Delta werks (withstyle) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-02-26 23:15:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, !plot: saint namorados day, colin cole, miles baines |
Who: Colin Cole & Miles Baines
What: Cheering up the singles at the Spoony Bard.
Where: The Spoony Bard
When: St. Namorados Day Evening
Rating: PG-13 for language and sheep husbandry
Status: Complete!
It was late on St. Namorados Day (or Night, by now, if we’re being accurate) and they were getting ready for an impressive set. Miles Baines was usually a man of the theatre, treading the boards and memorising lines and acting out a part, but the occasional bardic job still crept its way back into his repertoire—and this particular day brought plentiful opportunities to work the crowd, with flocks of annoyed singles drinking their woes away and being all too ready for a distraction. The two men were scheduled at a lively tavern in the theatre district, one of Miles’ favourite haunts. The stage was perfectly primed for luring gil into their hats with the help of Colin Cole and his brilliantly expensive new harp, which Miles had to admit he was eyeing with an amount of envy. “Ready to tackle the drunken rabble?” he asked, checking on his flute and their list of song ideas (though he knew Colin had a terrible tendency to stray off-script, forcing Miles to use his best mime skills to adapt and improvise). They’d worked together on occasion and the plan usually worked, if not perfectly. Though the nights occasionally made the older man want to murder the younger, more importantly, they made money. "I was born ready," said Colin, his harp freshly tuned and primed for action. "Well, no, I was born naked and screaming. But after that, I was ready. I mean, eventually. Not the next day. But soon after birth, sooner than average, I'd say, I was ready. And continue to be." As Colin's train of thought meandered vaguely around, his fingers readied themselves on the same three chords that made most up most of Ivalice's Greatest Hits. Miles rolled his eyes. With a shake of his head to focus his wandering mind, Colin turned to the crowd. "Ladies! And gentlemen, to a lesser extent." He gave a gentle strum on his instrument. "It's an honor and a privilege to be joining you on this fine St. Namorados Evening. I know that a lot of you are thinking about those other people who aren't in a bar drinking away their sorrows because of a feeling of crushing despair on a day celebrating romance... but fuck 'em, am I right?" There was a half-hearted cheer from the audience. "I am right. That guy knows what I'm talking about. Hey, they have true love, but we have each other. Quantity over quality." “After all, who needs ‘em?” Miles’ voice changed as he called out: it turned to a lower-class brogue, the friendly rolling R’s of a man born and bred on the docks rather than in the noble district, or even the commoner district (his true background). “We’re together in this, mates, and tonight we’re going to celebrate!” The reedy trills of the flute joined with the strumming of the harp, both men cleared their throats and Colin held the tune in his mouth, but then Miles’ eyes widened as soon as he recognised the opening notes. “♪ She done took my chocobo, now I need a phoenix down for my heart—” The other instrument cut out sharply, the harp twanging as the mime drew to an abrupt halt. The audience winced. “No!” Miles hissed, spinning to glower at the other man, livid. “We swore an oath. No country music.” “Swearing an oath? That doesn’t sound like me.” Colin shrugged, and picked a few more notes out. “Well, I guess I do have a little something I picked up in Rozarria.” “Crabs?” suggested Miles, somewhat tartly. “No! Well, yes, but that’s not specifically what I was referring to.” He started a slow tune, Miles following his lead, and sang, “Blame it all on my roots, I showed up in boots and ruined--” Miles forced another end to the song. “We’re not doing that either! Rozarrian country music is lyrical cancer. You’re committing a war crime.” “This fucking guy,” he said in a stage whisper. It got a few laughs from the people paying attention, which in turn got a few more people looking their way. “All right, I have one more for you. This one goes out to all my single friends.” He played a few notes, and when Miles recognized it as not being country music of any sovereign state, and thus relatively safe for public consumption, he played along. Colin sang: “♪You gave her love, she took your heart, You suffer at her evil ways She cast you out like a ripe old fart Bitches, am I right, guys? Beer! It will warm your soul And fill the hole she left in you