Music in the Park (Open)

[Bartimas (DELETED 5582)]

Remembering where is where in this city is rapidly becoming a problem for the recently turned vampire, he is finding. While walking about, it was quite easy to count steps and remember landmarks to know where one was, and his newly discovered talent for simply finding himself with a bit of will, and mental energy arriving someplace throws off his sense of direction in a level he is finding most disturbing of late. But certain places in his memory do still linger he finds, fondly, and arriving to those locations is a simple enough task. A certain little cozy spot under a bush is always where he appears, safely out of sight for that crucial moment of simply... Appearing.

Dragging himself out from the narrow, rocky crevice amidst one of the more treed areas of the park, he brushes himself off. Each night, after endless hours chopping with both hands the shambling, groaning monstrosities lingering in his sire's lobby, he looks forwards to scrubbing himself clean, and then appearing here, alone with his thoughts, and the soft sounds of the knight. As always, post what he delicately, and at least internally, refers to as 'stress release and exercise for the greater good', chopping into the shambling bits that used to be men, he always feels... So much better. So much more alive... This new life, this new power which has been growing within him over the last month seeming to leap and spark with each pack of blood to pass his lips, each chunk of dead flesh hacked from things which smell and sound so... Disgusting only making him feel better, both as a person, and as the... Darker sort of enjoyment. A pleasure in the growing strength in his arms, skill in the gifted blade, and the satisfying 'Thunk' or 'Shlick' of spilled blood and organs, rotted flesh giving way under the swing of his now corded arms.

Someone who would see him now might barely recognize him for the blind street performer he used to be, living on the street, in the alley way. While not clean shaven, lacking the practice, and the want to indulge such a look, he is kept up in his own way. His hair is clean, the dark brown normally carefully washed clean of the gore, to rest over his head, framing his handsome features and the ever present sunglasses covering the ruined area of his eyes. Slowly, he feels over his clothing, taking care to brush all the felt dirt off of the dark blue slacks he wears, the loose, collared white shirt covering his now muscular, corded torso. In one hand, he carries the ever present cane, long, white, tipped in red and carefully tapping across the ground in front of each of his steps, while the other hand carries a guitar case, a smaller violin case slung at his hip. This far into the park, isolated, he is rarely bothered so late in the evening, and so he finds his way to his favorite bench, stepping slowly, walking with the surety of someone who can reach every object in their darkened bedroom at night, practiced, but slow and careful.

Settling upon the simple bench, he rests the violin case in his lap, and guitar case between his legs, laying down on it's back, unlatched, but still closed. The contents of the guitar case would surprise most, the heavy blade he has been working to take such good care of, known only by feel to his hands. Carefully, he opens the violin case, drawing forth the old but serviceable violin contained therein. While cleared aged, it has been oiled and lovingly cared for, and his fingers are as practiced upon the strings as he quietly tunes it as any master. Carefully, he draws forth the bow, adjusting it in turn before he lifts the instrument to his throat, and carefully plays a scale. Simple. A C scale, just running up the notes. First long whole strokes of the bow, then faster ones. Then he changes direction, moving up in thirds now, before up and down chromatically in a quick strum of his hands.

With a smile, he begins to quietly play, his deft fingers upon the strings keeping the sounds soft, but earnest, confined to this section of the park as a soft sound playing, simply letting the pleasant, beautiful melody flow off of the strings as he allows himself to quietly sink into the music...

[Pi dArtois]

What Pi is Wearing

It got cold really quickly. Weather in this part of the world was a mercurial mistress swinging quickly from one extreme to the other in the blink of an eye. Pi much preferred the temperate weather of her home country, although it couldn’t be said to be without winter, at least there was a warning before it descended, a chance to appreciate the slowly shifting weather pattern and prepare your body for the frigid cold. No such luck here in Harper Rock, Canada. Here, the cooler weather could swoop from the higher climes and catch the unwary and it felt like October, when she should have been appreciating the changing foliage, Mother Nature decided that winter, sub-zero winter, would come with a hiss and roar.

So she wore a jacket. An orange one, because why not. If she wasn’t going to be able to appreciate the fall weather as a slowly approaching glide of changing seasons then by god she’d wear the colour in passive protest of the chill that had replaced autumn. Sadly, since it was so frigid, it meant she had to wear boots and scarf and her silk undershirt to keep the rest of her bits warm.

