Sing a Song of Six Pence (Elliot)

[Dhara]

"You're the owner. I think you're allowed to do what you want." She chuckled and tucked in to her soup, finishing it off as he talked. Her honey eyes moved to the stage and she grinned, the smile only growing as he mentioned cheap rooms upstairs.

"I think I'll have to stick around then, for this open mic night. And if your rooms are cheap, that just may be possible." She loved to perform but hadn't been on a real stage since she was a child. Since she was 16, she'd been on her own, moving from place to place. No friends, no family, no relationships. She had zero attachments and was as free as the wind to go where she wanted. She gently pushed her bowl to the side and leaned on the bar.

"What's it like? Settling down I mean?" It was something she couldn't ever imagine doing, just the thought of being stuck in one place made her feel like she was being smothered. She knew she wouldn't be able to do it any time soon. She shook her head to shake off the depressing thoughts. She would never, ever settle down. Ever. "Don't you miss it? The traveling? The good luck and the bad luck? The hard times and the not so hard times? I couldn't do it. Just the idea of being settled makes me feel like I'm drowning."

[Lancaster]

This is where the conversation got tricky. Yes, Elliot did miss it. He missed it a lot – there were times that he got restless, and irritable because of it. He didn’t want to talk to Pi about it, because he didn’t want her to feel guilty. He didn’t want her to feel like he didn’t want to be there, with her, or with d’Artois. That was what it boiled down to – if he felt like he wanted to travel again, it was equal to him not wanting to be in Harper Rock, wasn’t it?

What he would explain to Pi, if such a conversation were to occur, was that she was one of the only things that kept him here. On top of that, she was the thing that made him happy. Her, and this pub. And his businesses. Without her, without Lancaster’s, he’d be a hopeless wreck, and he would probably have left months ago. Years. But even then, he wouldn’t want Pi to think she was a chain, keeping him bound somewhere where he didn’t want to be. So it was a conversation he wouldn’t instigate. Not ever. If he got restless, he vented in other ways so that by the time he and Pi were together, he was content, and happy again.

And anyway, the restlessness only came in waves. Slowly, he was becoming accustomed to home life. And so, he realised, this conversation wasn’t as tricky as he had formerly thought. The answer was two pronged. It was vague. Because yes he missed the life of the druid, but at the same time, the longing was getting less severe with each passing day.

”Sometimes,” he answered with a shrug, feeling buoyant that the answer was so easy. ”But it’s also nice to have a home. And a… family, of sorts,” he said, gesturing to the pub around him – as if its occupants were his family, its employers. The general public. ”Besides which, I’ve come to thoroughly enjoy being the haven to which the travellers flock. I am…maybe I’m a shepherd. Yeah… consider me your shepherd, for the duration of your stay, and I won’t let you wander astray,” he said with a grin, even though there was a particular seriousness beneath his words. The city was dangerous, and there were plenty of ways in which wanderers could be led astray.

He did once feel like he was drowning. But it wasn’t the settling that had instigated that feeling. It was the overwhelming discovery of his new life – the hatred of it, and the reasons why. It had taken him a very long time to find his feet again, and even now he still struggled sometimes. But he had found a balance, kind of, and was working on keeping it.

”Settling is fine, if you have control over what you do, and how you do it,” he said with a decisive nod.

[Dhara]

She looked him over, wondering how old he was. They were probably some where in the same age range, but she couldn't tell and she wouldn't ask. She was told she didn't have a filter, but she was trying. At least right now. Instead, she studied him in the way only a fellow musician would study a person. She picked out the light in his eyes, the easy smile, his relaxed posture. All tiny little hints that he was truly content. She gave a shake of her head and tucked her pink and auburn hair behind her ear.

"You are a braver man than I could ever be." She said, setting her cash on the bar for her meal and as generous a tip as she could give. Long fingers curled around her mostly empty coffee mug, not ready to relinquish it just yet. Her booted feet swung lightly as she looked around the bar, taking in what he had said about this being a family of sorts. "I guess I could see that. Pubs like this have always felt familiar. Almost homelike. I try and find them when ever I can. I think I prefer places like this to those big chain restaurants, you know?"

She took a sip of her now cold black coffee and her nose crinkled, but she still swallowed it down. It was almost as precious as gold and she wasn't going to waste it. "Say, Elliot, do you have a guitar I can borrow and some room in your heart to let me borrow the mic even though it's not open mic night?" As they had talked, one of her favorite songs kept rolling through her head and she knew it was a perfect compliment to their conversation.

