[ Lestat de Lioncourt is in Caiyi. It's a carefully chosen little respite, with rivers that remind him of almost of the river Seine and her tributaries. The scenery is vastly different but still beautiful, breathtaking, even, and Lestat doesn't regret it. He needed to escape, needed to flee Paris, needed to be away from the Theatre, Armand, the things that have happened. Not to flee, but instead to be reborn; to renew and rejuvenate himself and this place with its crowds and its beautiful lotus flowers floating along the river's edge and the soft silks and aroma of spices, this would be his chance to do just that. It's the furthest thing away from his troubles.
And so he is here, and the city is large enough and has enough foreigners that while people gawk and stare, they allow him to rent a room. Lestat is managing to learn what little of the language he can, although his money speaks louder than his words could ever.
Caiyi is a safe place to stay, if for the moment, to get his bearings about him. And so he stays for a few weeks, careful to take out undesirables and always taking care of the bodies as best as he can, careful not to rock the metaphorical boat until he's ready to leave for either a different place on the continent or, if he grows bored, make for the New World.
He finds himself lost in the architecture of the place often, hypnotized by the curving arc of the roofs, the gentle slants of the circular windows. The stained glass of Paris is illuminating, magical, but there is charm in this little place, too. Like the music he hears. Strings from the air, plucked notes floating through the darkened sky, and Lestat at once cocks his head to the side and rises from where he'd been in mid-conversation with his next meal, a foreign man named Alex who had been so relieved to see his blonde hair he bought him a drink that even now remains untouched.
He doesn't matter. Not anymore. Nothing does except those notes, and it's imparitive that he finds the source of the music. Lestat follows it on the wind, elegant in his walk though he finds most folk give him wide berth, most likely do to his paler skin and different physique, and in a matter of moments he finds himself at a teashop watching a white-vieled person play so magnificently, so beautifully, that Lestat finds himself absolutely stunned and near tears.
(There's something, a feeling, strangely calm for an unsettled, undead heart. Not peace but something similar; calm, maybe, something Lestat has never truly felt, not for a long time.)
He claps once the other finishes the song, loud, pointed, absolutely beaming as he takes a step forward. ]
C'est magnicifique, mon petit choux. Vraiment beau.
[ It doesn't matter that the other might not understand him. He's reaching inside his pocket for a coins of a rather hefty amount, eyes alight with wonder. ]
[it's so flowing and easy, the motion of his fingers, nails deftly plucking each string throughout the melodious song.
a few stragglers stumble by, laughing warmly, clearly plied with too much wine and wooed away by the remaining fun they can have at nighttime, but they do acknowledge him with some items here or there and sizhui returns the recognition with the faintest tip of his head. he says well wishes underneath his breath, barely above a whisper, well-aware he can't actually put wards and protection spells on people in case they make him more obvious. who's to say they wouldn't sense the energy shift, after all? certainly not a risk he's willing to take at the moment.
while it's a decent cover, the open edges of his veiled hat allow him brief glances at other individuals, most of who are inconspicuous, uninteresting, or not acting deviant in any sort of noticeable way. (hard to keep up appearances when they've become intoxicated on substances and drift happily along without a single care for a while.)
sizhui raises his head further in acknowledgment toward some different groups, but those continue shuffling away, leaving nothing except empty threats and information that offers no leads. he's unaffected by the former and disheartened by the latter, yet continues playing on despite tiredness having come upon him however long ago, bolstered by the lack of details and single-minded about learning something besides what he already knows. determination flows through him, an unending tap, his movements further pushed by later possibilities down the line from where he's currently left hanging.
whenever the song is over, he gently presses his hands down and spreads them across the strings, silencing any leftover resonating notes, which makes the clapping all the more discernible.
this time, his head lifts completely, wide, dark eyes instantly focused toward the man a couple feet away, brows arching with interest as he moves even closer. regardless of him speaking in a tongue he cannot understand, sizhui's attention is unwavering, too intent on watching every step, gesture and body-language shift of the handsome stranger before him. as always, there are particulars that can be understood, even through a language barrier, and the money produced is one of these things, though sizhui isn't as nearly as enthralled with that as he is fascinated by this newcomer.
encore, he understands, something that makes him smile, head-bob in understanding and resituate his hands on the guqin. his fingertips tap the instrument, testing sounds, pitch, and assessing reverberation.
what follows is music that's a bit quicker than before, faster strums and fingerwork, but it's no less beautiful and lyrical, effortlessly flowing out of him, like a private concert for their ears only.]
[ The little one nods, and it's such a small, soft gesture that Lestat feels his lips twisting into something, a smile that he cannot and refuses to contain. The other has an elegance to him, not just his art but to his posture; the graceful way he moves his fingers, his hands, his joints--and the music. It's more up-tempo now, but nonetheless just as hypnotizing. Lestat stands calmly, rapt in his attention and focus, the world and his troubles melting away.
