Sing a Song of Six Pence (Elliot)

[Dhara]

She was a traveler. Not in the gypsy sense of the word, at least not fully. She didn't read palms or tarot cards or any thing. She was more like a minstrel or a bard. Wandering from town to town, country to country, playing her songs for spare change. It was always enough to keep her clothed, fed and sheltered. And it was a life she really enjoyed. She'd been all over the United States and Europe. Walking, hitchhiking and taking buses from one destination to the other. Every thing she owned was in a small bag slung over her shoulder. A few changes of underthings, a couple of skirts and shirts and a spare pare of the soft leather boots with hard soles for walking. And, of course, her most prized possession, slung across her back, covered in soft, scarred leather. A 12 string lute that had been hand crafted just for her.

It was this traveling lifestyle that had brought her to Canada. She had crossed at the Alaska/Canada border, making her way by any means from town to town across the vast expanse of the country. Staying only a night or two in each place, playing her songs and singing to earn her way. Most people looked favorably on her when she played, but some not so much. Dhara didn't let it bother her, music was in her heart and soul, it was the blood in her veins and the fuel that gave her life a spark. Even now as she walked down the street in the cool evening, she was humming a soft song, her plain black skirt swished around her ankles, the soft boots she wore made almost no sound. She was looking for a small place to pop in and have a bite to eat. She still needed to find a room for the night and the phone book hadn't turned up much.

A soft light hit the street and she paused, canting her head to look at the building. Lancaster's Irish Pub. Interesting. She liked Irish fare, it was always warm and filling. And it was usually cheap. She brushed down her skirt, and tugged down the sleeves of her green tunic, a laugh escaping her as she thought of one of her favorite songs.

"Alas my love..." She sang aloud, pulling open the door and stepping inside, the words slipping to a hum, rather than letting the song die. She looked around the pub and finally moved towards the polished bar, climbing up on the stool, she hummed Green Sleeves as she waited for some one to come over, her bag falling to rest at her feet, her lute still slung over her back.

[Lancaster]

Lancaster’s had come a long way since its inception. The business itself hadn’t always been called Lancaster’s. It started as The Necropolis – a deal that Pi had made with Amaranthia to share the establishment. The pub up top, and the nightclub underneath. Elliot never really thought that The Necropolis was a good name for a good old hearty Irish pub, but the deal had been good, and he and Pi had been given freedom to do what they pleased with the upper floor.

It wasn’t destined to last, however. Soon enough they realised that it just wasn’t right. The clientele that came for the nightclub were not the right sort for the pub, and vice versa. The music from the club bled through to the pub, and the riff-raff that came through hardly encouraged the pub regulars to stay. In fact, they’d hardly had any pub ‘regulars’, so to speak. So, he and Pi had made the decision to move the pub to another of their properties. One that they hadn’t yet had the chance to set up properly. The property in Redwood had three floors and was far more suited to their needs. It meant that Pi could have the kitchen installed that she wanted. And it also meant that Elliot could, after a while, establish the backpacker’s on the second floor. A modern kind of set up, with different rooms with different numbers of bunk beds. Not a huge establishment, but enough. Enough for Elliot to feel completely himself again. Enough to gather around him the tourists and the backpackers – the wanderers, and the artists. The carefree, the optimists. He needed those kinds of people to keep himself sane, and happy.

And besides which, those who frequented Redwood were a far preferable clientele than those who frequented Gullsborough. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but they were just far more authentic.

Elliot found himself, again, on the stage. His beloved, battered acoustic cradled in his hands as he crooned into the microphone; another place that he felt at home, and himself. On the stage. He often commandeered Lancaster’s stage to play a few songs. And anyway, from here he could watch the staff, and make sure that the pub was running properly.

”Are you missing a stranger…” he sang, bright eyes dancing between those watching him, and those that weren’t. Watched as a girl in a green dress entered, and as she wandered over to the bar to take a seat.

”…that you might have loved…” he continued, watching still as Alan greeted her with his wide smile, and offered her a drinks and a food menu. Yes, the pub was running smoothly tonight, and his staff were well trained. But it was slowly getting busier, and so he decided that he would finish this one song, before he’d join the others behind the bar.

[Song and Attire]

[Dhara]

The soft humming of her song faded away as a strong, soulful voice took over, filling the air with song. She turned on the stool, adjusting her black skirt as she did so. Her honeyed gaze found the man on stage and she canted her head slightly to listen to him sing. She could get lost in the music quite easily, and was just about to do that very thing when she was greeted by a gentleman who offered a menu. She accepted it with a soft word of thanks, opening it, but not really looking.