The thing about being vampire was the fact she didn’t actually need any of what she wore. She could happily run naked around for hours in this sub-zero weather and not a single dangly bit on her body would protest/turn blue/fall off or otherwise complain about the treatment. Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on your point of view) it was generally accepted, flagrant nudity in sub-zero weather brought a little too much attention and the potential for strait jacket. Pi’s lips lifted as the image of vampires running naked through the streets stampeded through her mind. Bits dangled and wobbled and shook and she coughed on a surprised laugh. The smile shifted to a laugh as she walked, letting the night dictate the direction her feet led her. She could have taken the portal, in fact she had so many portals there wasn’t a part of the city she couldn’t get to that she could avoid all of this sub-zero weather altogether, but, it was time to get the hell out of her self imposed isolation.

She was in danger of becoming a hermit. A woman with too many cats, holed up in her little world eschewing daily interaction with anyone else in order to keep better control of her environment. Pi, really didn’t like the mental image of THAT particular future, not in the slightest. Which is why she stepped out of the Training Room, intending to walk the short distance to the business she owned with Elliot.

There was somewhere she had to be, Lancasters first, then the Training Room second. Lancaster’s only because she always went there in the beginning of the night. An hour to check in with staff, maybe even sit and listen to whatever music was scheduled or just relax. The rest of the night she would spend back at the Training Room, looking at accounts and considering what she could do to the place to advertise it as a place for new vampires to come if they needed.

With rooms in the back, a full shower and training gear, The Training Room had the potential to help, if help is what new vampires needed. A place to stay, a place to train, and a place to shower. It was what she needed when she was young and abandoned to the streets, somewhere to stay, somewhere to get clean and somewhere she could live that wasn’t an abandoned shack. Ticking off a mental list in her head Pi made a brain-note to talk to Mora. If the place was to fulfill the use she had planned for it so many years ago, then the best thing she could do was give it over to TFF and let it be, exactly as she had intended it to be all those years ago.

It was the violin that stopped her, making her turn around. It came from behind, back towards the bank. The lonely refrain of a violin, scales first, and then more. So much more. She couldn’t see who played but she could close her eyes and imagine the fingers, nibble, they would be nibble and they would play along the neck of the violin, only nibble fingers could run along the strings to bring out this level of sound, soft eerie, chilling and poignant.

Turning on her heel she stopped, indecision warring. Isn’t this why she had made the conscious effort to leave the Den. Wasn’t it for moments exactly like this that she purposely chose to walk. How could any person experience a life when they weren’t willing to discard the safety of their four walls and live it.

Straightening Pi turned her back on the street she had so determinedly walk towards earlier. What were signposts like these but moments you made a choice to turn and appreciate. If you had an eternity in which live, wouldn’t the choice then be, to experience … all of it.

He was sitting on a park bench, a guitar case sitting beside him, the open violin case on the other side. He wore sunglasses and it was immediately clear by the white stick propped beside him, why. Blind. Music, poignant sounds pulled from an instrument created to make a person weep was played by a man who couldn’t see. It was fitting really, wasn’t it? That a blind man could speak in this form, when his eyes weren’t able to see.

Pi stood, waiting, watching. Others stopped beside her, the cold not bother her and seemingly, not them either as a small group gathered, stood, and listened.

[Bartimas (DELETED 5582)]

It is strange, the feeling of zen he reached when simply playing. Whether for an audience, or simply on his own, playing that this old violin is simply the best way to pass the time in his opinion. His fit frame moves slowly, his arm gracefully gliding back and forth, coaxing that bow along the strings as his fingers work over the bridge, pressing down so firmly to coax changes in the notes from the strings. Each graceful motion of his arm is practiced, the work of someone who plays violin a great deal, to say the least. Slowly, the song would come to a halt, and he pauses in his seat, quietly adjusting the instrument. At first, he seems… Almost unaware of the crowd, before his head lifts upwards, turning that blind gaze in the direction of the soft murmur of voices of appreciation from not far away.

There is bemusement in his expression, and his gaze lifts towards the oncoming sounds with a soft smile, touching the sunglasses further back onto his brow, drawing them closer to his face as he says simply enough “Im not playing out well past midnight again, Am I? This is the exact same sort of crowd I got once for playing too late into the night…’ He smiles faintly, the expression twisting, but amused, friendly to say the least. He shifts back in his seat, lifting the instrument a moment, carefully turning it in his hands before he lifts the butt of the instrument back to his throat.

