savetheearth | 001 — handwritten [scrap] & action.

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001 — handwritten [scrap] & action.

( HANDWRITTEN )

[ Banagher's found himself a little bit of free time at the library on Pierre-Simon, meaning he's taking a break from sorting through the insanity of the return bin to card through a few old books in search of some kind of meaning to assign to the words he can't seem to keep quiet in his head.

On the back of a forgotten, yellowing library punch card he finds tucked away in a book, he starts copying down things in no order, just to remember—first up is the sequence of numbers that's equally persistent. He'd never thought to put them down physically before, here or otherwise, by the virtue of the fact that he doesn't feel like he'll forget them anytime soon. Thusly: ]

[ Sorry, network denizens, for the nonsensical scraps of texts, notes, and printings you may receive as a result. Also the disconcerting doodles. ]

( ACTION )

[ It's early evening, the time when all the streetlamps begin to wink to life outside and natural sunlight is exchanged for halogen. He's currently seated in the lower level of the library at one of the broad cherry wood tables, chin in hand, mindlessly scribbling on the punch card. There's an assortment of papers spread across the table's corner, dotted with books and pens, suggesting he's been at this for a bit. While usually a diligent worker, he seems pretty distracted.

Don't happen to need a book or the use of a computer, do you? ]

(ooc. this is his first use of the network, but if you're going for action and your character is a frequent visitor to the library or a high school/uni student, you're welcome to assume cr!)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ The world is blissfully quiet within the cozy confines of the library, regarded as a dusty relic by some and a needless waste of taxpayer money by others—and maybe that's why Casval fits in so well when he walks through its doors, having surrendered to the harsh brand of both in his weary heart of hearts. But there's a certain solace here he can't find anywhere else, a certain nostalgia that reminds him of older, better times, paging through theory and studying up on Plato, Marx, and Rand as his father looked proudly on. Clicking away at a computer just didn't feel the same, and wasting away in his office while trouble was about just didn't feel right, even to a seasoned hermit such as himself.

The majority of his day is spent combing through the shelves, in search of anything that might prove remotely useful in his quest for answers; city history, prominent figures that had come and gone, even minor, seemingly unrelated tangents triggered by hunches and false leads based on information he'd gathered so far. But they're all roads to nowhere, and with a grunt of frustration and a heavy thunk, Casval sets the last of his hopes aside, brooding beside his towering stack of tomes for awhile.

And then he remembers, faintly, something mentioned to him by a staff member. We've got an old piano in the back room, if you're interested. Open to the public. You seem the sort. ]

"Seem the sort", huh?

[ He's only huffy because it's true. On the same nostalgic whim that brought him here, he wanders off to the room in question, approaching the aging Grand with a faint smile. Wiping the film of dust from its surface, he lifts the keyboard cover and sits, testing a key, then another, and another, until it all starts coming together.

"Remember this one, Cas? Easy to play, hard to master. Not really my style, but your dad likes it, so..."

Casval shuts his eyes. He doesn't need to look; his fingers know this one by heart. The sound wafts from the room, played with the passion of a gifted professional. So many hours played into the night, so many sprained hands... yes, he remembers. ]

Mother.

[ It's the airy sound of the piano keys that finally compels Banagher to lift his head and take a look around, as if he'd momentarily forgotten where he was. The punch card bears the evidence of that, its surface almost completely written over, around all the little marks. He lingers on it a moment, but the sudden swell of music eventually causes him to break away out of curiosity. ]

Weird, I don't remember telling anyone about that...

[ Stacking his papers and books on the corner of the table and throwing his jacket over them, he pushes his chair in and heads for the stairs.

Nobody really knew about the piano. Nobody really asked. A few old patrons remembered it, remembered when it was stationed proudly in the center of one of the reading rooms, gleaming and new. Now it sits on its lonesome in a quiet room full of book dust.

Remembrance keeps on saving it, like now, an orphan rescued by the whimsy of a few.

A compact staircase leads up to the second level, where the sound pours between the shelves. A rendition of Canon in D. The player is talented, that much he knows—he's grown up accustomed to the hesitance of beginners, the skip in the progression that gives them away. This isn't like that. When he passes the two halls and three corners, the music overflows from the room, and Banagher stops in the doorway, peeks in, really, for fear of interrupting it. ]

[ Two of a kind, then, the piano and its player, orphaned by the ravages of time and a cold reality that had left them both behind. The piano sings with every affectionate, enthused note, sings as it hasn't done in so very long, as if overjoyed by the attention it's receiving. Memories flowing from fingers into keys and filling the air with a pleasant medley, like something out of a fairy tale.

Ordinarily more alert, Casval would've stopped the moment he heard the scuff of sneakers, but he's too absorbed in the music. Too absorbed in the past. Only when he reaches the natural end of the piece, when the grip of nostalgia fades and the invisible weight on his shoulders lifts, does he turn towards his quiet visitor. ]

A boy?

[ A library was an odd place for a teenager, these days. Then again, a library was an odd place for a washed up soldier, too. Exhaustion wipes away any ire that might've resulted from being intruded upon, replaced by a curiosity he can't quite explain, and he blinks once, twice, slow and steady. Who are you? ]

[ Each key in sequence sounds different, somehow brighter. The piano has met many pianists, but rarely does it sound enthralled to do so. Not like this. Banagher is left contemplating the weight of each lingering note, maybe at too much length, because the voice that now cuts through the room in its absence startles him. He tenses, stands a little straighter. Regards him with a curiosity that is mutual, if his silent appraisal is anything to go by. ]

Yeah. Sorry, for not saying anything. I don't like interrupting someone playing the piano, that's all.

[ Casval shakes his head, gestures amenably with his hand to cut through any misunderstandings. Relax. It's alright; you're not one of his underlings. He won't bite. Too tired to, really. Too worn out from everything, and he's not in the mood to snap his fangs at a kid. ]

I don't mind. [ His smile, much like the now dormant piano in front of him, is worn at its edges. ] I can only hope you appreciated the performance.

[ Not that he was putting on a show for show's sake, but an old soldier still had his pride. Leaning against the piano's surface, Casval looks Banagher up and down. ]

Were you part of the staff here? I'm afraid I didn't notice you when I came in.

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( handwritten still! )

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