She canted her body slightly again to face the stage and listen to the musician on it. She wondered if they did an open mic night sort of thing at this place, and made a mental note to ask. The wooden bracelets that circled slender wrists clicked together softly as she idly twisted a strand of pink and auburn hair around her finger, one foot tapping in time with the tempo.

The man on stage played his guitar as if it were part of him, like music was the very air he needed to breathe. She liked that. She liked that music seemed to be part of him and not just a way to make money. And though the style he played was very different than the minstrelsy that she loved, the shared bond was there. Musicians of all sorts seemed to live in their own type of brotherhood, a companionship forged from having nothing but the music to sustain a person.

When the song ended, she clapped enthusiastically, forgetting the menu in her lap until it slid off and fell to the floor with a splat. A faint rose tinted her cheeks as she hopped off her seat to retrieve it. Climbing back up, she gave the menu her full attention before quietly ordering a hearty soup, crackers and black coffee. Thanks to a generous stranger she'd met earlier in the evening, she could afford to splurge on the coffee, and perhaps a real roof over her head for a few nights.

[Lancaster]

With all his modesty, as soon as the song ended, Elliot only thanked the audience once – he received only a scattered applause, and a couple of enthusiastic claps. There was a slap of wood against hard floor – as all the menus were clipped to wooden clip-boards – which drew Elliot’s attention momentarily to the bar. That’s all it was. Someone had dropped a menu. He shrugged it off as he pushed the falling hair out of his eyes and turned his back to unplug his guitar and pack it up. Before he packed it up, he went to the switchboard at the side of the stage to make sure the music flicked back to the juke box. Elliot had the music system set up so that if no one had any songs selected on the juke box, his own selection collected on his own iPod played through the speakers at a tolerable level.

Once the guitar was packed away, Elliot dropped from the stage. Most had forgotten he was ever on it, which was fine by him. He offered a few smiles as he passed through the slowly gathering crowd. When he reached the bar he was informed of a small hitch with the stock. A minor adjustment needed to be made and Elliot’s signature was needed. He took the form and put pen to paper for two seconds before he slipped in to help a few of the waiting customers.

As he had travelled, he’d busked on street corners to earn the majority of his money. Sometimes that wasn’t enough, however, especially if he felt like jumping the pond and going to a different country. Long boat rides and airfares were, for some reason, far more expensive than buses or trains or hitchhiking. Every job he’d got had been as a bartender, or as a waiter, and sometimes he worked at small gig venues. But mostly, that too required bar service. Although he wasn’t the best at cocktails, he was slowly learning. Thankfully, the majority of his clientele here just wanted plain, good old beer. Or cider. Or the hard liquor. Which was perfectly fine by Elliot.

Except when he heard the coffee machine being fired up behind him. It wasn’t so often at this time of the night that someone ordered coffee. He watched as the coffee was brewed. A black coffee, no less. Elliot continued to watch as the coffee was carried over to its waiting customer. The one who had dropped the menu. Maybe it had been a long day for her.

Elliot smiled at his current customer – a middle-aged man in a suit, who was carrying three full pitchers of beer back to a table full of middle-aged men in suits – and finished off the transaction. He then turned his attention to the woman with the coffee, picking up a dishcloth as he went. The bar beside her was still a little messy from the previous customer, and he went to wipe it down.

“Had a long day?” he asked, curiously, his Australian accent thick as it contrasted with the Canadian brogue around him. He gestured to the coffee with the arch of a brow. This was what Elliot liked to do. This was why he liked his job. Striking up conversations with strangers was, seemingly, his reason for living. Aside from Pi, of course. And his music.

[Dhara]

She had watched him subtly as he moved from the stage to behind the bar. Was this the "Lancaster" of Lancaster's Irish Pub? Curiosity had her following his every move. He was what the romance writers would call ruggedly handsome, with an open, friendly face. Music was in his bones and in the way he dealt with people and paperwork alike. She could have kept watching him but the smell of coffee had her turning to the mug that was placed before her.

"Thank you!" She said with a genuine happiness as she wrapped her long fingers around the mug. The heat seeped through and she half closed her eyes, listening to the chatter around her. She let her mind wander, tangling with the music in her head and the scent of fresh brewed coffee. It wasn't until an Australian accent slipped in to her thoughts that she recalled where she was.

"What?" She asked dumbly, trying to pick out the question he had asked her from her thoughts. She heard him, she knew she had. She blinked, sipped her coffee, then flashed him a laughing smile. "No, not really. Coffee is just one of those luxuries I can't always afford." The soft clatter of wood on wood filled the comfortable silence as she rest her arms on the bar, the wooden bracelets caressing the polished wood of the bar. She watched him for a moment, adjusting her lute strap out of habit.

