take my blues away {PERDITA/OPEN}

[ELLIOT BRIDGES]

He sits alone at a table in a small cafe
Drowning his tears in a bottomless cup of coffee

November 10th. It was another evening, like so many before, in which time had got away from Elliot. Night had long since drawn in but he had only noticed the time when he lifted his head which had been buried in a stack of papers for the last several hours. Reclining back in his black leather desk chair, he rubbed his eyes, which stung now that they'd been pulled away from staring at tiny words on paper. The time on his phone, which had lay silent and still on the desk all evening, flashed 23.00. It seemed he spent more time in his office than he did at home, often staying for nights on end. So much so that the janitor had left him a key to lock up the main doors after he left. There seemed little point in going back to his apartment, that he was renting whilst here in New Jersey seeing that he had a class to teach in the morning. In addition to his brain power, staying awake for long periods of time was one of his skills, lasting days on end. He had no doubt that he could easily make it to the end of the week with a decent supply of the black elixir.

Elliot grabbed the phone off the desk, tucking it into the pocket of his dull brown trousers. He got up from the chair, pushing it back while stiffling a yawn. He ran a hand through his fluffy brown hair, rolling his head on his shoulders to shake off the exhaustion. A tweed jacket hung on the back of the chair, which he grabbed on the way out, as well as picking up a large black rectangular case that sat by the door on his way out. The actual university building was empty at this time of night as well as the grounds around it (everyone knows the party relocates to the unions or student flats) so his walk was quiet, peaceful, with only himself for company. The walk was not far, perhaps 10 or 15 minutes until the dull glow and hum of the street lights. The building he was heading for was tucked away on a side street a few blocks over from the university campus. It was well hidden and usually quite quiet and relaxed, the way he liked it. 'The Green Parrot', it was called, though he didn't really understand why, for the majority of the decor was neither green nor was there a trace of anything that remotely looked like a parrot. Must have been something historical and they just kept the name, he shrugged off the thought.

Elliot pushed open the door gently, it giving a gentle ring as it went. It was a quaint little bar. Not especially big, with an actual bar running along one wall with a few bar stools. In the far corner there were a collection of arm chairs and a few small tables, with more typical tables on the main floor and there was what looked to be a small stage pressed against the wall opposite the bar though it was barely big enough to hold five people. Two older gentlemen, around their fifties sat in the arm chairs at the back, and another two, younger men, sat at the bar. The bar tender looked up from behind the bar when he heard the door, smiling to the young professor who was a regular here during his time in New Jersey. "Look lively, lads. Elliot's gonna give us a tune!" he smiled, waving him in warmly. The two men at the back picked up, giving him a small wave. "Just the usual El?" the bartender asked rhetorically as he set about making the usual beverage. "Vodka expresso, hold the vodka" he laughed.

Elliot smiled, chuckling at the bartender as he headed towards the stage area. He pulled a rickety wooden stool from the corner, dragging it to the middle of the stage and setting his black case down beside it. Clicking it open, he pulled the shiny brass instrument from the case. He sat it on his lap, as he got comfy on the old stool though his feet remained planted easily on the ground on account of his gangly 6'3 frame. After he'd set about tuning it, changing the reeds, he pulled the saxophone up to his lips. He didn't need to introduce the song, nor did they need anyone to sing the words, for everyone in the bar that night knew them and had heard Elliot play several times before.

When the Jazzman's testifyin',
a faithless man believes.
He can sing you into paradise,
or bring you to your knees.
Jazzman, take my blues away,
Make my pain the same as yours with every change you play.
Jazzman, oh, Jazzman.

His eyes remained firmly closed for his performance, lost in the thoughts the music brought, completely unaware of the room around him. His fingers moved with ease, hitting each note with a precision that was almost automatic. The music installed a confidence in him, something that he never had normally. It was something he was good at, that people wouldn't see the shy, clumsy man, they would just experience the music. It made them all equal, for that moment of time, where they could enjoy the sound each in their own unique way, free from the ridicule and torment of every day life. His solos were powerful, the notes seemed endless but his lips only gently kissed the reeds, his breaths seemed almost too soft to rouse such a commanding performance.

