KORBIN
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
To make you bow and spit it out?
He should stop praying. Korbin mused over his lack of fortune with the gods and with luck in general as the girl set course straight for him. Because of course she did. Like a cat sensing who the most allergic person was in the room, and instantly declaring that person the favorite of the evening. Fake it till you make it, whispered a voice at the back of his mind - it sounded annoyingly like Chulane - and somehow the young raven managed to maintain a neutral expression. Lukewarm, bland, impersonal. It was a new mask and it didn't sit well on his face. Far easier to maintain than a smile though; he had forgotten how to make those.
"No problem," he replied, just loud enough to make himself heard over the murmur of voices. The volume was already picking up again, now that the music was gone and the guests returned to their conversations.
Gods save him, what did he say about the music? That the color of her tones were impressive? That her choice in songs had been tasteful, but hitting a bit too close to home? That he recognized the make of her violin, and missed his lute so much that his hands were trembling, and he had to press the palms flat against the counter to hide it... (it was not because he hadn't had a drink for the past two hours, promise.) How did he convey that hearing her music made him want to bash his head against the wall, scream bloody murder and cry for a week over all the things he would never have again, and that there was no happy ending to be found for him, but thanks for trying?
"It was... nice. A bit pitchy, at the end."
Please, someone shoot him right now.
"No problem," he replied, just loud enough to make himself heard over the murmur of voices. The volume was already picking up again, now that the music was gone and the guests returned to their conversations.
Gods save him, what did he say about the music? That the color of her tones were impressive? That her choice in songs had been tasteful, but hitting a bit too close to home? That he recognized the make of her violin, and missed his lute so much that his hands were trembling, and he had to press the palms flat against the counter to hide it... (it was not because he hadn't had a drink for the past two hours, promise.) How did he convey that hearing her music made him want to bash his head against the wall, scream bloody murder and cry for a week over all the things he would never have again, and that there was no happy ending to be found for him, but thanks for trying?
"It was... nice. A bit pitchy, at the end."
Please, someone shoot him right now.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Nothing makes you turn around