"I liked your song. You seem to really love music." She said in to the space between them, sipping her coffee again, letting her words drift a moment before speaking again. "Are you the owner of this place?"

[Lancaster]

”I am indeed,” Elliot replied as he continued to wipe the bench. Only after the bench was clear of muck did he take the time to lean against the bar with his hip, tossing the cloth between his hands. He never really could keep his hands still; he always had to have something to do with them. ”Elliot Lancaster, at your service,” he added with a slight bow; the hair that he so often pushed out of his face fell forward again. He didn’t notice it, and left it there. He’d tried cutting it, once. It grew back again before the night was over. He soon realised that no matter what he did to change his appearance, he’d always very quickly revert back to the way he looked the night he was sired – the same length of hair, the same length of stubble, the same everything. It seemed he could only change his appearance if he focused; if he believed himself to look a different way for a prolonged period of time. But who could be bothered with that much focus? Elliot had never really given two flying tosses about how he looked, and he wasn’t about to start now.

Of course, he could have introduced himself as Elliot d’Artois, or even Elliot Lancaster d’Artois. But he could tell just by looking at her that this woman was human. And trying to explain why he’d attached a very exotic French last name to his ordinary name would be too difficult, especially when the knack of lying seemed to be one he could not manage. He could be vague, but he wasn’t in the habit of being vague. Better just to let it go.

Elliot could also tell that this woman was genuinely content, happy. The vibe trilled from her. Not so much an aura, but a slight change in atmosphere that only Elliot could detect. He hadn’t yet met another vampire with the same skill. And he knew he wasn’t imagining it, like some bunk gypsy fortune teller. Of course he had noticed the slight hint of… was it Australia, or was it a Kiwi accent? He’d have to hear her talk a little more. Easy done.

Of course he had noticed the instrument strapped to her back. It was all covered up, but still, he knew what it was. A lute – he sold lutes at the other shop. He gestured to the instrument, while also commenting upon the woman’s previous observation:

”I think I’d be dead if I didn’t have music. You play, too?” he asked, inquiringly.

[Dhara]

"Dhara Sabria." She said in reply, an utterly ambiguous name to go with an ambiguous accent. Her parents were of an undisclosed ethnic background and Dhara herself had been born in Germany. Then lived in Australia followed by a stint in New Zealand. Add in all the time she spent backpacking across any country she could get to, and her words came out in an exotic, jumbled up accent that was neither pure German nor pure Australian. As much as she was a mutt so was her accent.

Dhara didn't mind, she felt it made her unique, gave her a quality that helped her stand out from the rest of the tourists. It also helped her earn the spare change they were reluctant to part with. She took another look around the comfortable pub, her eyes landing on the stage for a moment before turning back to Elliot and his next question. As she heard the confirmation and his question, her eyes lit up once more and that happy, go-lucky smile was back.

"I feel the exact same way. I am far less concerned about the clothes on my back or food in my stomach than I am about music. I would rather starve than not be able to play. Though I suppose I couldn't play if I was starving to death..." She mused thoughtfully for a moment, then sipped her coffee and grinned again. "Lucky for me that will never happen because I always manage to earn enough spare change for a small meal and a roof over my head. Of course there are priorities, I have no problem sleeping on a park bench if I have to choose between food and a room."

She paused and exhaled slowly, then grinned at Elliot. "Sorry, I ramble a bit I guess. Short answer, yes, I play. The lute is my favorite instrument, but I also play the guitar and the fiddle. Not really a fan of the fiddle though. OH! And I play the ukulele." She chuckled softly and grinned at Elliot. "And, of course, I sing. What about you? Musician-pub owner extraordinaire? Is the guitar the only instrument you play?"

[Lancaster]

Elliot chuckled. This was why he enjoyed his job so much. This was why Pi had been entirely on the mark when she'd bought this business for him, when she'd instigated the entire processs of Elliot Lancaster fronting and being the face for a warm, Irish pub-like establishment. Maybe Pi didn't know when she did it. But this is exactlly what Elliot needed. This is where he felt at home. Every city in the world had a pub like this, a place where people gathered. There was not a physical home that he would always want to go home to; the pubs would be his home. Why? Because it was here that he met those of a like mind. The tourists and the backpackers and the carefree. Nowhere else could he have this kind of conversation.

"Mmm, it's probably why I'm such a stick," he said, spreading his arms and stepping back just a small step to give a few of his very tall, stick-like figure. He stood at six feet and six inches, and had next to no body fat to keep himself insulated. Not that he needed the insulation. Not anymore. "Iagree entirely. Only enough food to survive. I don't get hungry if I'm playing, or writing," he said. And, all the while, he was thinking about the instruments that he played, all the different ways in which he expressed himself musically.

