March Sadness

[daemoniumexmachina]

Who: Efrain, the Prince of Sorrow's Song, and you!
What: Sadboy open mic night
When: March 24th
Where: Empty Pockets
Warning(s): I'm not sure how to describe it other than it's a huge bummer.



-Lover, come to the kitchen floor; the tiles are cold and so am I-

In late March, posters begin cropping up around town and on the bulletin board. They are beautifully made, on gray paper with swooping white letters, advertising a "Sing Your Heart Out" event at the Empty Pockets Performance Bar.

The bar in question, seated in a cozy location in Downtown Hollow, is well known for hosting musical, theatrical, and poetic talent of all sorts on its stage. Many of them are planned, but "open stage nights" are fairly common as well. So when the posters begin appearing, advertising an opportunity for residents to come and showcase or simply enjoy emotionally vulnerable music and poetry as a community bonding exercise, it comes as no particular surprise. The staff aren't sure who planned it, nor were they informed it would be occurring, but hey. It's an opportunity for them to sell more drinks. They don't intend to look a gift horse in the mouth.

And so it is that on the evening of March 24th, performing arts lovers of Pumpkin Hollow come to Empty Pockets to move or be moved by songs and sonnets that tug upon the heartstrings. It's a quirky event, and strange that it'd be so popular. Were this many people looking for an emotional outlet by happenstance? Or did those with sorrow in their hearts feel called by some unheard song?

Empty Pockets is a dimly lit space, intimate and close. A carved wooden bar, polished with care, features a winding piece of wall art, little marble tiles in black and white, cut to look like piano keys, sprawling in a flowing trail along the well-stocked backbar. Cormac Bowen, of Cormac and the Banshees, can be seen chatting excitedly before his act, banjo strapped to his back as he downs a pint and jokes with anyone he talks to. Before too long, he and the aforementioned "banshees" ascend the stage, happy to be the opening act as they play some of their more emotionally stirring pieces.

Get comfortable. Grab a drink. Enjoy the scene. It won't be peaceful for long.


-I can feel your sorrow pouring out of your skin; and I don't want to be alone-

Not long after Cormac and the Banshees excuse themselves from the stage, the bar becomes... strangely quieter. As if a shroud of grey has fallen over the crowd, hushing it by just a few decibels.

A band of strange people file onto the stage, hardly noticed by the crowd despite their unusual appearances. A starkly pale woman wearing a blindfold, dressed all in lace and gossamer finery and wearing a halo-like crown over her veil. A grey-skinned man whose mouth and chest are fitted with shiny brass piping, which looks terribly painful. And lastly, a shrouded figure with four arms, carrying a massive stringed instrument decorated with skulls. The group does not introduce themselves, or even announce the start of their act, they simply begin to play.

First, the man with the heart of brass begins to sing a low note, which presses air through all the pipes to sound like a harmonization between a hurdy gurdy, an organ, and a tuba. The shrouded figure takes a bow to his strange instrument, which creates a unique and eerie sound that blends the deep, rich tones of a bass with the sliding, mysterious notes of a dilruba or sitar. And at last, the woman begins to sing, her haunting voice climbing and descending through numerous octaves with unrivalled skill, her Latin lyrics telling a tale that cannot be understood, but felt.

It is the most beautiful music you have ever heard. You are immediately filled with the urge to weep, your heart breaking for a memory you can't quite reach, a life you never lived, a moment you forgot, a loved one whose face you can no longer picture. The pain overwhelms you. The desire to wrench your heart from your chest simply to get it to stop aching, because the pain of its severance would be tame compared to the emotional torment you suffer, becomes very real in your mind. And then the song ends, and more painful than the sound of the song is its loss.

You must find a way to release it.


-So take from me, what you want, what you need-

Efrain and his band vacate the stage, leaving it opened. It calls to you, even if it hadn't before, though you very well may have come here with a song in mind. However, now releasing your pain into the room feels imperative, like there's something rotting you from the inside if you don't. Or you can simply opt to turn to the person next to you and spill your pain to the nearest person. The idea of leaving simply... doesn't occur to you. As if this is all that matters.

Efrain himself sits in the corner. He reaches out a hand to you. "You poor, miserable soul," he croons, his voice soft and breathy but somehow still crisp and clear. He beckons you near. "Come to me. Sing your song of pain. And I will give you what you need."

Comments

[preacher_in_reticence]

Degas had thought going to see live music would be doing as the goddesses had instructed him. Taking a rest, letting Angel tend the Temple for the night. But here it is, another demon incursion, and his heart is heavy and the ache of missing not just Melly, but most of the Leeds family, and other dear friends sits on him like a weighted blanket.

He stands. He sings. It's a simple melody, and one which both locals and newcomers might find familiar. He knows it as an old southern Glassighe song. Others might peg it as Scottish.

"Should old acquaintance be forgot..." His voice is trained, but thick with tears, faltering over the melody. Perhaps others who know it will help pick it up?

[tehilim127_1]

It's neither Glassighe nor Scottish to Zivia; oh, she knows vaguely about its Scots origins, but that's not the place it speaks of to her.