Beer! Beer! Another round Oh thanks, I'll take one too…” By now, the free-flowing alcohol and late hour mingled with the familiarity of the verse, the catchiness of the tune, and led to more than half of the room singing along. Some of them even waved their drinks, spilling some of the cheap beer on sleeves and tables. “For good and for bad, there you’d always be He vowed he’d always be true to you And so you never thought you’d see Your husband balls-deep in a ewe Beer! It will warm your soul And fill the hole she left in you Beer! Beer! Another round Oh thanks, another one too… ♪” There was always something slightly different about the music of the guild-initiated: their songs could bolster spirits and moods to the extent of lightening hearts and purses alike. Merry single drunks were more likely to spill their gil than sad mopey ones, and thus the songs the two men poured out were the cheerful, vivacious, foot-tapping, choke-on-one’s-drink sort. And Miles’ stage diva histrionics mixed well with Colin’s mellow conspirational everyman routine, the two opposing personalities meshing in an act that was entertaining for all that it was unrehearsed. So by the end of the night, they collected two hats near-overflowing with gil. They packed up their instruments and started making their way towards a table of their own, where a pair of celebratory drinks waited. “Not exactly the regular type of robbery,” Miles said under his breath, low enough that only Colin could hear, “but it does the trick, eh?” Colin slammed his hand on the table, affronted. "Sir, we are performing a public service." He gave a great, theatrical wave of his arm. "Look at these people. Our people. Men and women who might otherwise have spent a wretched night wondering what is wrong with them, that they should be alone on lovers' night. And now? Now, they've gone from commiserating to celebrating!" Indeed, more than a few of those who had come to the bar had paired off, some consciously, some unconsciously. "We're goddamn heroes, and I will thank you, sir, I will thank you to remember that." Miles and Colin shared a long look until Colin's face of mock-righteous indignation cracked and he broke down giggling. When he recovered, he took a sip of his drink and added, in a low voice, "Besides, I've never been good at the other kind of robbery. Well." He tossed Miles' wallet back to him. "Present company excepted." The older thief instinctively caught the wallet, and then blinked at it in confusion, then irritation as he re-pocketed it. Clearly, he’d had too much to drink. His instincts had dulled. “Congratulations, Cole. You only made me want to kill you a bare minimum of around five ti—” Before he could follow that train of thought fully, however, his pocket started beeping. Miles patted it down self-consciously, then extracted his network communicator. Tapping a few buttons, he scrolled through the message, made a thoughtful hm noise, and then his face split into a self-sure grin. He looked back up. “Sorry, mate. Speaking of being alone on lovers’ night, I’m going to leave you to it: looks like I’ve a pretty blonde bird beckoning. Enjoy your share of the take, and don’t wait up.” Miles shoved one of the two hats across the table, spilling a few gil into Cole’s lap as he packed up his belongings, clothes, and flute, and then wove and wobbled his way towards the exit with a cheeky wave. “You wound me, sir! You wound me!” he yelled after Miles. With a sigh, Colin moved the gold from his hat to a less conspicuous place in his bag. He then placed the hat jauntily on his head and finished his drink. When the pretty waitress, who’d laughed at his jokes all night, came over, he said, “Miss… Jenny, wasn’t it? May I ask a favor of you?” “...what?” she said, reluctantly. “I’d like your permission to write a song about you and our night of passion.” “What night of passion is that?” she asked with a smirk. “You don’t remember being charmed by a roguish smile and spending the night with the dashing bard who swept you off your feet after a night regaling you with song and story?” he asked, astonished. Then Colin snapped his fingers and nodded, as if he’d suddenly realized something. “You know what it is? I sometimes get these flashes of the future.” Jenny hid a giggle, but only just. “Why don’t you buy me a drink, first?” “The next time I see my waitress, I’ll ask her for a recommendation. You look like you’d have similar tastes.” The waitress rolled her eyes and walked away, but there was a sway to her hips that Colin suspected was for his benefit. He raised his empty glass to Miles and said, “You should have stayed, old man. You might have learned something.” |