Re: log: dietre a. & daniel w.
Daniel waited through the Liszt. You'd have to be a fool not to appreciate Liszt, and Daniel was no fool. Though he was no artist himself, no lover of music would have managed to live over two hundred years without at least attempting to learn to play. He had training, just no skill, and enough of an ear to recognize the failing in himself. Liszt's work often required the span of hand the man himself had, or a great deal of the skill Daniel did not possess, and he observed it from his place on the end of Dietre's couch without comment.
Instead, when the music stilled into silence, Daniel showed signs of life, widening his eyes out. He had not been sleeping, as the sliver of his eyes gleamed dark whenever he turned his head at just the right angle. "I do not become bored. You, however, become tired." Daniel rose to his feet, and brushed dog hair off his finely pleated pants while he ducked his head (unnecessarily) in the small space. "I appreciate your hospitality," he said gravely, turning his chin in such a way that one might imagine the continuation of the movement down toward his chest and the spine angling into a bow, though now it would just be imagination. "It is invaluable, I imagine." He glanced up and down the tiny house. "And rare enough."