The song came to an end, and he silently moved the instrument down. His weary brown eyes were still focused downwards as he put the saxophone back it is place, closing the case up with a click. A heavy sighed escaped his lips as he savored the rest of the moment before he returned to normality. A hot black coffee, on the house, sat on the bar waiting for him to come back.

ooc. I had to post. And I wasn't leaving until I did so. This is the tune.
wordcount. 1008, i'm really sorry it wasn't meant to be that long.
tags. perdita/open
muse. 'Jazzman' by Carole King.

[PERDITA CASTLEBON]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,padding-left:16px; padding-top:0px; padding-right:0px; padding-bottom:0px; background-image:url(http://i51.tinypic.com/2nbr3oi.jpg) ] with your halo slipping down atrocious stories now you stand reborn before us all - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The exchange had only been meant to be a brief one; she had an envelope of cash to be handed off for a packet of information that she'd requested after her arrival in the city. It was important for someone like her to know who was around that might take a dislike to her arrival in town, or what old enemies she might cross, and who controlled what markets before she started plying her particular skills up for trade. Knowing who she wouldn't work for was just as important as knowing what bars and back of the shop gambling dens to avoid. Not that she was a gambler, at least not when it came to money, but more often than not if she was looking to track someone down that didn't want to be found, the back alley hovels were a good place to start. She had, in fact, been partially convinced that this place was one such hovel, given the less than auspicious name, when she'd been told when and where to meet her contact, and if it hadn't been for the fact that she'd done business with him before, she would have been a good deal more concenred. As it was, she knew that he knew just enough about her and what she did, when she chose to, to be smarter than trying to set a trap or attempt to waylay her. Even still, she had not gone unprepared for trouble; she had learned long ago that when she least expected it was when it was bound to arise. Her motorcycle had been tucked away out of sight behind a dumpster about a half block away, and she'd spent a few minutes surveying the area before she made her entrance, but she'd seen nothing then or since to cause her any real concern. It wasn't the sort of place she would have expected for a meet, but then again that made it all the more ideal. The meet had gone off without a hitch, a drink had, a quiet conversation, and an innocuous swapping of packages and the man had been on his way. She'd tucked the packet away in her bag that rested at her feet, and finished her drink, prepared to linger a few more minutes to keep from arousing suspicion and make her way out. The warm greeting that the lanky arrival had gotten had gathered a mildly curious glance from her, more out of habit than anything else. Clearly, he was a regular, made even more clear by the next exchange, and the movement of the man towards the small stage. "Another, if you please," Perdita said quietly to the bartender, with a nod to the mostly empty martini glass in front of her. Her drink of choice for the night was not particularly masculine in appearance, but the Russian martini combined a few of her favorite things; alcohol and white chocolate. And it could pack a punch, if mixed correctly, though inebriation was rarely a concern for her. At times her ridiculously high metabolism was a perk. Other times, it was an annoyance. She had not decided yet which it would be tonight. She swiveled her stool slightly to bring the stage into a more direct field of her vision, though out of centuries of habit, the back and main entrance to the room were held in her peripheral. She studied the one they'd referred to as Elliot, as he settled into place on the stage, his fingers moving in familiar patterns to attach the pieces of the saxophone, wetting the reed and settling it into place, his long fingers twisting the brace to hold it into place with practiced ease. Her wonder of if he knew his music as well as he knew his instrument didn't take long to be put to rest as his lips settled into place, his almost lanky form practically bleeding the music as the song slid from him, the rich and melodic harmony swelling to fill the room around her. It was captivating, almost, enchanting. She knew the song, she had known it well when it was first played, and even then it had struck her as ironic, in it's own way, the hidden meaning of the words for her striking a chord that others would miss. It had not been the first song, or the first poem, the first story ever written to call out to her, but those things that did, she rarely forgot. Her lips settled into a quiet, and somewhat knowing smile, her lashes drifting closed for the refrain as she heard the lyrics echo in her mind. When the last note faded away, she remained still for a moment, before the sound of the rustle of movement from the stage brought her attention again to the here and now. She turned her gaze towards the musician, her smile growing somewhat as he broke apart his instrument with a somber and tired gaze. "He can fill a room with sadness as he fills his horn with tears..." She said, her voice quiet enough to not shatter the easy silence that had lingered after his song, but just loud enough to be heard. "You did it justice, and played it clean." Perdita spoke, with a half smile, her fingers wrapping around the stem of her martini glass to bring it up in a silent toast to him before taking a sip of her drink. "Thank you, for that." She added, one leather clad leg crossing easily over the other as she watched him. "Might I buy you the next, or perhaps something stronger?" She asked, with a nod towards his waiting beverage. TAG; ELLIOTT. WORDS 990. OUTFIT. TEMPLATE BY OH SO COOPERNATURAL ! @ CAUTION.