[Lancaster]

It wasn’t about being brave. This wasn’t a step that Elliot had consciously decided to make, not really. It wasn’t as if one day he’d been presented with a fork in the road and he had to decide whether to go left or right. Instead, he was just a traveller who wasn’t even aware of the fork, was whacked over the head, kidnapped, and forced down a road from which he could not find his way back. The only courage he could claim was the kind that allowed him to keep moving forward; the courage just to live in the new world that he had been forced into. And at the time, it wasn’t courage or bravery, it was just instinct.

Each step forward had brought him to this point in his life; conscious decisions weren’t really made. Forks were not followed. The pieces fell into place around him and Elliot settled where they dictated that he settle. And yet, he could not tell any of this to the stranger; he could not explain to her in all honest modesty how he was not brave, not in the slightest, without encouraging further questions. All he could offer was a slight frown, and then a smile of relief as she changed the subject, and made a small request.

”I did clarify,” he said as he grabbed the empty soup dish to pass it along to one of the other bar staff—they’d take it back to the kitchen to be cleaned. ”Thursday is only the ‘official’ mic night. Technically, every night is open mic night if I say so,” he said with a wink. He abandoned his post behind the bar and wandered out, past the milling crowds, to join Dhara at the front.

”You can borrow Curlew, so long as you promise not to break her,” Elliot said. He had plenty of guitars the woman could borrow, but they were all at the shop at 8D, and it seemed a waste of time to go and collect one when he had a perfectly good instrument waiting on the stage already. The battered old guitar was precious to him, however, and though it made him slightly anxious letting someone else play her, he was naturally a giving man. He gestured toward the stage with a nod, indicating that Dhara should lead the way.

[Dhara]

Her eyes lit up when he encouraged her to go ahead and play, and she made a little mewl of surprise when he offered his precious guitar. "I promise I'll treat her as if she were my own." She scooped up her satchel and led the way to the stage, feeling the tall man behind her. Once on stage, she adjusted the mic and pulled up a tall stool. She then unstrapped her lute and set it carefully down out of the way, along with her satchel.

After ensuring her belongings were carefully aside, she moved to the case and opened it reverently, kneeling before it like an alter of worship. Long fingers stroked delicately over the strings and she whispered to herself, almost as if she were praying. Several long moments passed where she stayed that way, then she gently picked up the guitar and eased the strap across her body. "Hello Curlew. I'm Dhara." Some people would probably think she was utterly nuts for talking to a guitar. Those people would never understand the love of music.

Once she was sure the strap was secure, she got to her feet, giving Elliot a smile before easing herself on to the stool. She took a moment to push her sleeves out of the way and adjust her long shirt. One booted foot rest on the rung of a stool and she began to play. Her long fingers moved along the strings in a gentle caress that sent a pure, clear sound across the pub. She was playing for herself and for Elliot. For the travelers who chose to keep traveling, and the ones who chose to stop.

On a long road, miles to go,
Its winding and cold and its covered with snow,
But I ask you what we all want to know,
Where are we going from here...

Her voice was pure and clear, carrying the melancholic wonder of the song. She didn't rush or hurry, and in fact, she seemed to become lost to the music, forgetting about every one and every thing. Her eyes closed as she played, swaying gently in time with the music. She found the guitar had an easy action, a quality that only came from lots of playtime. She had also seen the scratches, the dings, and the general wear and tear. Curlew was a guitar that was not only heavily played, but greatly loved, and she felt honored to be using it. At last though, her song came to a close, far to soon for her liking.

Lines on my face, lines on my hands,
Lead to a future I don't understand,
Some things don't go as they're planned...
Where are we going from here...

She let the last of the chords fade out, but didn't rush to jump off the stool, instead letting herself slowly drift back to reality. Music cast a spell and she wanted to enjoy it for as long as she could.

Song: Where Are We Going From Here?

[Lancaster]

Elliot jumped up onto the stage after Dhara; he didn’t get in her way as she set herself up, but he needed to switch off the juke box and make sure that all the stage speakers were on and working. As soon as Dhara set down, ready to start, he faded out the juke box (so as not to jar the listeners) and switched on the speakers for the microphone and for the guitar. As soon as Dhara had begun and Elliot was sure that the levels were fine, he edged along the wall and silently removed himself from the stage.

The regulars of Lancaster’s would be used to this. The musicians of Harper Rock, he hoped, would know of Lancaster’s as a place to go if you wanted to play; not only on open mic nights, but any night that they might be able to catch the tall Australian owner. The one who often commandeered the stage for his own purposes, and who would not bat an eye at letting other people have a go, too – he knew what it was like, travelling the world, having the itch to play on a stage but not being able to find one that wasn’t a street corner. There was something so different about one’s voice being amplified by the microphone, rather than battling against the wind and the elements out in the wild of the streets. He would give others the chances that he himself had missed out on.

