapping about as he moved. The large, french cuffs had been folded up, quite messily so, until they gripped him around his biceps, tight enough to stay there but loose enough to not make him uncomfortable. A pair of black trousers were fastened around his hips, the two stripes of satin following the outer seam glistened in the faint light, becoming impossibly darker, drawing the light inside and drowning it in the deep, rich fabric. His feet were bare and his hair was dishevelled, giving him a slightly rugged and uncouth look, so very unusual for the strictly formal man. But under certain circumstances, such as this one, Kevin didn't much care.
He was much too focused now, too intendedly staring at something shielded from view by the long side of the green tent. However, anyone familiar with the garden by now would know that there was a old oak stub in roughly the same spot Kevin was looking. The tree, or rather what was left of it, was in the process of slowly fading away, rotting from the edges and inwards, the roots visible above the ground covered in moss, a perfect seedbed for potent Sinniver mushrooms. Kevin was looking at what would be the surface of the stub, where the stock had broken free from the roots and parted ways.
In his hands, Kevin was holding something, delicately and with great reverence. It is an instrument, a musical instrument, some might comment. But they'd be struck down to the ground if Kevin heard them. No, the violin that his fingers were gripping carefully around the neck wasn't an instrument, but a work of art. It had come into being by the hands of a man called Giuseppe Guarneri, or as he was also known, del Gesù. It was known as the Lord Wilton and had been given to him for his coming of age. It was one of the diamonds of the Montague art collection, priceless in its performance and value. The bow it was paired with was made of brazilian pernambuco wood, the frog of pure white ivory resting cooly against his palm.
Kevin shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze lowered until he finally closed his eyes. Then, he gently placed the violin underneath his cheek, holding it there as he stretched his arms out in front of him before grasping the neck lightly once more and setting the horsehair bow against the string.
The garden echoed the first, gentle notes.
His eyes remained closed, his fingers dancing softly upon the strings, the vibrato ringing out, amplified in the quiet night. He was unaccompanied of course, alone outside underneath the night sky and since his wand had been taken from him, he could only hear the orchestra inside his head. When it made its entrance [08:47], he lowered his violin and moved his bow instead, as if directing the music only he could hear.
He took his violin to his shoulder again, his face an open book as the music flowed from within him, his entire body almost glowing with concentration as he hit a high, difficult pitch [06:43]. He was talking, singing with his voice and every single fiber of his being flowed towards the spot which he had so recently trained his eyes on. A few beads of sweat rolled smoothly down his skin from his temples, dropping to the ground as he moved in an arch to a building, towering note. [06:15]
When : August 5th, around 12 pm - 1 am.
Where : The garden
Rating : TBA
Summary : By invitation only. Please ask to join through my msn, as this is a very sensitive and highly personal moment for the character involved.
Note: All references within [] mark the timeline of the music. Also, I just want to say that anyone can comment on this post and have their character watch or listen to Kevin, preferably on their own. But if you want to interact with him, as in interrupt and talk with him, please ask first.
The night was warm, the late summer breeze only lazily ruffling the leaves of the small birch tree, as if for show. The grass bent smoothly, softly against its hand, letting the moon reflect its light off the shiny surface and painting the garden a silver floor. The white orb in the sky was cut in half, shaded by the shoulder of the earth breaking the light from the sun. It was calm, quiet, the dark blue cloak of the sky stained by only a few black and granite gray clouds.
Kevin was standing on the right side of the tent set up for him, wearing a pure white dress shirt. It was open almost all the way down his chest, the last few buttons fastened solely to keep the shirt from flapping about as he moved. The large, french cuffs had been folded up, quite messily so, until they gripped him around his biceps, tight enough to stay there but loose enough to not make him uncomfortable. A pair of black trousers were fastened around his hips, the two stripes of satin following the outer seam glistened in the faint light, becoming impossibly darker, drawing the light inside and drowning it in the deep, rich fabric. His feet were bare and his hair was dishevelled, giving him a slightly rugged and uncouth look, so very unusual for the strictly formal man. But under certain circumstances, such as this one, Kevin didn't much care.
He was much too focused now, too intendedly staring at something shielded from view by the long side of the green tent. However, anyone familiar with the garden by now would know that there was a old oak stub in roughly the same spot Kevin was looking. The tree, or rather what was left of it, was in the process of slowly fading away, rotting from the edges and inwards, the roots visible above the ground covered in moss, a perfect seedbed for potent Sinniver mushrooms. Kevin was looking at what would be the surface of the stub, where the stock had broken free from the roots and parted ways.
In his hands, Kevin was holding something, delicately and with great reverence. It is an instrument, a musical instrument, some might comment. But they'd be struck down to the ground if Kevin heard them. No, the violin that his fingers were gripping carefully around the neck wasn't an instrument, but a work of art. It had come into being by the hands of a man called Giuseppe Guarneri, or as he was also known, del Gesù. It was known as the Lord Wilton and had been given to him for his coming of age. It was one of the diamonds of the Montague art collection, priceless in its performance and value. The bow it was paired with was made of brazilian pernambuco wood, the frog of pure white ivory resting cooly against his palm.
Kevin shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze lowered until he finally closed his eyes. Then, he gently placed the violin underneath his cheek, holding it there as he stretched his arms out in front of him before grasping the neck lightly once more and setting the horsehair bow against the string.
The garden echoed the first, gentle notes.
His eyes remained closed, his fingers dancing softly upon the strings, the vibrato ringing out, amplified in the quiet night. He was unaccompanied of course, alone outside underneath the night sky and since his wand had been taken from him, he could only hear the orchestra inside his head. When it made its entrance [08:47], he lowered his violin and moved his bow instead, as if directing the music only he could hear.
He took his violin to his shoulder again, his face an open book as the music flowed from within him, his entire body almost glowing with concentration as he hit a high, difficult pitch [06:43]. He was talking, singing with his voice and every single fiber of his being flowed towards the spot which he had so recently trained his eyes on. A few beads of sweat rolled smoothly down his skin from his temples, dropping to the ground as he moved in an arch to a building, towering note. [06:15]