There is more. There is something about this music that's not the instrument, not the melody, not how beautiful it is and how well it's performed. There's a portion of it that calls to Lestat more than usual; a thread coaxing him gently along, hypnotizing him, seducing him.
He can tell that the vieled man is playing for him and him alone. He has enough sense to wait until the second song is done before he happily hands over more coin, clapping, beaming from ear to ear. ]
Comprenez-vous ce que je dis si je parle Français? O se parlo Italiano, possiamo conversare? Is English our common language, if you speak it? [ And in slow, French accented Chinese, Lestat braces himself for feeling slightly clumsy with his words. ] I want to thank you for music, sir.
[providing relaxation that takes away one's worries, comfort that soothes someone's uneasiness, and leaving them feeling nothing but happiness are all reasons why he plays, and they're why he pours his entire heart into the motions. unsurprisingly, he's spurred on by the man's smile, delighted with knowing that his playing has created joy for someone else; this fellow doesn't move at all, either, effectively captivated by the tranquil music.
if he's also using just the slightest amount of qi to ease any discomfort, well... they don't have to mention that now, do they?
again, after sizhui's finished, his hands spread along the instrument like he's caressing the strings rather than simply pressing down on them, and his head finally lifts entirely so the veil parts to reveal his face, the small smile quirking his lips.
the first two languages are completely incomprehensible to him, unfortunately, though the english and the awkward (yet still rather cute) mandarin that follows has his expression brightening significantly.] I know a little English. [which doesn't sound much better than lestat's mandarin, let's be real, but he follows it up as plainly as possible in his native tongue.]You're quite welcome, I'm glad you enjoyed it.
[ Lestat makes it a note to learn the language quicker, now that he has more of a reason to: he usually sticks with the other foreigners, often choosing them and undesirables to to feed on to avoid risk of standing out. People don't much blink when it happens.
But now he has a reason to branch out: he is captivated, wholly, utterly by the guqin player, and that round face and deer like eyes peak out from behind that fluttering white veil like a morsel to be supped on. He looks ethereal, like an angel--a cherubim from a chapel, playing his zither like a harp for God's ears.
And he knows English.
Lestat's smile only seems to widen. He clasps his hands together instead of clapping again, seems to remember his manners, and bows like he knows is tradition here. The moment he straightens, he's speaking in English, as it's what seems to be the most common ground between them. ]
It is customary where I'm from to reward great talent and musicianship. Please, allow me to do so: there is a marvelous tea shoppe, they serve the most delicious rice wine--your words are clumsy with these damned foreign lips, forgive me--baiju?
[said guqin player is beaming outright by the time lestat remembers his manners and bows, which deserves a proper greeting in return. sizhui shifts, raises his left arm and sweeps a long sleeve across the instrument, causing it to disappear in a small flurry of bright blue magic. he moves upright afterward, all grace and flowing veil and robes, his right hand reaching to tip his hat back somewhat first, then he circles both arms around, cinches his hands together and bows in kind.
honestly, this handsome stranger flatters him, but it's those honey-tongued words that have him even considering going somewhere with an individual he's only just met. any other day, he might've been more heedful, would have taken into account what he was supposed to be doing and the sudden appearance of someone he's never seen before rather than toss caution to the wind by immediately accepting the man's offer.]
Bye-j'yo, [he pronounces, slow and steady, still smiling the whole time through his suggestion.] You needn't apologize, you're doing wonderfully with what you know. If you prefer, it is also called ‘shaojiu’, literally meaning ‘white liquor’.
[against his (usually) better judgment, he slinks forward, leaving a respectable amount of distance between them, but only just, his expression faintly softened, though no less friendly.] I would be absolutely delighted to share a drink with you. [because, of course, he's fully expecting his new acquaintance to join him, even if it means using some of what he's earned to buy him a drink too.] Lead the way, kind sir.
[here's hoping lestat isn't surprised by how mannerly sizhui's returned flattery is.]
Lestat's smile remains unchanging on his statuesque face, though there's a glint in his eye as the other uses strange blue light to spirit away that divine musical instrument. It's something he doesn't recognize, something he's delighted by: there are forces here, ones he does not yet comprehend or understand.
It both annoys and dizzies him. Almost as much as his first glimpse of the smaller man, bowing properly, the hat now no longer obscuring his face. Had Lestat been a creature capable of breathing, he's certain his breath would have hitched immediately upon seeing him. Instead his smile widens, and he clasps his hands lightly together, white, pointed nails pale, flashing in the moonlight. ]
Bien. Walk with me, and you can give a poor soul such as myself your name.