[ELLIOT BRIDGES]

He sits alone at a table in a small cafe
Drowning his tears in a bottomless cup of coffee

It was quite incredible the power that music had. It often amazed him how just one simple song could some up his life. Especially when he considered the songs sometimes being written years before his birth. In a strange way, it gave him a sense of belonging, though he wasn’t sure that it was the right word. But just knowing that there were other people out there who at some point felt the same as him, lived the life he was living, made it that little bit easier. He heard Perdita speak, quoting the lyrics of the song. He can fill a room with sadness, as he fills his horn with tears. That was how he felt right now but he could never find the way to express those feelings to anyone. The only way they could leave him was through the music. And it was only in those moments, where the blues met the blues, that he felt a strange sense of confidence. ”Thank you…” Elliot mumbled quietly, a wave of self consciousness sweeping over him, flushing his cheeks with red as he smiled weakly to the woman sitting at the bar (whom he was surprised he didn’t notice on his way in).

Elliot rose from his seat, pulling the small wooden stool back to the corner of the stage. He hadn’t meant it to, but it made a large thud against the wood of the stage as he dragged it, further breaking the sombre silence that rung around the room. His face almost winced, pulling in his shoulders apologetically to the rest of the patrons. Picking up his case on the return, he placed it by the end of the bar. His dull and evidently tired brown eyes glanced at the leather-clad woman, smiling and twirling her martini and he shuffled nervously but pulled out the stool next to her. It was uncomfortable, his knees hitting the underside of the bar with a soft thud, but it would have been rude to sit anywhere else. She was a beautiful woman, with pouty lips, bound in tight leather. Beautiful but intimidating for the young man and his eyes were firmly down on the coffee waiting for him. ”Oh, no, I’m working in the morning” he replied at the mention of something stronger, while stealing a glance up at Perdita. ”But thank you, I guess one more couldn’t hurt ” Elliot smiled to her. It was an awkward smile, it seemed that only one side of his lips moved while the other stayed still. It was full of nerves with a hint of fear but it was honest and friendly. He raised the cup up to his lips, sipping on the coffee, managing to escape burning his lips for once.

”Do you play…?” Elliot asked, referring to the instrument, plucking up the courage to start a conversation after a few mouthfuls and setting his cup back down. ”Not many people know the song, but it’s a beautiful song” he tried to explain without sounding corny. He didn’t expect her to understand the feeling the music stirred in him and how he related to almost every word. It sounded silly to him sometimes when he thought about it and he felt embarrassed even to bring it up around the strange woman. He’d probably never know how truly similar he and she were. He fumbled with his hands, wiping the moisture from the hot cup on his thigh, extending a hand, rather shakily to Perdita. ”I’m really sorry, I’m Elliot” he offered belated introductions. ”It’s, uhm, nice to meet you…..ma’am. ”

ooc. I'm sorry it took so long, I've just been braindead lately, which is probably kinda evident from its lameness.
wordcount. 599
tags. Perdita/Open
muse. Jazzman Carole King.

