Poetry In Motion

[BEATE-MAREN McCANN]

Date: October 7th, 2008
Tag(s): Snow Moldovan, Nuada Silverlance

The chilly October winds swirled up the Hudson River, tugging at leaves and scarves as they went on their way. The pavements were still slick with last night’s rain showers, their surfaces painted in shades of molten greys with miniature puddles forming in the cracks. Bea McCann, B.P.R.D agent and part-Siren, had always enjoyed walking in this part of the vast American city – it was no doubt the water that attracted her here, to a place that was so out of her way. The grasping upward fingers of the skyscrapers just made her feel a bit dizzy when she looked at them, the teeming hordes of people still befuddled her country-girl senses even after her two years in America, the advertising that screamed at you from most surfaces dazzled her eyes. But, what she liked was the noise of the water and the rhythm of the citizens and visitors – the tramping of their feet, the staccato beats of their breathing, the discordant harmony of their voices – and that was why the young woman often found herself offering to go on the little trips to the city to pick up this artefact or that crumbling old book that everyone else seemed reluctant to volunteer for (that is, apart from the agents who were so different that they were not allowed out without a minder and a whole lot of covering-up – they would have chewed off her arm for the opportunity). This was where she had been sent today – the B.P.R.D equivalent of being the office teaboy – to collect a priceless, well most-likely priceless, copy of ancient Irish folktales. They were stories she had been raised on: the banshee, the Hound of Cú Chulainn, the leprechauns, the children of Lir . . . all those well-woven tales, collected neatly and set into a red-leather cover (now cracked and warped with age), with gold-edged pages that had lost their lustre long since. It was safely ensconced in an airtight box inside the nondescript black bag she carried slung over her shoulder.

If one was to look behind Bea as she scythed her meandering path through the crowds, one would see clear expressions of dazed confusion or blithe upon the faces of those she had passed, especially the males. Why? Simply because she had been humming – something she tried her hardest not to do in public, but it was difficult to cease when you found yourself hearing music in everything, the notes seemingly trailing you wherever you went – and for Beate-Maren, with her Siren blood, humming or singing or even plain-old-fashioned talking was fraught with problems. So what had prompted the outburst this time?

That soft sound, just on the edge of hearing, obscured by the yapping of humans and the screech of tires.

And there it was again! How could she not have noticed that before? What had caught the Northern Irish girl’s attention were the distinctive strains of ‘Irish Washerwoman’. Curiosity flickered across her features, concentration producing little furrows on her brows as Bea tried to work out where the lovely music was originating from . . . couldn’t be under the bridge, could it? Of course, there were those to whom the underside of the Brooklyn Bridge was significant for other reasons entirely. Not that she knew that the underside of the mighty bridge was the secret entrance to another microcosm of a world – if anything this may even have served to make her wary. For a moment or two, at least – Bea was not known for her cautious approach to people or places. She hurried to leave the leviathan structure, making her way towards the base of the columns that held the noisy thoroughfare above aloft, following the music like a bread-crumb trail through the air.

What Bea discovered, in the end, was a very absorbed violin player, whose music was becoming faster and faster as the tune whirled on, playing in the shadows of the massive bridge. Intrigued, she listened quietly until he finished – then Bea piped up, “Shouldn’t a busker have somewhere to place donations?”. Indeed, she took him to be a busker, and a very odd one at that if he wasn’t actively soliciting money.

[SNOW MOLDOVAN]

The sharp wind of October felt pleasant against Snow's skin as his bow glided over the strings of his violin, seemingly aided by the pleasures and ambiance that Mother Nature herself provided. The half elf sat upon a ledge watching the horizon as he played a song he was overly familiar with. A song by the name of ‘Irish Washerwoman’. He smiled as he played, as a two hundred year old memory filled his vision. The dream was so vivid that he had gotten lost in it. A happier time, perhaps, when his human mother still drew in breath. He had been young when she passed away, though the ghost of her still tugged at his heartstrings as he played this song. In his vision he could see her dancing with his father, the elvish scholar Forendir, formerly the adviser to their prince. The world seemed so vast beneath the sky that suddenly Snow felt nearly one with his violin, the images of his mother dancing passing before his eyes.

It was a strange phenomenon. The magic that music itself held. The ability to take you to places you could never see with your own eyes. To bringing the past to the forefront so vividly that you could nearly touch it. Taste it. His bow moved faster and faster as he was lost in thought, his hand one with his instrument. It was his mother who had taught him to play, though the heirloom in his hands, the violin with the seal of Bethmoora engraved to both the case and the wood, had been his fathers. Closing his pale blue eyes Snow played in rhythm with the sounds the nature had gifted him with. The breeze was quick and unpredictable, the sound of whirling leaves was subtle and soft. The sounds of the river were music to his ears, as well as the steamboat in the distance. If Snow was anything, without a doubt, it was an artist bound to the scenes around him.

Smiling to himself, his pale blue eyes opened to the sound of a whimsical voice. One in which he was unfamiliar with. He had been mistaken for a busker. Which meant he was surely mistaken for a human as well. He chuckled and looked up to the girl with a bright smile. "I'm not actually busking. I'm just enjoying the weather." He said pleasantly, leg swaying from the edge of the wall in which he sat, back against the wall. His pale blue eyes swept over the top of her head before tracing her face down to her mismatched eyes. Entranced by them for a moment he allowed his focus to see her entire face. "It's strange to see someone else out here. You're the first I've seen, to be honest. I come here every night." He stated, talking too much out of nervousness. "My name is Snow." He bowed his head at her slightly as he waved his bow in a greeting.