It's New York, her city, and one of the city's many hearts at Times Square, every New Year's Eve. Cold as hell and crowded beyond all sane capacity, full of glitter and balloons and trash and colored lights, exuberant drunken singing with half the words forgotten and vaguely mouthed, cheering over the singing, couples leaning in to kiss --

By the refrain she's joined in, her own voice not loud but determinedly steady.

[preacher_in_reticence]

Together, they sing in harmony, then. And when the song trails to a close, Degas meets Zivia's eyes across the room and gestures to offer her the seat near him.

[tehilim127_1]

She manages a small smile in response to his gesture, and after a moment gets up from her seat to move over to the one he's offered.

"I hope that was all right with you, that I joined in," she says without preamble.

[preacher_in_reticence]

"It's not a song meant to be sung alone, is it?" His smile is small and sad. "I'm surprised you knew it."

[tehilim127_1]

"That's what I thought -- it didn't sound right, with just one voice."

And she cocks her head, curiously. "Surprised? It's a very common song, where I come from."

[preacher_in_reticence]

"And you're sure you aren't south Glassighe? Well, well. I wonder what other songs our worlds share."

He holds out a hand. "Degas Clayton. Preacher at the Temple of Sacred Roots."

[tehilim127_1]

With a practiced lack of hesitation, she takes his hand and shakes it, her grasp firm and brisk.

"Zivia Birnbaum. And no, not that I know of -- Glassighe?" Her pronunciation isn't perfect, but fairly good for only having heard the word once.

[preacher_in_reticence]

"Glassighe's one of the three nations that makes up the Emerald Isles. The other two are Anwyll and Braxtony. Which one Marrow Island belongs to is...uh. A debate to have when we're in contact with the rest of the Isles, I think."

A pause. "Zivia?" Checking his own pronunciation, there.

[tehilim127_1]

"Yes, that's right." She tilts her head thoughtfully. "How strange, for a song to exist in more than one world. I wonder if there's been travel between them before now."

[preacher_in_reticence]

"I don't know for sure."

He shakes his head slightly, a look of worry on his face. "What would it mean if there had been?"

[tehilim127_1]

"No idea." The look on her face is more concern than worry. "Would that be ... I don't know, troubling?"

[preacher_in_reticence]

"You all were brought here by our goddesses in response to..." There's a broad gesture that encompasses the room, but emphasizes the demons. "I don't find the thought of them having had to do it before an ideal one."

[tehilim127_1]

"Huh." She considers that. "Perhaps it happened in reverse in the past. Someone from here brought to my world, and sent back afterwards."

[preacher_in_reticence]

"Perhaps. I'm not sure. Either way...it's interesting. Perhaps you'd teach me more songs from your world?"

[tehilim127_1]

She smiles, and then sobers quickly. "I'd be happy to. Though ... maybe not just now. I'm still not sure what's happened here, but it doesn't feel right."

[preacher_in_reticence]

"The one in the shroud is the Demon Prince known as Efrain. The other two are attendant demons of his. They're gaining power from our misery. Efrain's domain is grief, pain, agony, wallowing...and music that bears those emotions."

Degas frowns deeply, letting his pain show freely for moment. "He's known me well, these past years, since my wife died."

[tehilim127_1]

At his first words, the steady calm drops from her face entirely for the first time, in a moment of dismayed shock.

But it isn't until his last words that her breath catches, a tiny swift inhalation that cuts off almost before it starts.

She swallows, and then says, very low: "Do you want to get out of here?"

[preacher_in_reticence]

Immediately, Degas nods and stands.

"Please. I don't care where we go."

[tehilim127_1]

Zivia nods to him, short and brisk, already standing when he does. She doesn't much care where they go either, and it may show in how her purposeful stride slows once they're out into the night air.

"I," and she's pressing a hand to her chest, as though against a racing heart, "I need a moment."

[preacher_in_reticence]

"Take your time. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause you distress." The look he gives her is full of sincere concern.

[tehilim127_1]

True to her word, it's only a moment before her breathing calms; she raises her head, lowers her hand, and looks up at him.

"I'm all right. But I think I need to understand this. When we say demons, what are we talking about, exactly?"

[preacher_in_reticence]

"We're talking about demons. What do you mean, 'what are we talking about'? They're bad, evil, and exist to cause pain. They're the opposition to the Goddesses and the cause of the pain on this island and throughout the world. They...they're bad."

[tehilim127_1]

"I'm asking," calm, calm, "because that's a word I've heard used to mean a lot of different things, and I wanted to be sure I had the right one. They're the cause of the curse we were told about, then? Or an aspect of it?"

CW: cannibalism

[preacher_in_reticence]

"Probably. They can freely pass through the barrier for visits like this. Another Demon Prince, Aster, hosted a dinner party recently. One of the offworlders was the main course. She came back to life in the attic of the Temple, after her ghost watched everyone eat her body."

Degas's hands ball into fists.

"There's nothing good about the demons. Nothing."