Discordance [Cytherea]

[Lancaster]

It was at times like these that Lancaster wished that he played heavy metal music, rather than the calm folk kind. He wished he had a double-headed lead electric to plug in. No… no, a very large set of drums. Yeah, drums. Drums. He had some of those, somewhere. Upstairs. Three floors up, above Bunk Backpackers. That whole floor above the pub that he and Pi would do something with at some point, somewhere, but they had so many other places to call their own, what did they really need with this one?

So Lancaster had slowly turned it into a storeroom, of sorts. A storeroom that didn’t have soundproofing or anything, but that’s where the drums were. A spare set that didn’t fit at Curlew Music. A set that he probably shouldn’t play because it would be for sale at some point. Or was it actually a set that was there to be fixed for a customer? Had he fixed it already? **** knows.

Dust flew up around him as he settled his long limbs onto the small stool. He might have looked ridiculous had the set been any smaller. But it was a larger set. A set worthy of Lancaster’s height and the brevity of his mood. Sure, it had been a few nights since the texted interaction with Skylar. Sure, Lancaster had his moments of calm. He had to deal with customers and focus on figures and pays and paperwork. But then he’d walk away and get a moment to himself and it would all come back, and he’d get angry all over again.

At the time he’d blamed his volatility on the full-body sunburn he’d accrued due to being tossed out of a window by some **** that he couldn’t track or gain any retribution from. Maybe that’s why he had replied to Skylar the way he had, rather than with his usual calm sincerity. Maybe he should have calmed down by now, but Skylar’s reaction rubbed him all the wrong ways. He told himself he hadn’t gone to talk to her yet because he was giving her time to calm down, but he couldn’t lie. Couldn’t even lie to himself. It was the exact opposite.

The bass drum was music to Lancaster’s ears. He almost smiled as he rolls his head on his shoulders and twirled the sticks in his hands. He started slow. He found the rhythm. And then he let loose. A barrage of crash and china and splash, of toms and snares and a gluttonous amount of bass. It still had a rhythm, of course; there was logic to the sound, and he wasn’t bashing the drums just for the sake of bashing them. Music was a way of ventilation. It was how Lancaster freed himself of his bottled emotions, because he refused to do so via violence. Though, the drums might disagree that this was not a form of violence. Drums were masochistic instruments, however. They liked getting bashed. They lived for it.

The song the drums sang was one of fury, though always with that lilt of guilt and a hint of anxiety. A song that Lancaster tried to add to with his voice, but it was cracked and discordant. But he couldn’t really hear his voice over the drums.

And everyone down below could probably hear the drums, too. Maybe not so much the people in the bar, unless they had really good hearing. But the people at the backpackers on the second floor would be able to hear them through the floor, for sure. And those out on the street? Definitely.

But Lancaster didn’t care.

[Cytherea]

Upon her return, things had not gone as cordially as she would have hoped; a husband who at every turn met her with a scepticism she could not deny had merit, after all, she had left without so much as word. But hadn't that been what he had wanted? Rid of the traitorous and treacherous wife. A lack of communication had turned something so inadequate in size into this festering pit of disloyalty. Though, she'd seen more of the husband who hated her than the sire who claimed to love her. Even Pi had been in touch more than Elliot. He too, such like Doc, seemed wary, distrustful. As if she were air, and the moment his hands laid upon her, she was dissolve into nothing once more.
Words would do little. Actions could be her only voice now.

Pushing thoughts of the Doctor aside, the female allowed a sigh to escape from her lungs, as she neared the establishment that Elliot had frequented so much before her departure, and her ears allowed the distressful clash of drums seep in. A few glances of confusion were cast towards the upper-floor, as if to say, how uncouth of you to be making such a racket. His temperament right now, seemed susceptible to rage, or something that wouldn't be met well with her appearance. Though, fear was never one to govern her actions. And, ironically, it was time to face the music.

It hadn't occurred to her that the keys may have been changed since her last months in the city, it had been a whole year. But with ease the lock gave way to the mechanism that opened the door, allowing her safe passage. And the sight that met her filled her with a sudden since of melancholy, and even her resolve threatened to buckle under the sudden fear that this was a bad idea. In an atmosphere such as this, Elliot could swing either way; a complete wreck, helpless, somber. Or he would be engulfed with acrimony and resentment. What had been the catalyst for the current state before her? Curiosity knocked at her door once more.

On lithe legs the Allurist walked into the room, her face void of emotion in case that triggered some response from him, be it good, or bad. Elliot would either notice her, or he would chose to ignore her presence in the room, neither would make a difference until he stopped playing. His name lingered on her lips, though she halted the expelling of the word, she would let him play, let him find reprieve for a short time before he was once more confronted with things he would probably rather not have at his door. Childe or not. So she took a seat nearby, but not too close. She could wait a little longer.

[Lancaster]

Lanaster did not notice the movement at the other side of the room; he was playing in semi-shadow, and the door itself was not bathed in light. The thrashing violence of the drums was all that he could hear; a numbing clamour in his ears that allowed nothing else in. Not a breath nor a heartbeat nor a single dainty step. If he were human his muscles would be aching and his shirt would be drenched in sweat. His hair would be lank with the salty bodily excretion, but it wasn’t. It fell over his eyes, though—a dark jet mess of it which further obscured what little vision he had through his heavily hooded eyes. They were open, but unseeing.

Cytherea probably sat for another ten minutes before Lancaster finally felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck; that sensation of being watched. Only then did his eyes lift. He expected to see Pi, or maybe one of the employees, but instead it was a face he had not seen in months. Well, no—that was a lie. He’d seen her in the Den, passing through. But hadn’t sat down to have a conversation with her yet. It was true. He was wary. She’d been gone for so long, and was one of the many childer who’d disappeared without a word. Even Charlie wasn’t around these days, and he hadn’t even turned her. There wasn’t even an excuse of hate with that one. There was no reason why he should feel guilty about Charlie’s vampiric existence because he had not done it to her. Maybe her own sire had come back and was paying more attention. Maybe she had finally found some solace in her vampiric-born family. Maybe that’s what Elliot was destined to be—a stopover. Somewhere people stayed for a little while but always destined to move on.

And was it really that bad, in the end? It was why he had started the backpackers, wasn’t it? So that he could find solace in the company of those who were just like him. Those who liked to travel and who only stopped over for a week or a month before moving on again. He lived vicariously through them. Though maybe he didn’t need to. He could live vicariously through his childer. Except that they did not keep in touch.

As soon as he realised it was Cytherea sitting in that chair, the music stopped. Startled, one of the drumsticks slipped from his hands. There was a clash of cymbals and a discordance of sound; the rhythm lost its pace and petered out. Elliot’s ears rung with the absence of sound. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath; he held it before releasing it again and forcing a smile on his lips. Attempting to pretend that he was absolutely fine.

”Hey. Hello,” he said. He cleared his throat again and straightened his shoulders.

”Where have you been?” he asked.

It wasn’t what he meant to ask. He mean to ask how she was. A simple question. A cliché question. He didn’t amend. He just let the question hang in the air. Curious, in the very least.