“Would you folks care for another song?” after a brief pause of the murmurs of reply, his gaze directed blindly across the crowd, perhaps eight people in total. His fingers toy with the strings, adjusting them in that same, careful manner before he simply smiles now, saying quietly “Another it is then…” Almost under his breath, he hums once more, then begins to play. This is a mournful sort of sound, echoing softly out from the strings as he glides the bow across them once more in slow strokes. Soft, in a minor key, it is clearly perhaps meant to be have something sung alongside it, but the sad melody is clear, beautiful, simple chords simply echoing in the night. Whereas the previous song he had played was something he almost seemed to be making up, or adapting as he went along, this is clearly something he has practiced a great deal, echoing out from the instrument as he plays the short little melody before coming to a close, simply lowering the instrument to his lap and quietly sitting there in silence

[Mordechai]

Dressed in his signature black on black on black color scheme Mordechai glided silently through the shadows of the park. Nearly invisible to all but the sharpest eyes he restlessly wandered. Already he had crossed paths with two of the humans called blood thieves. Strangely enough they hadn't seemed to like it when he took a donation of their blood, instead of offering his own. The massive killer had left the bodies posed for discovery, another gangland killing. No vampires here.... A low chuckle escaped his lips, then once more he started to silently prowl. He had no goal in mind, no set place to be. His recent introspection had left him, unsettled, so to speak, and now he wandered in solitude, seeking the peace he had once enjoyed. It seemed as tho winter was just around the corner, just yesterday there had been a thin film of frost coating the ground before he had settled for the day. Although it wasn't too cold right now, a few of the nights had dropped below zero.

Mordie stopped to watch two squirrels fight over an acorn, when he first heard it. A soft gentle melody, floating on the wind. It was a stringed instrument, of that he was sure, but he could not place it. Turning slowly his ears absorbed the sound... it was calming. It was, good. Turning towards the notes drifting on the wind, Mordechai stalked forward, silent as ever, but a different prey in his sights. the music paused, and the killer stopped, ears straining. There was a murmur of voices, then the music started up again. Different this time, clean and simple, but still soothing. Somehow this soft music floating on the wind brought peace to him. The old saying about beasts and music flitted thru his mind as he finally appeared at the back of the small gathering. His sense picked out that it was a mixed gathering, it was late for humans, so only a few were present. One female 'pyre he recognized, and gave her a slight nod before concentrating on the man seated before him.

The man appeared to be blind, all the props were in place, but he didn't not appear a beggar. The guitar case was closed, no hat nor cup sat nearby for loose change. The song ended, shorter than the first, and the vampire, for vampire he was, lowered the violin to his lap. Mordechai waited a moment, but the male just sat. Spying the open violin case on the bench beside him, Mordechai stepped forward and flipped a one hundred dollar bill into the violin case as he spoke one word, in his graveled voice.

''More''

[Pi dArtois]

Pi didn’t know enough classical music to make a suggestion when he asked and he segued so quickly into the next, whatever she had intended to say had to wait as the stranger put the violin under his chin and continued to play.

She was tempted to close her eyes, to let the melody drift and surround her.

Music is a transportation device, a time machine that can lift your spirit from where it currently resides into the past or future. It can create an evocative moment, where the present falls away and only timeless sound remains. It can make you cry, or leave you wanting to move with its pulsing beat until you become as mindless as the repetitious beat and thumping rip. This, however, was the sort that brought memories of sunshine and a park with green grass, crisp under your fingertips. Blades filtering through hands that explored the stalks as you lean back with your face tilted to the sun. Purple flowers, lavender fields stretching for eternity in all directions, until all you could see, and all you could smell was first note of poignant perfume.

Chill bumps crawled along her skin, making her shiver. Not in cold, but in memory.

A violin was that and more, the beginning of a slice in time that swept you away. It brought back memories of her daytime life, those small moments, preciously held in secretive parts of your mind.

If Elliot were here she could lean into him and rest her cheek on his shoulder, his arm resting easily around her waist and she could share this moment. This was music for couples, for memories, for considering where you were.

Instead she returned Mordechai’s nod and held herself aloof. She didn’t close her eyes because despite sitting somewhere at the top of the current food chain, she couldn’t let her guard down and while she knew one of the people standing around her, she didn’t know all of them. Pi could appreciate the music but not at the expense of natural caution.

She was naturally cause and naturally cautious people weren’t inclined to let their guard down easily.