[PERDITA CASTLEBON]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,padding-left:16px; padding-top:0px; padding-right:0px; padding-bottom:0px; background-image:url(http://i51.tinypic.com/2nbr3oi.jpg) ] with your halo slipping down atrocious stories now you stand reborn before us all - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Despite the fact that it seemed obvious that his playing here was a frequent occurrence, there was an awkwardness to his mumbled thanks and the color on his cheeks as her compliments met his ears. It was not any sense of false modesty, either; that much was obvious from his boyish lankiness and the moments of almost bumbling clumsiness that accompanied his movements to break apart his instrument and make his way back across the room to where his coffee, and she, waited. There was no guile to him, and for a moment she found herself wondering if he was even capable of it. It was a surprising thought, for one as jaded as she oft thought of herself. There was an innocence about him, that she found intriguing; perhaps it was mere the way that he moved as if he was still uncomfortable with his height and limbs, like a colt so soon after being birthed, but she suspected that there was something more than just the physical affectations that led her to that suspicion. He reminded her of ... innocence lost... awash in a world that seemed to hold no place, no regard for such things anymore, and she felt an instinctive and almost crushing urge to protect him. To shield him from the darkness that surrounded him.... It saddened her, and in some ways it saddened her even more that she was able to push it aside, for the most part. It was just another night. He was just another man. And this was just another passing conversation, and once it was done, he would most likely never cross her path again. In time, he would be just another forgotten memory. Her cool gaze slipped downward, as he shuffled onto the barstool, doing his best to veil his uncomfortableness from her, or perhaps all of the occupants of the room, offering her a smile that was genuine, but timid. He was sweet. And young. He made her feel so very old. She did so like to forget that she was. "As you like," She replied easily to his rejection of her first offer, and the acceptance of her second. "It is my pleasure, whichever you should choose." She added, her smile steady and smooth, a smile of habit, to set people at ease, to assure them that she was no threat, even though at times even the most insensitive of humans could tell that she was. She bore a predator's soul, a monster sheathed in human flesh, and there were some things that could never be truly hidden. "Oh, no." She replied, to his inquiry of whether she played, a chuckle of quiet and genuine amusement following her denial. "I plucked once at the strings of a harp in my childhood, and broke more than I made sing. " She admitted, with an amused smile. "I have at times wished for such a talent, but it was not to be, I am afraid." She brought her glass to her lips again, taking a sip of the smooth, chilled liquid. "Perhaps it is for the best, though. A mercy to keep my fingers from bleeding, and the same for other's eardrums, hm?" Perdita questioned, shaking her head lightly. "There should be grace, and elegance, beauty and passion, in the eyes and soul of a music - maker. Their heart, on a plate, offered in every song. I am not that brave, my friend," She stated, with a flicker of a rueful smile. "The song is beautiful, yes... It makes me think of times long passed, of things that were meant to be, but never could... of moments that once gone, can never be seized. Of all the things that have been lost along the way." She mused, her tone quiet and still languid, though tinged with an odd melancholy, one that she rarely lingered on, or at least expressed. She was silent for a moment longer, before blinking her nostalgia away, offering him another low smile and a quiet shake of her head. "Perhaps I read far too much into what is simply meant to be a beautiful song," She added, with the rise and fall of a single leather clad shoulder. "It is a pleasure, Elliot." The dark haired woman met his hand with her own, his lean and soft against her worn palms and long calloused fingers. Despite her healing abilities, centuries of fighting and lifting and hard and constant effort, not counting the encounter with a multitude of silver and wolfsbane in passing, much less when she forcefully restrained herself every full moon left her hands just as toughened and scarred as any warrior's. She rarely noticed, or cared; in her line of work a potential client would have seen hands pale and smooth and manicured and painted as a detraction, not a perk. She trimmed her nails regularly, keeping them smooth and free of snag, but she rarely did anything else. "Please... no need to be formal." She contradicted, with a smile, at his use of 'ma'am'. "My name is Perdita," She offered by way of introduction. TAG; ELLIOTT. WORDS 900. OUTFIT. TEMPLATE BY OH SO COOPERNATURAL ! @ CAUTION.