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ph_logs2024-03-24 05:28 pm
daemoniumexmachina) wrote in ph_logs2024-03-24 05:28 pm
March Sadness
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."
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."
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He shakes his head slightly, a look of worry on his face. "What would it mean if there had been?"
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Degas frowns deeply, letting his pain show freely for moment. "He's known me well, these past years, since my wife died."
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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?"
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"Please. I don't care where we go."
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"I," and she's pressing a hand to her chest, as though against a racing heart, "I need a moment."
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"I'm all right. But I think I need to understand this. When we say demons, what are we talking about, exactly?"
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CW: cannibalism
Degas's hands ball into fists.
"There's nothing good about the demons. Nothing."
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"I'm sorry," is what she says instead. "I don't mean to stir up bad feelings. It's only that there's so much I don't know. And ... I'm very sorry for your loss. And for not saying so sooner."
(More questions she's not asking right now: when, and how, his wife died.)
CW: implied suicide ideation
That's worse, though, in some ways. He cannot die, and thus cannot be reunited with Melly. He lives. Despite everything, he lives.
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(The deep wrenching grief, the urge to talk about it to someone, are still with her; the calm she's placed on herself is only a stopgap. But it's holding so far, it's holding.)
She lets a moment go by before saying anything else. "You said ... you're a preacher at the Temple, is that right?"
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He glances from her to the street.
"We could go now? If you...um, sorry, I shouldn't presume that you want to."
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"I'm not a priest either, but I stand in a particular relationship to my own god, and it's ... exclusive in nature. All respect to your goddesses, and to you who serve them, but there are ... for lack of a better term, restrictions. On my behavior, with regard to them. And right now I can't --"
The flaw in her own voice is a jarring shock to her, and she cuts off.
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He shakes his head, as serious as he's been this whole while.
"Your god, your relationship with him, it's nothing I want to step on. But if there's anything I can offer, to aid you with what rites and observances you need to make, I want to be there to help you in that way. If it's permissible for someone employed by the Temple to help?"
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"Thank you," she says, when he falls silent. "Really, thank you. Even the offer means a great deal. For some things it would be a problem, but for others I'd greatly appreciate whatever help you can give."
And with a small smile: "The Oak and Iron, then? They do have a very nice selection of tea."
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Man needs a beer after all this excitement. And maybe something to eat.
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A pause. "Except for wine, there are rules around wine."
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