daemoniumexmachina (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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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."
no subject
Anyway. He shrugs, smiling a little.
"Hey, I'm not doing anything else. If you're comfortable telling me I'm happy to listen."
no subject
César rubs the back of his neck. "... a lot of that was because they were devoted to my education. They realized I... smart. Really smart. When I was a toddler, I begged my parents buy me a broken lady's pocket-watch and then cannibalized my dad's watch to make it run again. Which... didn't work for too long, but the fact it worked at all, and I did it without having played with watches before...."
He shrugs. "Kept my parents up at night, realizing their son was smart enough to be dangerous if he didn't connect to the world."
no subject
He smiles a little, albeit still tinged with his own melancholy. It's the atmosphere in here. Hard to shake.
"Tell me, though. What was your favorite place you got to visit with them? I never got to travel much, outside of work."
no subject
Apparently, that's not hyperbole. More matter-of-fact. César can't quite break free of it, either.
"Two places. The town I went to for high school. I made a lot of friends there." César closes his eyes and has to force his breath to stay more even. "... and the rancho."
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"You don't have to keep going if it's too painful. We can change the subject," he says. "But I'm here, if you wanna go on."
no subject
"I don't think I'm ready to talk about the second... and the first would require a lot of explanation." César breathes again before opening his eyes. "Geneva. My brother was born there when I was starting university. Rex wasn't planned, but my parents were excited anyways."
no subject
He smiles, intending to wait for César to go on, but something occurs to him and he picks back up again.
"Actually, I don't think I asked before - what is it you studied? Aside from advanced superheroics, I mean."
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César smiles a bit, briefly. "I try not to say it much since it got me killed my third day here. Computer science with a focus on artificial intelligence."
no subject
"Holy shit. Someone killed you over that?"
He'll feel bad momentarily for ruining the fond reminiscing with the derail, but for now he's a little too surprised to think about that.
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What's the right word here? Leon frowns, trying to be delicate about it.
"Understanding? Trauma or no trauma." He shakes his head. "Anyway. I guess I'm just sorry that happened - you don't seem like a particularly murderable guy to me."
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Leon still seems worried as he says this, but he's willing to take César's word that he's doing okay for now. "Your girlfriend sounds like a real gem, though. Glad you have each other."
And he pauses again, thinking, as something strikes him.
"Wait, is she the one who posted about the fight club on the bulletin board? I swear I've seen the name 'Magne' before."
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"Nice. Guess I wouldn't have to be your bodyguard after all," he says. "I'll keep an eye out for her. I've been meaning to ask someone about that anyway - sounds like a good way to find sparring partners."
He has a vague suspicion he knows which of the barmaids is Magne, now, given that revelation, but there's no knowing until he asks. An impressive physique isn't everything in a fight, after all - some people work out for show, and some people stay lean and can kick the shit out of guys twice their size anyway. He'll look into it.
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César leans forward to whisper. "Magne's really good at fighting with her fists. I watched her fight the star beasts. She was amazing!"
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But they're a pretty distinctive weapon, and Leon definitely remembers seeing them at a barmaid's hip in the Oak and Iron on his first night here.
"That's cute, though. And practical. You come up with the idea for them yourself?"
no subject
... sorry, love is winning here, sadness demon.
"I saw something like them in the window of a self-defense shop as I was going past years ago. Altered the design so they would be more practical fit her perfectly and not harm her hands. One of several Valentine's Day gifts. She's never had to use them on people, but if those monsters come back... Let's just say that River makes very sturdy weapons."
no subject
He half-grins, clearly not about to count on it. Leon's pretty strong, but he's not likely to start reliably punching out the horrors as a primary means of dealing with them any time soon.
"You seem to be feeling a little better, though. You good if I get up and see how everyone else is doing? Or is there anything else you wanna talk about while you've got me?"
no subject
César then considers that suggestion. "... honestly, I should probably get the hell out of here before those emotions get ahold of me again. I've had enough crying for one day. Go and see the others?"
wrap!
"Talk to you later, César. It was great meeting you. I'll let you know if I run into Magne, if you don't hear it from her first."