It was a risk, of course. Some of the musicians who came through weren’t very good – but that was okay. They’d get booed off the stage if they were overly crap, and they’d learn their lesson. Elliot would chuckle, slap them on the shoulder and encourage them to keep practicing. Most of the time they didn’t come back.

Dhara, however, wasn’t one of those who’d slink away with her tail tucked between her legs in shame. Her voice was clear, and the song had a folkish melody to it, as if it were something produced by the majesty of the Scottish highlands. It was a slow song, a sad song even. The atmosphere of the pub hushed; people stopped talking and they focused on the stage; either that, or they felt like they couldn’t talk loudly, out of reverence. Sometimes music has an effect on people and they don’t even realise it.

When the song was finished, Elliot lifted his fingers to his lips to let loose a very loud, piercing wolf whistle. He then clapped, along with the others. He sauntered up to the stage to stand in front of Dhara – on the ground so that she was elevated above him.

“You can keep going if you want,” he said. “I’ll be back behind the bar, and you can come find me when you want to check out the rooms upstairs?”

[Dhara]

The whistle startled her to alertness and she met the kind blue eyes of Elliot, nearly level with her own honey gaze. It was then that the applause registered, causing a pink blush to high light the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. She smiled and bowed her thanks while remaining where she sat, her attention turning to Elliot as he spoke.

"Are you serious?!" She half laughed out the question, her eyes lighting up like a childs on Christmas morning. She had just been given the best gift in the world. Free run of the stage with a great guitar and top notch sound equipment. She'd have hugged him if not for the most precious of instruments across her lap. "Yes! Yes I would be honored!" She said enthusiastically, dimples appearing as her smile grew to a full on grin. She forgot about the mic, and her blush only deepened when there was a smattering of applause at her decision to keep going. Her kind of folk-ish music wasn't always welcomed, but she never changed her tune. Literally or figuratively. She watched for a moment as Elliot headed back behind the bar, then looked at the crowd with a grin.

Still sitting on her stool, she began to play, this song was much more lively, and one of her favorites. Supposedly a ballad of a broken hearted man left by the lady he loved. She wasn't sure why she liked it, but she did, and given her outfit of the night, it was very apropos.

Alas my love, you do me wrong,
To cast me out discourteously,
And I have loved you for so long,
Delighting in your company.

This time, she kept an eye on the crowd as she sang Greensleeves for them. Even though the talk had resumed, it was low so as not to overlay the music, but rather run as an undercurrent. She didn't miss the tapping feet or fingers, the bobbing heads, the occasional swaying body as they listened. And as her song came to an end, there was the same raucous applause as before, causing Dhara to fairly glow with confidence. She slipped off the stool and gave a small curtsy, then moved to put Curlew away. She wasn't done, but for the next song, she wanted her beloved lute.

As she tucked the guitar gently in to its case, she spied a tambourine atop the piano and her eyes lit up. She had been fairly mellow in her choice of music, but now, she thought, she'd liven things up with a folksy tune that was about drinking, dancing, and partying. She snatched the tambourine, put the stool to the side and picked up her lute. She unlaced the leather cover and, for the first time, revealed the blonde oak beauty contained inside. Twelve strings graced hand shaped wood. The soundboard was delicately carved with intricate swirls and loops. She eased the strap over her head and then adjusted the mic for her small stature.

She flipped the tambourine so the face lay against the stage, her foot resting gently on the edge. She gave a gentle push and the tambourine rattled satisfactorily. The song started out in a way that seemed slow and mellow, her long fingers moved with expert precision over the strings, the occasional rattle of the tambourine accompanying her tune.

Dancing to the feel of the drum
Leave this world behind
We'll have a drink and toast to ourselves
Under a violet Moon

The second verse followed in a similar fashion, almost slow and mellow. But as it ended, her fingers left the lute strings and she began to clap, encouraging the patrons to join in and participate. Once there was a solid, satisfactory rhythm, she began to play again, the tune having picked up, the tambourine tapping and jingling in time with the clapping.

Raise your hats and your glasses too
We will dance the whole night through
We're going back to a time we knew
Under a violet Moon

The song stayed upbeat from there, a tune that you could easily dance to. It was a campfire favorite that often had the drunken travelers dancing around the jumping flames. She didn't instantly stop playing once the song was over. Just because there were no words, didn't mean the music had to end. So she continued with the tune for a little bit more. At long last, much to her dismay, she realized she had to stop because she was thirsty. So she gently let the music trail off and bowed to the applause.