[this is only a small taste of what he can do, too.
however, until he fully knows the man's intentions, it's a little parlor trick that's safe enough to show off without garnering too many questions. for the most part, his newly acquired company seems unfazed at the moment, but sizhui's expression doesn't waver, nor does he let it embolden him any further. (yet, that is.)
those dark eyes follow each and every flourish, right down to where he clasps his hands together, a motion that makes sizhui ever-so-slightly smile wider in kind; it's interesting, he thinks, meeting someone else who has such energy while somehow coming off so effortlessly smooth, and he's instantly intrigued by what the night holds for them. toward the remark, he huffs a soft, airy laugh, shakes his head then playfully answers,] A ‘poor soul’, hm? Surely that's an embellishment.
[and still, he straightens his posture, tucks both arms behind his back then:] My name is Sizhui. [short, simple, and straight to the point, even if it'll be followed with his own kittenish inquiry.] Will you give me yours in return, young master?
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houseofsushi2020-05-22 10:34 pm
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And so he is here, and the city is large enough and has enough foreigners that while people gawk and stare, they allow him to rent a room. Lestat is managing to learn what little of the language he can, although his money speaks louder than his words could ever.
Caiyi is a safe place to stay, if for the moment, to get his bearings about him. And so he stays for a few weeks, careful to take out undesirables and always taking care of the bodies as best as he can, careful not to rock the metaphorical boat until he's ready to leave for either a different place on the continent or, if he grows bored, make for the New World.
He finds himself lost in the architecture of the place often, hypnotized by the curving arc of the roofs, the gentle slants of the circular windows. The stained glass of Paris is illuminating, magical, but there is charm in this little place, too. Like the music he hears. Strings from the air, plucked notes floating through the darkened sky, and Lestat at once cocks his head to the side and rises from where he'd been in mid-conversation with his next meal, a foreign man named Alex who had been so relieved to see his blonde hair he bought him a drink that even now remains untouched.
He doesn't matter. Not anymore. Nothing does except those notes, and it's imparitive that he finds the source of the music. Lestat follows it on the wind, elegant in his walk though he finds most folk give him wide berth, most likely do to his paler skin and different physique, and in a matter of moments he finds himself at a teashop watching a white-vieled person play so magnificently, so beautifully, that Lestat finds himself absolutely stunned and near tears.
(There's something, a feeling, strangely calm for an unsettled, undead heart. Not peace but something similar; calm, maybe, something Lestat has never truly felt, not for a long time.)
He claps once the other finishes the song, loud, pointed, absolutely beaming as he takes a step forward. ]
C'est magnicifique, mon petit choux. Vraiment beau.
[ It doesn't matter that the other might not understand him. He's reaching inside his pocket for a coins of a rather hefty amount, eyes alight with wonder. ]
Encore?
no subject
a few stragglers stumble by, laughing warmly, clearly plied with too much wine and wooed away by the remaining fun they can have at nighttime, but they do acknowledge him with some items here or there and sizhui returns the recognition with the faintest tip of his head. he says well wishes underneath his breath, barely above a whisper, well-aware he can't actually put wards and protection spells on people in case they make him more obvious. who's to say they wouldn't sense the energy shift, after all? certainly not a risk he's willing to take at the moment.
while it's a decent cover, the open edges of his veiled hat allow him brief glances at other individuals, most of who are inconspicuous, uninteresting, or not acting deviant in any sort of noticeable way. (hard to keep up appearances when they've become intoxicated on substances and drift happily along without a single care for a while.)
sizhui raises his head further in acknowledgment toward some different groups, but those continue shuffling away, leaving nothing except empty threats and information that offers no leads. he's unaffected by the former and disheartened by the latter, yet continues playing on despite tiredness having come upon him however long ago, bolstered by the lack of details and single-minded about learning something besides what he already knows. determination flows through him, an unending tap, his movements further pushed by later possibilities down the line from where he's currently left hanging.
whenever the song is over, he gently presses his hands down and spreads them across the strings, silencing any leftover resonating notes, which makes the clapping all the more discernible.
this time, his head lifts completely, wide, dark eyes instantly focused toward the man a couple feet away, brows arching with interest as he moves even closer. regardless of him speaking in a tongue he cannot understand, sizhui's attention is unwavering, too intent on watching every step, gesture and body-language shift of the handsome stranger before him. as always, there are particulars that can be understood, even through a language barrier, and the money produced is one of these things, though sizhui isn't as nearly as enthralled with that as he is fascinated by this newcomer.
encore, he understands, something that makes him smile, head-bob in understanding and resituate his hands on the guqin. his fingertips tap the instrument, testing sounds, pitch, and assessing reverberation.
what follows is music that's a bit quicker than before, faster strums and fingerwork, but it's no less beautiful and lyrical, effortlessly flowing out of him, like a private concert for their ears only.]
no subject
There is more. There is something about this music that's not the instrument, not the melody, not how beautiful it is and how well it's performed. There's a portion of it that calls to Lestat more than usual; a thread coaxing him gently along, hypnotizing him, seducing him.
