Orange Blossom Special [open]

[Vianne]

She needs a job. After getting fired from her position at the coffee shop, she's out of work again. As usual, the young woman doesn't have a lot of cash to her name. She's mostly been couch surfing and bumming off of Malakai for as long as the shuck will let her. Over time, however, even that began to weigh on her conscience, which means she now spends more time floating around Boston than she does standing on Mal's doorstep. Part of her has no problem mooching, but some nagging whisper tells her she's fully capable of pulling her own weight. It's a wonder she hasn't been officially kicked out yet. Then again, maybe that's Vianne's whole play; keep on hamming up those puppy dog eyes, and get rewarded with free room and board. It works, right up until she starts feeling bad.

The girl grabs her sticker-plastered violin case and marches out into the world. The streets of downtown Boston could be fun to wander, but the lanky redhead prefers lurking out beyond the main hubbub of city life. Vianne takes her time in reaching the waterfront. The charming local shops and chipped boardwalks add a quaint element to the bustling atmosphere of this crowded city. Boats sail beyond the handrails of the sidewalk, and the sheer size of passing ships never ceases to draw her eye. The air is fresher, out here where it's closer to the sea- That and more tourists like to waddle on by with their heavy pockets.

Boots clack and click on cobblestone rocks. A steady hand runs down the rails, palm catching on flakes of salt worn paint. The lazy waterfront square serves as her destination, and she ambles on that way.

The girl picks and chooses a bench next to a decorative lamppost. It's a cool, breezy afternoon, despite the overhanging gray clouds. Maybe they'd get some rain tonight. Eh, so long as it held off long enough for her to make a few decent tips, she doesn't care.

The stickered case finds its way to the bench and Vianne pulls out her dear friend Viola Turnbuckle (II), since the original Viola had been left back home with her mama. After a few moments to tune and ready her bow, the freckled girl straightens. Vianne leaves the case open on the bench near the spot she stands- Hint hint, nudge nudge. Money helps, but she mostly plays for the joy of playing. Tucking Viola under her chin, she draws her bow across the strings and grins. Yep, still sounds alright.

The girl breezes through Orange Blossom Special, and repeats the latter half afterwards, running right through so it lasts that much longer. It's a short one ayway, but a good one. Good enough and so well often played, that she has committed it to memory. Playing by ear is her thing, but bluegrass songs are her forte so she's got a few others up her sleeve. Unless a policeman appears to shoo her away, she'll stake her claim on this cozy spot by the lamppost for the better part of the afternoon. Ain't nothing better to do, and this is more fun than skimming through help wanted ads.

[Giles]

The city hums in his ears. It is an annoying drone sound that buzzes constantly. The moving, bustling harbor city of Boston seems to almost be alive was one entity, as if Boston was just one living, breathing thing. It seems to move by itself, on its own, as if somehow all the people are linked through the minds. The urban life is annoying and Giles, the old country boy at heart, has not taken well to it, or more some parts of it. The drunken witch everyone has grown to hate is known for his lack of thought and his ferocious temper; so maybe it would have been odd, to think of the blond witch doing something that could go under the category of philosophy. Unless they knew him well enough to think of the religious obsession beneath the tough skin and somehow connect the two.

The city moves as a whole, not as a feeble one as the country folk do. There is something powerful about that, motivating as he walks down the sidewalks, scrunched up slightly (though it does nothing to hide his tank-like appearance) while breathing out liquor. There is something about the city being one whole, being a thing that makes Malphas and him tick. It is like seeing a pet store on the way to get a kitten, something like a secret foreshadowing only they know that pushes them further. The cult would be that, a moving, breathing thing that worked as a whole.

There is more power to his steps as he feels as the cult almost becomes tangible for he could near feel the power and control on his callused fingers.

Streets filled with sounds of bustling people and city life are suddenly mixed with the sound of fiddle. It is an odd mixture, suddenly combing together boreal Boston with southern bluegrass. He is hesitant to respond at first, but the sound draws him along with its maker. There is curiosity to his steps as he heads towards the source. Malphas gives him a clear reading of the ginger on the viola.

A fiddling werewolf, now wasn’t that strange.

But wasn’t a blond witch with a demon in the back of his head a little weird too?

Giles somewhat gravitates towards it. He never approaches too close but his atmosphere is still apparent. People don’t know exactly what they feel when they are around him but that eerie air is something human nature naturally does not like. They are clueless, even some of the strange things of the world are clueless to his power. They wouldn’t know for long a time, not until the demon will strike his due. Hell will at last scream its cries and its loyal prophet would follow quickly behind, leading the revolution. These thoughts bristles Giles and he can’t help but feel proud. He can’t help but feel a little sure of himself.

He stands on the streets quietly and takes a swing of booze from his trusty hip flask.

The bastard was a stingy thing. He did not like to spend money, did not like to even pull it out of his pocket. He kept hundreds and hundreds on him at a time without any fear. Giles had yet to meet a robber who would stand a chance against him. He was saving it though, like a kid saving up for a game in his little piggy bank. The cult would need it. The cult would burn through cash, Malphas had warned. Just like the perfect little follower, he usually bought the cheap rat-filled hotel rooms versus the fancy vanities and suites he could afford.

Yet, he feels quite giving right now. He feels quite good about, as if “spreading the word” as he pulls out his worn wallet. He use to cringe every time he pulled it out and saw that picture embedded in it. He has grown better, too sore, too abused on the matter to do much other than go numb.

He throws a wadded hundred dollar bill into her viola case and he walks on, quite casually, reeking of booze and something dark.

[Vianne]

The notes drift on by, and she plays the song she knows so well. Here, in this noisy city, the girl can find an ounce of home. She carts it around with her always, and so often nowadays it finds itself floating on out, half unbidden. Gracing this place with a touch of southern heritage, Vianne is blissfully content. People mill about, passing by without a care, but their busy schedules do not concern her. The violin doesn't sing for them. Not really.

Until one happens to take an interest in her music. Her nose crinkles at the smell, but she keeps right on playing. Fingers deftly fly over strings, and once she reaches a good interval, blue eyes peek up. The hulking figure she sees strikes a chord, but Vianne doesn't know why. Something unsettles her so she looks back down her pointed nose at the instrument tucked under her chin. On near autopilot, since she knows this song by heart, her mind lingers elsewhere while she plays. The wolf twitches, whines, and retreats to a far corner of her conscious. Odd, she feels uneasy with him standing there, even more so with the accompanying reek of booze.

Something irks her, like she's being poked on the shoulder by some sixth sense. It's a dark and eerie feeling, but maybe she's just paranoid. Vianne blames it on the thick fog of alcohol lingering around him. Creepy. Maybe he's... Homeless. Or just plain strange.

The violinist sees the flick of a crumpled bill thrown into her case, but can't make out the amount. Regardless, she appreciates the gesture, even if the bill came from some creepy guy. Money is money. She'll accept whatever gets tossed her way.

The final notes sing, and the bow lowers. Blue eyes dare to look at the man as he begins to amble off. Simple gratitude compels her to speak, although she would honestly be rather content to have him walk on.

The wolf calls out, "Hey-" Uncertain, a beat passes. Does she really want his attention? "Thanks…" Her voice trails, but with a blink, the young wolf continues, "Is there anythin' you wanna hear?" If she knows tune, she'll play. Give her a song. If the musician knows it she'll give it a whirl. It's the least she could do.