Re: Neuer Anzug [OPEN]
Posted: 06 Jul 2017, 08:24
The girl explained, and Alaric laughed. The normally serious elder was so thoroughly amused, though it was gratifying to know that his age did not show. Sometimes he felt like it should; sometimes he felt like his face was lined with sagging wrinkles, his eyes spelling a message to all those who encountered him. Unable to see himself in mirrors – in fact, having forgotten what he even looked like beyond the portrait that hung on the wall somewhere in some dusty corner of the manor, he was always surprised when someone commented on his age, or lack thereof.
He shook his head, the laughter dying away. ”I am older than you think,” he said, vague. ”The comparison is lost, but I am in agreement. I will prefer the wood, to the electric. Electricity can be cold, and harsh,” he said. The instruments could be compared to lighting – there was clarity in electric light, and it was not to be mocked. But there was a passion in traditional light, in fire, both controlled and uncontrolled. The latter, of course, he would prefer to avoid.
”But not in here,” he said, gesturing to the domed roof. His eyes narrowed, lips pressed together momentarily before he continued. ”Your electric violin, not the lights. The lights could be less. Your playing was beautiful,” he said, uttering the compliment for the second time. Again, he glanced over his shoulder; he was keeping the young woman from her work – or her past time. And every time he turned from her he was reminded where he was, and aware of the crowds and the noise, of the electricity that he preferred to avoid. Soon, he would have to take his leave.
He shook his head, the laughter dying away. ”I am older than you think,” he said, vague. ”The comparison is lost, but I am in agreement. I will prefer the wood, to the electric. Electricity can be cold, and harsh,” he said. The instruments could be compared to lighting – there was clarity in electric light, and it was not to be mocked. But there was a passion in traditional light, in fire, both controlled and uncontrolled. The latter, of course, he would prefer to avoid.
”But not in here,” he said, gesturing to the domed roof. His eyes narrowed, lips pressed together momentarily before he continued. ”Your electric violin, not the lights. The lights could be less. Your playing was beautiful,” he said, uttering the compliment for the second time. Again, he glanced over his shoulder; he was keeping the young woman from her work – or her past time. And every time he turned from her he was reminded where he was, and aware of the crowds and the noise, of the electricity that he preferred to avoid. Soon, he would have to take his leave.