[ Foreigner shifts, and the resulting outline of his vessel reminds Mozart of a harp carved in whale-bone— not a single curve or bend out of place. Flick him with a thumb and forefinger, and Ain might sound like the bottom of an endless ocean.
The operative word there is might. Any speculation as to the music of the void is replaced by the music itself, which prompts Mozart to still on his bench, posture raised and attentive.
Smiling eyes calm to moderation, and the sharp angles of his face, which are usually tempered by his congeniality, take on a new focus. When it comes to sounds and melodies, Mozart doesn't compromise; after all, he's the kind of person that would gleefully have taken a detour into Hell if only to hear what kind of music Satan preferred.
Ain's song rattles him, inside and out. What he wants more than anything now is to grab pen and parchment, to turn himself inside out trying to commit this cadence to memory.
Of course, his resources are limited, so what he does instead is let his fingers fly over the piano in accompaniment. Low and crawling, mixing funereal dirges with the trill of morning birds. ]
no subject
The operative word there is might. Any speculation as to the music of the void is replaced by the music itself, which prompts Mozart to still on his bench, posture raised and attentive.
Smiling eyes calm to moderation, and the sharp angles of his face, which are usually tempered by his congeniality, take on a new focus. When it comes to sounds and melodies, Mozart doesn't compromise; after all, he's the kind of person that would gleefully have taken a detour into Hell if only to hear what kind of music Satan preferred.
Ain's song rattles him, inside and out. What he wants more than anything now is to grab pen and parchment, to turn himself inside out trying to commit this cadence to memory.
Of course, his resources are limited, so what he does instead is let his fingers fly over the piano in accompaniment. Low and crawling, mixing funereal dirges with the trill of morning birds. ]