"You've already met Curlew," he said, gesturing to the stage where his old battered acoustic was safelly tucked away in its case. "Ido prefer the acoustic, but I play... well, everything. The piano," he said, again arching a brow at the stage at the other end of the room. There was a stage piano up there, too, in the back corner. He normally played it for the crowd on the quieter week nights, or when he was feeling particularly melancholic. "I also have a Eukelele at home," he said with a grin. "But I also own a music shop, in the mall. I sell instruments, and teach, and mend things," he admitted. He, too, could ramble if given the opportunity. It depended - he hated the meaningless small talk, but if it had anything to do with music, you couldn't get him to shut up. Or, get him on the topic of something philosophically meaningful, he'd talk until the sun came up, and more.

"Do you sing, too, or do you just play the lute?" he asked, turning the topic back over to Dhara rather than continuing to rattle on about himself.

[Dhara]

She took in his lean figure and nodded. She had no such spectacular height, standing only 5'3", and she was just as rail thin, but it was probably due to her constant travels and bird like meals. Her mix of renaissance and hippy style of dress hid just how thin she was unless you looked at the delicate musicians hands or the fine bone structure of her face. She was just about to answer when her soup arrived and she took a moment to inhale the aroma, making a small sound of appreciation.

"I hope this tastes as good as it smells." She teased, though she was in no great rush to eat as they were on a mutually favorite subject. "I play and I sing. Some times, though rarely, I have been known to dance. But woe be to he who is my partner, for he may loose a toe... or a foot." She chuckled and flattened her hands on the bar. Here and there she had a ring on a finger, costume jewelry mostly, except for the thin silver band on the ring finger of her right hand. Each wrist was encircled by three or four wooden bracelets, some thin and plain, while one or two were wide and intricately carved.

"I pretty much just walk from town to town, playing and singing for my supper. Some times I hitch hike, and some times I can afford the luxury of a bus ticket. But you see so much of the world when you are on your own two feet. It's pretty amazing." Her stomach growled at her, reminding her of the delicious aroma coming from the bowl in front of her. She cooled off a spoonful and ate it, making another happy sound. After wiping her mouth with a napkin, she gave one of those laughing smiles again.

"My compliments to the chef!" She said enthusiastically, then dove right back in to the subject at hand. "I find that most people, not all, but most, are happy to stop for a few moments and listen to a song or two. Some even part with their spare change. But you know, even if they don't, they still walk off with a smile and maybe a small, happy memory of a random girl singing a random song on a random street corner." She managed to stem the flow of babble and eat a few more bites of her soup while she waited for his commentary. She had quite a few questions to ask him, curiosity was her hamartia it seemed. And yet, she never once thought twice about reining it n.

[Lancaster]

In the woman across from him, Elliot seemed to have discovered a female version of himself. He leaned against his side of the bar, long fingers balanced against the edge. Dhara’s words bring memories to mind; all the different rooms that he stayed in, having gained the generosity of a local or by working in places such as Lancaster’s, with rooms upstairs and a bar downstairs. America, London, China, Cambodia, Paris, South Africa. More places than he can count on his fingertips, and it was Canada that finally caught him, kept him, chained him, even, though he now realised that he wasn’t in chains. He chose to stay. Restlessness shook him every now and again, but mostly, he was okay. He had his distractions, and the things that he cared about. And that would be enough.

He remembered standing in the freezing cold or in the burning, dripping humid heat. He remembered singing on those corners, or on train station platforms – he remembered doing it even if he didn’t need the cash, only because he enjoyed it, and he believed that every person’s life should be accompanied by a soundtrack. And when the wanderlust weaved through his veins, thick and fast, he’d pack up and he’d leave, just like that. No warning. One morning he’d just wake up and know that it was time to move on. And, just as Dhara said – all it took was a friendly stranger, a cheap bus ticket, or even just the plodding of his feet, one step after another. The world was his oyster.

Immortality started to lose its intimidation only when he realised that he would now have the opportunity, and the time, to see every single city, in every single country, all over the world. And there was no rush.

”I will pass on your compliments,” he said with a nod, before leaning in with his hip and lightly crossing his arms over his chest.

”I was the same. I went wherever the wind swept me, until I came here. Circumstance required me to settle,” he said, the words flowing from his tongue with ease. Not a lie. And not the entire story, either. ”But I have created a home for the likes of yourself. There are cheap rooms upstairs and,” he pointed to the stage, ”And open mic night… well, officially on Thursdays, but I use it whenever I like,” he said with a mischievous grin. The hair was still hindering his vision. He lifted a hand and brushed it out of the way.