Picking up the tambourine, she returned it to its rightful spot, then grabbed the leather bag and her satchel. As she made her way towards the bar, she stopped here and there to accept words of praise or chat with the patrons who had enjoyed her impromptu show. At long last, she made it to the bar, flushed and grinning as she climbed on a stool and began to put her lute in it's bag.

"May I have a glass of water?" She asked Elliot, still breathless and smiling like the village idiot.

Under a Violet Moon

[Lancaster]

While Elliot had been distracted at the stage, the pub had got slightly busier. Perhaps the end of class at the University. Perhaps the end of some event at Redheart Arena. Maybe both. Something that has caused the masses to take to the streets in droves, scattering between all the drinking holes on this side of the city. Elliot doesn’t mind. He likes it when it gets busy. It gives him something to do, people to focus on, to help, to nourish and entertain. Though, the entertainment was taken over for the evening, it would seem – the crowd took well to the newcomer on the stage, and Elliot left her to it.

He had fully intended to keep an eye on her, but the business got in the way. He was stuck behind the bar for a few minutes to help pick up on the slack. There was then one guy who kept Elliot busy – some salesman throwing a pitch at Elliot. Some way to help his business a great deal. These guys came in quite often, and Elliot always found it best to be straight with them. To tell them what it was that he needed – sometimes the salesman were able to help him, sometimes they weren’t.

It buoyed his spirits to hear the music liven up a bit, and to hear the crowd’s enjoyment. A happy crowd was a good crowd. A happy crowd would come back for more – they’d see his establishment as that place where they had some good old-fashioned fun. None of this dance rave ****, none of this need to take drugs to have a good time. No, only high quality booze at a reasonable price (definitely not $15.00 for a watered down rum and coke), good, genuine music, and darts and pool to sweeten the deal.

By the time the salesman had finished, so had Dhara. Elliot was aware of the silence settling over the pub, and he couldn’t have that. He gestured to one of the other staff to make sure the juke box was switched back on, while Elliot poured a large glass of cold, filtered water for Dhara. He passed it over.

”I might have to not let you leave. They like you too much,” he said with a wink.

[Dhara]

She laughed and slugged down half her water, taking the time to catch her breath, her feet tapping to the song in her head as she looked over the crowd, a slow smile curling her lips. She loved to perform. It was her heart, soul and the very air she needed to breathe. Shining eyes looked back to Elliot and she canted her head.

"It's not nice to tease a poor minstrel." She joked, but she had a feeling he was only half joking. She thought she could detect a genuine offer to keep playing in his words. An offer that came once in a life time. An offer she would be a fool to pass up. And she might be a lot of things but she was not a fool. She finished off her water and looked around once more. Dare she do it? Turn off the juke box and dominate the entertainment? She knew she could sing and play until the place closed for the night. She nodded at Elliot and grinned again. "You've got a deal. Let's just hope you don't regret it."

With that, she stood up on the bar stool and brought the lute around once more. She didn't need a mic to amplify her voice though they were nice to have. She was surprised to note that when she stood up, the music was turned off. Elliot had some amazingly attentive staff. She drew in a breath and began, half singing, half talking, as she told the story through music.

If I share this with you never speak a word
They would never understand if they ever heard
Gemini, Capricorn, rising in the east
Dancing through the witchwood we began to sing...

She hopped gracefully off the stool and began to play, winding her way through tables and along the walls, up close and personal with the audience, just the way she liked it. She didn't linger to long in any one spot, she had no desire to be a nuisance or interrupt on-going conversations. She sang, she played, she danced like a gypsy, all wild hair and flaring skirts.

Song after song she sang as the minutes and hours ticked by. Some times she claimed the stool for a slow, mellow number, some times she played the ever so precious Curlew, always making certain she was secure in her case before moving to the next number. With the mic and with out, the small girl came alive in the pub. She felt larger than life as she regaled the crowd with her folksy, renaissance style of music. She sang songs of broken hearts, true love and lost treasure. Songs of hope and despair, of life and death. Songs designed for drinking and songs designed for remembering. A seemingly endless variety. Fast, slow, mid-tempo and a cappella.

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were shining and she felt as high as a kite. She swore she could sing forever, but as any good musician, she knew her limits. She could feel the dull throb in her fingers from the tough strings of lute and guitar, the scratchiness of her parched throat. She had to stop and she knew it. But not with out one last rousing song that would involve crowd participation again. Standing on the edge of the stage, she began to clap, setting up the rhythm for the crowd. Clap. Clap. Clapclap. Over and over until they caught on, then she began to play her lute. The song really called for a violin, but she didn't have one, so the lute would have to do.

