ROALIS 23, 2719꧁꧂ AROUND NOON
Being free was the strangest thing he had ever known.
He could go to bars, whenever he wanted. He could leave the apartment at any hour. He could wear whatever he pleased, even if his options were low and it'd take him a while to be able to afford much else. He could speak before spoken to, he could be as loud or as quiet as he wanted, he could be kind, or he could be rude. Although he would be the first to admit that he'd taken the last thing a bit too far when he'd first arrived in the port town - the bruises that lined his neck as well as the one upon his cheekbone were evidence of his reckless speech, but it was his choice. If he wanted to get into a fight, he was free to do so without an entire university lording over him.
The new form of employment was something he still had to get used to, though Lars had taken to it with enthusiasm. If he had to sleep with whatever drunken pirate or smuggler that walked in, then so be it - it afforded him the life that he'd wanted so badly for so long. For once, he was getting paid for the work he did, and that was more than one could say for his years of servitude in Brunnhold. Though he didn't appreciate unfamiliar hands on his skin, he had rediscovered his talents when it came to other people - they were easily swayed, easily broken, easily controlled. Even the most powerful men and women on Vita had weaknesses, if one cared enough to find them.
Lars sat at the bar of the Black Dove tavern, elbows resting on the counter, hands holding up his chin. He would've been a strange sight anywhere else besides Old Rose, with pure-white hair cascading down either side of his face, flipping out at the ends into the remnants of curls, light gray eyes watching with veiled curiosity as Mr. Spitz served the other patrons. He was comfortable in his tanned (although bruised) skin, his skinny frame clothed with a loose beige shirt that buttoned up halfway and dark trousers with holes at the knees - there was an old, golden necklace around his neck, doing little to drag attention away from the marks upon his skin, but he loved it. A being such as himself was meant for gold and jewels, for wealth and freedom and power beyond anyone else's control, or at least that's what he told himself. He just... wasn't quite there yet.
It took a small voice from his left to drag his gaze from behind the bar, and he was met with the sight of a woman half-ragged, half-attractive. He didn't turn away immediately, but was fairly certain of her intentions - and her expectant smile and gestures toward Mr. Spitz confirmed it. No, he held no interest in spending his coin on someone else. He much preferred the opposite. It didn't seem to bother the woman to his left, as she instead turned to the next fellow at the bar and did the same thing - she'd find success soon, he knew, with the crowd in there today.
"Ye need anythin', Cailan?"
"No," replied the passive easily, offering Mr. Spitz a half-smile, "not yet."
Both of their attentions (and probably everyone else's in the entire clocking tavern) were forced toward the entrance, the door swinging open with no small amount of force but revealing no man. Instead, some object was being pushed through - or rather, trying to be pushed through and failing terribly. It was far too big for the already crowded establishment, what were they thinking?
"Ye get that spitch out!" shouted Mr. Spitz, the man setting down the glass he'd been wiping and moving out from behind the bar, "what in th' hell are ye doin', toft?"
Clearly far too drunk for such an hour, the man finally showed himself, his head popping up from behind the large object - that Lars could identify then as some old, beaten upright piano, worn by the wind and the salt from the sea. He left his own seat then, following Mr. Spitz and helping to push the damn thing back out.
"Jus' wanted t' play it," the man gave, his expression sour, though he helped the other two men push the piano to the side and out of the walkway, so that it rested at the outside wall of the tavern.
"Ye don't appre… appreci…"
"Appreciate," Spitz helped.
"Appre-ci-ate music, kov."
"Keep it out here," he warned, raising a finger at the man and his piano, and staring him down for just a moment before returning inside. Lars remained outside, eyes narrowed slightly, watching with no small amount of confusion as the man turned to the upright. Proudly, he began to tap against the keys, starting out quiet but quickly turning to just bang his open palms against them, producing one of the most horrendous trains of sound he had perhaps ever heard.
"Stop that," demanded the passive, and he approached the man and his piano, "that sounds like a dying cat. Do you even know how to play it?"
"Y... yeah I know how't play it," his hands raised, and they would've crashed down upon the keys again if Lars hadn't reached out and grabbed his wrists.
"No, you don't," it was surprisingly easy to get him away from the instrument, and as soon as Lars had led the man back to the doors and pushed him inside... well he guessed he must've gotten distracted and forgotten all about the piano he'd found and pushed through the harbor.
What a buffoon.
Left alone, Lars glanced back to the upright. It would've been rather nice, if it hadn't been left to the elements years ago. As he approached, he ran his hand along the top, swiping dust from the old wooden surface.
You're allowed to play it, you know.
A low hum escaped his throat as he considered. He didn't start playing anything - there was no reason to, really, but the white-haired Hessean did allow his fingers to brush the keys, impressed by just how out of tune the thing was.