She was a potential hermit slowly trying to crawl out of her self imposed bubble. A bubble she had populated with just her and Elliot, a two person bubble she’d happily lived in for the last year. People who had once lived in bubbles didn’t easily live in the moment. Even when them moment was filled with music like this.

Pi slid another glance at Mordechai, her expression curious. Lips pursed she considered greeting the man but didn’t want to interrupt the violinist, so didn’t. But as she stood there she tried to remember the last time she’d spoken to the man. Months, maybe a year or two? He was the man who had taught her how to break into buildings, which ones to choose, what to pull out of them. He’d also given her tips on hacking, the basic tools to help her claw back a bit of her self respect, one dollar at a time, until she could afford an apartment of her own. Put in terms like that, she then wondered why she hadn’t kept in touch, wondered what it was about how she maintained friendships that she let them lag until she stood on a street, like this, wondering where the time went and what she’d done to squander the good will sent her way by someone so long ago.

Turning her body so she faced the tall man, Pi waited until the music was done and Mordechai had asked for another. “It has been too long since we’ve spoken Mordechai. You look.. bigger.” She opened, wondering if it was just her or whether he’d actually… grown.

Turning to the musician, using it as an excuse to move a bit closer to the man she hadn’t seen in so long. “It’s not too late.” She said then, remembering what it was she’d wanted to say to the musician, and his question before he’d started player.

“But later.. if you would like, I own a bar not far from here, if you would like a drink, I’d be happy to buy you one.” She offered, letting the musician decide either way what he’d like to do. “You too Mordechai, if you would like?”

[Bartimas (DELETED 5582)]

Bartimas can’t help but lift his face slightly, hearing firstly the silence that surrounds him. For a moment, there is a softer look to his eyes. Memories of his own, washing through him. Of a simpler time, an easier time, even then what he currently has… Memories of youth, seated, playing for small crowds and gatherings… Even of later in his life, of having so little, and living so uncomfortably about the streets, he would still find solace in moments like this. Playing for small crowds of people…. Where each pleased murmur, or appreciative sound his sharp ears could catch was its own reward.

As the newcomer steps forwards, and his graveled voice requests another, his ears do indeed catch the sound of paper rustling, of a bill being drawn forth. It was something he had heard once upon a time, and relished in, the monetary reward meaning hot meals. As he sits there in silence a moment longer, contemplating, he drifts back over what he has now. What he has been given, for really it is given, what Ursa had given to him. His soft, balanced tenor replies to that graveled, harsher toned voice as he says simply “You do not need to tip me, Sir. I play because I enjoy it… Because it reminds me of a time when the instrument was all I had. I think I would like to make the polite gesture and offer you all seats, and welcome you to sit a while… But I fear I have taken the only real seat, given where you have stumbled upon me….” He gestures to the side, at the bench with his violin case and cane resting upon it, managing a wry smile.

He turns his head slightly towards the woman who has edged closer, listening to her offer of a beverage before he says simply enough “If you would like to offer, I will not refuse…. Someone told me recently I should put myself out there more…” He smiles, blind gaze tracking around the small crowd before he says softly, almost to himself “Didn’t expect to draw an actual crowd with it…” his smile is warm however, a radiant expression lighting up his face, which normally looked so worn, or simply determined, focused other times.

There is a careful moment as he adjusts the instrument, lifting it up towards his throat once more before he murmurs under his breath

“Ask not a song to be sung, or a bell to be rung. The answer is all… And none. The answer is all and none…”(-L.E. Modesitt, Jr.)

in a soft verse, a poem it seems, barely remembered, even in his own mind, but he murmurs it under his breath regardless.

Carefully, he begins to play once more, his expression changing somewhat. There is a soft distance there, a peace, a slackening of the muscles in his cheek and neck, even as the smile fades, only a soft tension between his brows… Concentration. This time, the song is not as soft, or peaceful, although his expression does not change. His arm begins moving quickly, a fast, but smooth melody… Long, lingering notes pouring off of the instruments at a face pace. It is grand, soaring, each whole note drawn out, lingering, his careful hands skilled on the strings to allow the music to climb. While the music is simply that, Music… One could almost imagine the tone… The way the music soars. Tall mountains, grassy fields… Old, grand buildings, standing stately among peaceful surroundings. A song, all the more beautiful for trying to depict something the blind man would never see… Beauty, History, nature’s grandeur… It has the polished air that would show it likely was a song he learned from another, rather than writing himself, or playing on the spot. It is a lengthy piece, soaring up and down for nearly ten minutes, his brows furrowed the entire time in concentration.