Merrily we sailed along
Though the waves were plenty strong
Down the twisting river Rhine
Following a song...

The upbeat nature of the song made it impossible to stay still on the stage, so once more she began to skip, twist and twirl her way through the crowd. Every now and again she would pause in her playing and clap along with the crowd again, just to ensure they stayed on beat. Clap. Clap. Clapclap. She wondered how many were actually listening to the lyrics and how many were just listening to the music. As the chorus came, she clapped along with the crowd, trusting her voice to carry the melody.

And the winds would cry, and many men would die
And all the waves would bow down to the Loreley...
And the winds would cry, and many men would die
And all the waves would bow down to the Loreley...

She began to play again, able to tell who was listening to the lyrics by the chuckles here and there. At first it seemed like she was singing about a woman, a beautiful woman that men wanted to posses. And in a way she was, for sailors loved their ships and men loved wealth and treasure. To the point of foolishly risking their lives to obtain both. The song of Loreley was a cautionary tale of chasing a foolish dream and the perils that would befall any who tried to take Loreley and all that she held prisoner beneath the waves.

Oh, the song of Loreley
Charms the moon right from the sky...
She will get inside your mind, lovely Loreley...
When she cries "Be with me until the end of time"
You know you will ever be with your Loreley...

And there was the heart of it. Loreley the temptress, taking men to their watery graves. It was sad, in a way, the lengths people would go to for riches. She often wondered if people held such passion towards each other, if the world wouldn't be a much more peaceful place. But now was not the time for philosophical musings. Now was the time for the chorus, repeated three times. She played the lute just a little longer before letting the music gently fade out. She had made it back to the stage, the applause making her blush as it usually did. She curtsied once or twice, mouthed a dozen "thank yous" before leaving the stage. As she headed back to the bar, she could feel a dull ache beginning in her lower back and it made her smile. If performing didn't hurt, then you weren't doing it right. At least to her way of thinking.

She caught Elliot's eye as she got closer, noting how some one had turned the music back on. She shook a hand here and there, thanked them for listening and for compliments. But she was the tiniest bit distracted. She would kill for a glass of water right now. But instead of running away, she accepted the accolades, answered questions and shook hands, all while making her way slowly, and finally, to the bar. She climbed on her stool, which had, by some miracle, remained free and empty. Pulling her lute strap over her head, she picked up the buttery soft leather cover and began to slide it over the belly of the instrument, grinning like the village idiot the entire time.

"Water, please?" She asked hopefully as she caught Elliot's eye once more.

Cartouche and Loreley

[Lancaster]

Elliot wasn’t one of the most attentive observers.

Dhara’s particular style of entertainment did have him worried for a second – her voice might be strong but so too was the revelry of the pub, which was slowly getting more busy as the night wore on. Although he could hear her over the hubbub, he was not normal; he had the preternatural hearing of a vampire. Even then, while she moved, her brand of music wafted and drifted so that even he lost track of it. He even had a couple of customers complaining when they approached the bar to buy a drink or three. Where’s the music?!

They were sated when Dhara took the stage again, when the music was amplified across the space by the wonders of technology, the speakers spread evenly throughout the space so as to make the best of the building’s acoustics.

Whatever the case, there wasn’t much Elliot could do about the sporadic nature of the night’s entertainment. It was just one night, and when the crowd could hear the music properly, they thoroughly enjoyed it. It kept them happy enough. Those that did complain were plied with the offer of free drinks; Elliot sent them away to continue their revelry, and they stuck around.

He was kept busy behind the bar, serving drinks and cleaning glasses when it looked like they were running low. The industrial dishwasher clinked noisily as he loaded and unloaded, as he quickly wiped the glasses free of heat and condensation, and slid them back to the shelves where they belonged. They didn’t stay there for long. At one point he had to make a quick trip to the storage room to collect more beer – they were running low.

In this way, a few hours passed by; the music started back up from the juke box and Elliot was aware that Dhara was approaching; he was busy concocting a five long island iced teas for a group of girls celebrating a hen’s night. Only when he’d completed their order and taken their payments (one at a time) did he finally find a tall glass and pour the water requested by Dhara. By this time, evening had eked into morning. The crowds were still thriving, but it was noticeable that a few were beginning to leave. It was from about this time onward that the crowds would begin to disperse.

”Well done!” he half-shouted above the noise. He didn’t bother asking whether she had had fun. It was clear in the gleam of her eyes and the flush to her cheeks; he could feel it, vibrating through the air between them. Her elation.

”Might want to stick to the microphone next time, though,” he said, still grinning and gesturing with a nod of his head to stage on the other side of the room. He handed Dhara’s water over.