He can tell that the vieled man is playing for him and him alone. He has enough sense to wait until the second song is done before he happily hands over more coin, clapping, beaming from ear to ear. ]
Comprenez-vous ce que je dis si je parle Français? O se parlo Italiano, possiamo conversare? Is English our common language, if you speak it? [ And in slow, French accented Chinese, Lestat braces himself for feeling slightly clumsy with his words. ] I want to thank you for music, sir.
no subject
if he's also using just the slightest amount of qi to ease any discomfort, well... they don't have to mention that now, do they?
again, after sizhui's finished, his hands spread along the instrument like he's caressing the strings rather than simply pressing down on them, and his head finally lifts entirely so the veil parts to reveal his face, the small smile quirking his lips.
the first two languages are completely incomprehensible to him, unfortunately, though the english and the awkward (yet still rather cute) mandarin that follows has his expression brightening significantly.] I know a little English. [which doesn't sound much better than lestat's mandarin, let's be real, but he follows it up as plainly as possible in his native tongue.] You're quite welcome, I'm glad you enjoyed it.
no subject
But now he has a reason to branch out: he is captivated, wholly, utterly by the guqin player, and that round face and deer like eyes peak out from behind that fluttering white veil like a morsel to be supped on. He looks ethereal, like an angel--a cherubim from a chapel, playing his zither like a harp for God's ears.
And he knows English.
Lestat's smile only seems to widen. He clasps his hands together instead of clapping again, seems to remember his manners, and bows like he knows is tradition here. The moment he straightens, he's speaking in English, as it's what seems to be the most common ground between them. ]
It is customary where I'm from to reward great talent and musicianship. Please, allow me to do so: there is a marvelous tea shoppe, they serve the most delicious rice wine--your words are clumsy with these damned foreign lips, forgive me--baiju?
no subject
honestly, this handsome stranger flatters him, but it's those honey-tongued words that have him even considering going somewhere with an individual he's only just met. any other day, he might've been more heedful, would have taken into account what he was supposed to be doing and the sudden appearance of someone he's never seen before rather than toss caution to the wind by immediately accepting the man's offer.]
Bye-j'yo, [he pronounces, slow and steady, still smiling the whole time through his suggestion.] You needn't apologize, you're doing wonderfully with what you know. If you prefer, it is also called ‘shaojiu’, literally meaning ‘white liquor’.
[against his (usually) better judgment, he slinks forward, leaving a respectable amount of distance between them, but only just, his expression faintly softened, though no less friendly.] I would be absolutely delighted to share a drink with you. [because, of course, he's fully expecting his new acquaintance to join him, even if it means using some of what he's earned to buy him a drink too.] Lead the way, kind sir.
[here's hoping lestat isn't surprised by how mannerly sizhui's returned flattery is.]
no subject
Lestat's smile remains unchanging on his statuesque face, though there's a glint in his eye as the other uses strange blue light to spirit away that divine musical instrument. It's something he doesn't recognize, something he's delighted by: there are forces here, ones he does not yet comprehend or understand.
It both annoys and dizzies him. Almost as much as his first glimpse of the smaller man, bowing properly, the hat now no longer obscuring his face. Had Lestat been a creature capable of breathing, he's certain his breath would have hitched immediately upon seeing him. Instead his smile widens, and he clasps his hands lightly together, white, pointed nails pale, flashing in the moonlight. ]
Bien. Walk with me, and you can give a poor soul such as myself your name.
no subject
however, until he fully knows the man's intentions, it's a little parlor trick that's safe enough to show off without garnering too many questions. for the most part, his newly acquired company seems unfazed at the moment, but sizhui's expression doesn't waver, nor does he let it embolden him any further. (yet, that is.)
those dark eyes follow each and every flourish, right down to where he clasps his hands together, a motion that makes sizhui ever-so-slightly smile wider in kind; it's interesting, he thinks, meeting someone else who has such energy while somehow coming off so effortlessly smooth, and he's instantly intrigued by what the night holds for them. toward the remark, he huffs a soft, airy laugh, shakes his head then playfully answers,] A ‘poor soul’, hm? Surely that's an embellishment.
[and still, he straightens his posture, tucks both arms behind his back then:] My name is Sizhui. [short, simple, and straight to the point, even if it'll be followed with his own kittenish inquiry.] Will you give me yours in return, young master?
no subject