His memory, observers could easily note, is impeccable for music, not a single misstep in the playing at all. But soon enough, as all good things must end, so does the song slowly come to a halt. He rests there a moment or two after the song's conclusion, the instrument simply resting at his throat with the bow falling to his lap. He sighs... but it is more exhale then sigh, a release. His smile is warm though, as he lowers the instrument once more.

[Mordechai]

“You do not need to tip me, Sir. I play because I enjoy it… ''

Mordechai nodded, understanding the sentiment, then realizing the nod would go unnoticed by its intended recipient, growled out ''I tipped, because I enjoyed it.'' Turning towards the female, Pi, he again nodded. ''Much time has passed.'' Turning back the massive males eyes locked onto the lithe fingers of the violinist, drawn in by the way they nimbly danced up and down the violins neck, pressure on the frets giving both subtle, and distinctive changes in tone and note. A subtle touch of his spirit revealed the musician to be a mystic, and once again the killer nodded, this time to himself. Those long and nimble fingers that caressed the strings and frets so lovingly, yet authoritatively would be a great asset to a mystic, and the spells the cast. This one had potential as a vampire, and was already at an apex, as a violinist.

The third song was faster, but no less melodious, no less skillfully played. Long soaring notes made by long coordinated strokes of the bow lent grandeur to the song, wings to the notes. Slowly Mordechai drew closer. As always his subconscious kept track of the location and actions of everyone in the vicinity, but his conscious thoughts were concentrated solely on the music. His eyes and ears connecting the motions to the notes, the actions to the reactions. While he absentmindedly broke down the song and music to its mathematical basics, he was no less moved by the soulful grandeur of the actual piece. It drew him in. Consoled him. The harmonious serenity of the music was a balm to his soul, if the beast that he had become actually had a soul, the jury was still out on that. This song was longer. It was almost hypnotic the way the killer was affected by these songs. That the musician was a true artist, there was no doubt. Slowly the song wound down, and the artist sat quietly. A almost imperceptible shudder shook Mordechai. He turned his head taking in ever aspect of the small knot of admirers listening to the violinist. Then turning his head back towards Pi for a moment he wait till eye contact was made. ''I am free.'' Stepping back slightly so that he was once more on the outskirts of the gathering, he paced the perimeter. The wheels of his brain were spinning, analyzing, comparing, trying to figure out, what it was about the sounds he had heard, and how they had affected him. It was not logical. Once again facing Pi he thought on her unanswered question and replied ''Yes.''

This night was definitely different than the norm. Slowly he lowered his head, it had been unique, but by definition that meant it would not happen again. Maybe though, maybe if.... Stepping forward again, Mordechai stopped in front of the male mystic. ''My name is Mordechai. Do you play publicly often?''

[Pi dArtois]

Pi was pleasantly surprised at the acquiesce from the stranger and Mordechai both. Her invitation to the two men to join her at Lancaster’s was an impromptu one and she supposed people who kept telling her to get out more were right, sometimes it paid off.

It wasn’t what she would have expected. She had always assumed people were much like her, cautious and slow to jump into situations she hadn’t taken the time to assess. Except, hadn’t she just handed out an invitation to a stranger and a man she hadn’t talked to in months? Maybe, she wasn’t as closed off as she thought she was. Maybe that too, was an excuse to fend off uncomfortable self assessments about her own reactions, and what caused them. Maybe, there were just one too many maybes in her life. And probably ( which lets face it is no better than a maybe) she needed to get over her reluctance and embrace what it was, she was doing here and the success of being … in part, open to something new.

And being here was certainly that. She waited through this next piece, in no rush to go anywhere, not even a hint of awkwardness for standing there in the middle of the night (in sub degree weather) listening to the strains of an evocative violin.

When the music finished she stepped forward, a smile on her face, although she realised how meaningless it would be to a man who couldn’t see. It was for herself, her smile, because she was pleasantly surprised and happy to be doing something so different and with company which proved pleasantly distracting.

There was something to be said about getting out more. Pi waited graciously for the violinist to finish answering Mordechai’s question before offering her own name in return. It was, only polite that they all knew who each other was, considering how fortuitous their meeting was proving to be and the fact it looked like they were destined to spend a bit more time in each other’s company.