The truth was the boy was not very skilled at interacting with others. Even though he was surpassing 200 years of age, he was still considered an adolescent to those of his kind, and that was if they were being generous. Snow had been raised in the confines of the Troll Market, lost within the Fae Court, or what was left of it. He had been trained to be a sentinel of sorts, a defensive/aggressive fighter, one that would hopefully one day serve in the forces of the Mythic folk. Should the mythicals call upon a half breed, Snow would rise in an instant. That being said, Snow was raised in a very sheltered yet controlled and productive environment.

He wasn't sure if he had introduced himself properly and he bit his tongue to control the nervous babble that may or may not spew from his mouth. The thought that she might be human only flickered through his mind. He was confused about which world be belonged to, being half elf and half human. Knowing how the Prince felt about humans had made Snow question his own judgement. Had he been wrong to trust them so quickly? He refused to believe it. Though he had a love for the royal family he was brought up to trust, his mother had been human. His mother whom there was nothing selfish about. "What draws you out this night?" Snow asked nervously.

[BEATE-MAREN McCANN]

Bea could hear the nervousness, the slight fluttering fluctuations in cadence and tone as clear as a bell to her; what took years for 'normal' humans to learn about the intricacies of each other's voices she had always been able to decipher, reading speech as if it was a book in front of her eyes. Everyone was cautious in the big city, that was true, which was something she'd had to learn to adapt to quickly. This sort of reluctance and holding yourself aloof did not occur in a village where everyone knew everyone else, where all histories were shared, where there were tangled webs of inter-relation and in-fighting stretching back to the beginning of the Plantation of Ulster and beyond. Bea still struck most people as unusually open, a heart-on-their-sleeve individual who skipped her way merrily through life.

"I've not heard that song in, oh, forever - so I followed the sound and here I am" Bea explained nonchalantly - because even she knew enough not to reveal her employment by the B.P.R.D to any old stranger she met in odd circumstances. Besides, it wasn't as if what she had been doing was particularly top-secret stuff - but neither did it make for engrossing conversation, and it was this that swung the decision for the half-Siren.


"I'm Bea." she offered blithely, like for like - though her greeting was not so formal as his had been. She wasn't quite sure whether to profer her hand for a shake, which is what she would routinely have done upon meeting someone new - you could fathom many things about a person from their handshake, or so her Da had always maintained. However, Snow still had a possessive grip upon his violin, and so this option was removed for the time being.

" So, where'd you learn to play like that?" the young woman questioned curiously - her music student days prompting this inquiry, a smidge of professional interest colouring her tone.

[SNOW MOLDOVAN]

There was something both conjuring and clairvoyant about this night. Furthermore, there was even something alluring about this woman. Even sheltered, Snow was able to recognize there was something different about Bea. The first thing he had noticed about her was the nearly musical feel her voice had, as it first resonated around him. A man would have to be blind to have missed the enchanting appearance this Bea was blessed with. Are all humans so appealing? He wondered to himself. He wasn't made to wonder long, as her captivating voice called his attention once again. There was a notably influencing factor in her voice, that he took notice of. Something that felt as if she was drawing him to her, though the idea in itself was preposterous.

He smiled and hopped down from his ledge, opening his ancient violin case to secure his bow inside. Inside the case there was a spare bow, one that was a different color than the one in his hand. The bow he held was a cherry color, with a slightly red tinge, newer. Though the strings were composed of unicorn hair, something that would go unnoticed by someone not from the mythical world. The spare bow on the other hand, was a dark ashen color, worn with years of age, it had been his mothers. His human mothers over 200 years ago. And it had been his fathers before it was made hers. He dared not play with it less it be damaged even further with good wear and age.

He was surprised that Bea had known the song at all. He raised a brow, and held his tongue, fighting the words 'I thought it was elven rooted' from his lips. Then she extended her name in return, which made him smile just. Her name was musical as well. Perhaps everything was musical this night. "Bea." He mused, allowing his pale blue eyes to study her expressions momentarily. He would have to react to body language as well, he reminded himself. Moving his hands casually he stated, "I'm surprised you've heard of it, actually. Not enough people have an appreciation for that sort of sound anymore, which is rather unfortunate." His voice was less shaken and more sure now, though his confidence remained forced. It was among his first over-worldly interactions.

" So, where'd you learn to play like that?"

Snow's eyes widened. What to answer. Should he answer the truth a human would label him insane and off the crazy bin he'd go. Or did the Fae Court refer to this house made of nuts as the Loony bin? Or was it simply the Loo? The young man furrowed his brow lost in thought, unable to recall a simple term then remembered he had been questioned. He laughed nervously. "I apologize, Miss. It would seem I am unable to recall the name of the place in which I studied." He lied. The truth was some secrets were better unspoken. Fidgeting around inside his violin case, he pulled out a cloth to clean his instrument. He glossed over the seal of Bethmoora which was seemingly engraved into his violin in a silver strand. And his cloth moved to clean the neck of the violin, in which had somehow had Yggdrasil engraved beneath the strings without harming the neck. He wondered every time he cleaned it how much care had gone into crafting such an instrument. "Thinking back, I believe it was a long time ago." He mused, remembering just how he had come to learn the violin as he slid it into his case and carefully closed it.

He didn't expect that Bea would enjoy an encore, it was only polite to devote ones attention to their companions. Since Snow had none, he would start here. "Actually." He corrected. "My mother taught me how to play at first, but I can't remember the names of all the instructors I must have been passed through." He answered with a smile. The sad truth was with his past he had outlived all of his instructors to date, and had a total of 4. "Do you play an instrument? You seem to have a love for music, if you were able to recognize the song so easily." He asked, wearing a sincere smile. Snow nearly always smiled, surprisingly the majority of his smiles were sincere.

[THE STAFF]

Closed out of respect for Bea's prolonged absence.
Originally Closed on: 2011 March 13 by The Staff