“Je suis Pi.” She offered, introducing herself in the way she usually did, in French because she was French and because, in Canada no one looked at you sideways for speaking the language. “Do you need any help packing up? I’d love you to continue playing once we reached the bar if you like… but maybe it will be a bit … warmer.”

“It’ll be good to talk to you again Mordechai…’ she continued seamlessly, “It has been a while.”

[Bartimas (DELETED 5582)]

The young man smiles faintly, turning his blind gaze firstly towards the gravel-toned man who had spoken first. He smiles faintly at the statement of the others enjoyment, mentally wondering what it is he is overall getting himself into this evening, one way or another. Either way, he says simply “My name is Bartimas… Most people call me Barty though…” he hesitates, lifting one hand up to push the sunglasses back closer to the bridge of his nose before his sightless vision is directed towards the other woman who had spoken. For a moment, his head tracks back and forth, as if unsure of who to focus upon before he simply fixes his gaze between the two. Compromising, as it were.

He says simply “I admit, years of living on the street have done a certain amount to help me ignore the weather. I barely realize when it is cold or not cold anymore. As long as the temperature stays… Vaguely in some sort of reasonable distance from where it was the day before, I adapt… Things are… Very strange lately, what with a real place to stay and all...’ He simply smiles, shaking his head a moment before he says to the crowd more at large “I hadn’t really realized how late it must be getting. I’ll be heading off for the night I think. Thank you all for listening… I’ll try and be around periodically…’ he then smiles that warm expression once more before he begins to carefully put away the violin, taking care with his dexterous fingers on the wood, loosening the strings ever so slightly, before carefully latching the ancient instrument back into place, sliding the bow into its own slot mostly by feel.

Each gesture is practiced, quite practiced, and almost automatic seeming, or as if he could see it, his careful touches sliding the case closed, fingering the bill he received. For a moment, he contemplates handing it back, or making a show of protesting, but thinks better of it, carefully grasping the small slip of paper and tucking it into a pocket. He rises, re-latching the guitar case tighter closed, before attaching both cases to his back. The guitar case hangs like a backpack along his back, while the violin case hangs at his hip, carefully slung to not bounce overly much. One hand lifts his cane once more, holding it carefully in his grasp as he says simply “I will have to ask you to lead me along I am afraid. I will end up hopelessly lost otherwise I fear….”

[Mordechai]

''Bartimas'' Mordechai repeated the name under his breath while studying his face. Both were committed to memory as he watched the violinist close up shop. The practiced moves, done sight unseen, reminded the killer of the nights he sat in his office, eyes closed as he stripped and rebuild the 'instruments' of his trade. Muscle memory and repetition was an amazing thing. They made it to where no thought was needed, freeing your mind to maintain your surroundings, as the mundane was handled. As the small gathering thinned his eyes swept over Pi.

She was a killer as well, and from the times he had seen her in the distance as he prowled the sewers liberating them from the paladins, he knew she was also good at her trade. He knew she ran a bar or two from the talk he overhead when Cinnamon had gotten into it with the D'Artois that one time. A small shake of his head as he thought on his kennedy's sire. That is one he would never use a head shot on. He doubted even his .338 lapua could penetrate that thick skull. He considered why he had answered as he had. Normally he would have just nodded acknowledgement, and walked away. He did not socialize. He did not 'visit'. He walked the shadows, observed and killed. He had been a solo ac so long as a human it had just naturally transferred with his transformation. Until now. He had to fix the nagging thoughts that ran through his head, and all that he had talked to said he needed to change. It was to ingrained to happen over night, but he was trying. '' You do serve non-alcoholic beverages, correct?'' he queried ''It is not a pretty sight when I drink alcohol.'' He gave her a wink. There, that was humor, correct? he asked himself. Running his hand over the rough canvas of the oil-skin duster the covered his granite-like abdomen, he nodded, ''I have added a few pounds.'' Slipping the Stetson from his pate, the seven foot killer ran his hand over his before replacing it and tapping it down to a slight angle.

Obsidian eyes drifted back toward Bartimas as he finished up his preparations to leave. His gaze captured the indecision as the musician finger the hundred, before pocketing it. His mind whirled, to figure out what gaffe he had made by offering a tip to what he had perceived as a street musician when first discovered. He knew that humans often followed that course of action in a similar circumstance. Puzzled, he absentmindedly scratched at the beard on his chin. With a slight shrug, he spoke, ''No insult intended. You...no, not you, your music, did something to me that was appreciated. That was...a token of appreciation.''