Dramaturgy - Printable Version

Vanyel held his wings tucked close to his body, his tail swinging from side to side behind him as he strolled along, humming softly under his breath. He needed something to fill his hands, though... something to accompany his voice, an... instrument.

”Collector~!”, he called out, talons clicking with every step, and if he knew that this would end up being the way he met his love interest's father, by asking for something like every other gembound in these caves did, he'd have a stroke.

Maybe he'd gift him a lute made of a dead gembound's heartstrings or something... cool. That begged the question as to what he'd ask him to do, though. Kill someone? He really didn't want to, but on his quest to woo the man of his dreams... he supposed he would, though he certainly wouldn't be happy about it.

Too bad the Collector was an asshole. Barnabus had told him of their encounter and he kept that in mind as he walked over the stone and dirt of Canis, brows furrowing. A shame, really, he'd have thought a businessman like the Collector had some sort of decency.

”Perhaps I'm too optimistic,” he mused, and called again, ”Collector!”

"There really is no need to shout," crooned a voice from a few yards back.

He was there--he hadn't been, before--leaning back against a tall pile of bones that Vanyel had walked by. He held some silvery implement to his claws, filing them this way and that, but after a moment crimson pinprick eyes beneath the hood raised to regard the half-dragon.

"I am the Collector; what is it that you... desire?" That final word seemed to hold whole realms of promise.

Weapons? Power? Admiration? Worship?

The Collector could grant whatever Vanyel wanted.

”Well, Canis is a pretty big place,” he said with a grin, turning around and putting his hands in the pockets of his leather pants, ”Neat trick, by the way. Popping up outta nowhere, maybe I ought to learn that. For theatrics, of course.”

Vanyel approached with his tail swinging, raising a hand to fiddle with one of his braids as he held out the other for a handshake, something Barnabus had taught him, ”The name's Vanyel. Lovely to meet you, sir, ma'am, or otherwise.”

And as for what he wanted...

”What do you have that's musical? An instrument that I can use with my hands,” he said, tiling his head to one side, ”Something... something I can use while I sing. I'm trying to to spread my love and charm around, you see, so anything you have that can boost my charismatic voice and talent with, I'd much appreciate. Maybe with engravings on it, all pretty and the like.”

He had little knowledge of instruments. Flutes and various wind instruments made from dried gourdes or hollow branches was the limits of his expertise, having blown into such things and been delighted to have accidentally made a whistle. They were horribly out of tune and nothing like what he desired, so those were off the table.

Vanyel needed a weapon worth of a bard.

The Collector stared.

"...Charismatic. Yes," he 'agreed,' his tone utterly empty. He could hardly laugh at a new customer, now, could he-? Not to their face, at least. Well, he could, but it would be bad for business. He could not tell this stranger that they looked like a beautiful humanoid horrifically hybridized with a terribly ugly fish-tail and strange wings. The horns--those were all right. But charismatic-?

He was aware, of course, of the irony; of goat's hooves and horns, of stinking black fur. But charisma was demeanor, and thus far this creature was nothing but blunt.

It was cute, when they thought themselves so much more than they were. He thought again of broken, crumbling clay, swept away and forgotten.

The Collector smiled, beneath his hood. He reached out one clawed hand to delicately shake Vanyel's own. "We in these caves seem to be terribly lacking in charisma," he said smoothly. "Of course, I am open to trade--though my trades are not free," he went on, withdrawing his hand after offering his firm, yet delicate, handshake. "Please, join me."

A hand swept to one side, indicating open ground; two chairs were produced with a flourish of his limbs, set down half facing one another, half looking out over the expanse of Canis and its bones. "Music," the Collector began, "is something of a passion of my own. Unfortunately, I have traded away perhaps my most powerful instrument, already; but there are others you might find of interest. But tell me: why does music interest you?"

Hands worked swiftly, drawing out a small table, his porcelain tea set (was that bone porcelain-? Most likely) and a steaming porcelain kettle. It was already heated; how, was not at all clear. "Tea?" he then asked, and now were produced the little spoons, the saucers, the sugar cubes in a tiny white bowl--and, of course, a little cream.

The Collector loved these little charades. Look at them; they think they're people.

Vanyel would cry outrage if he ever heard the Collector call his tail a fish's. It was very clearly draconic judging by the sharp scales, back spines, and it's flexible nature. And his wings-

”Right you are,” Vanyel said, fangs glinting as he grinned, ”I've heard many great things about you, and some not so great. I know you create wonderful enchantments and items that cause both pleasure and misery, two sides of a coin to even out the power you grant by giving an equal punishment for failure or usage.”

He watched in some semblance of awe as the Collector procured a set of chairs, table, and tea set, his wonder obvious.

”I would love tea,” he said, sitting down and setting his hands in his lap. ”And as for your question... well, that's something I can't put into words without leaving out things or possibly failing to touch upon how music moves me.”

Vanyel tapped his talons against his thighs, heterochromatic eyes flitting over the table's contents curiously. He'd never seen sugar or such marvelous cups and pots before. They were far beyond anything he could make, that was for sure.

”I believe it started with my mother. She's a dragon, you see, and far larger than I, though despite her talons and teeth she's the most gentle, kind person I know. But she sings the most beautiful lullabies I've ever heard, despite her not using any sort of words,” he explained, linking his fingers together. A smile crossed his face, this one more soft and genuine, and it was clear he felt fond of his mother.

”Music is so... powerful. It can change the emotions of whoever hears it! If you sing of sadness and grief, then that is what your audience will feel. If you sing of joy and content, then they will feel that too. Music is the beating of your heart and birds singing in the trees. It is magic in its own way, I think.”

The half-dragon clasped his fingers together and tilted his head, his ebony hair falling to one side, ”I don't think I can make a difference in these caves. I am but one, insignificant life in the vast system of the world, but at the very least I can make a difference for someone. By bringing joy in a dark time or sharing stories from all around... perhaps in my songs I can record history and share it with others to entertain and educate.”

' It can change the emotions of whoever hears it! If you sing of sadness and grief, then that is what your audience will feel. If you sing of joy and content, then they will feel that too. Music is the beating of your heart and birds singing in the trees.'

The Collector sat patiently through the entirety of Vanyel's speeches, offering out the cup of tea and sipping at his own. He showed no signs of impatience; indeed he offered little nods, here and there, thoughtful tilts of his head. Internally, he was reflecting that this creature truly loved to hear itself talk, and that perhaps this might be something to take note of...

"Beautifully spoken," he began, after Vanyel had at last wound his poetic notions to a close. "Though I would like to begin with correcting a misconception. I do not create items of any kind, and I certainly do not hand out misery-! I simply collect, you see--it's in the name--and trade. The details of enchantments are not always known to me... I am hardly omniscient, my well-spoken friend." He offered a gentle shrug as he took another, longer sip of his own tea. One hoof delicately bobbed where the leg hooked over the other. "If something... darker... ever comes through my hands-? Well. Buyer beware, as they say," he said, and the glint of smile-bared fangs was briefly visible past his hood. "Regrettable, of course, but... certainly not deliberate."

The last of the tea was drained, still steaming hot; the cup was set back in its pristine saucer, and clawed fingers were interlinked across his chest. "Now: everything that I offer is, of course, in trade; and so I have a question for you. Two, in fact, my dear Vanyel. -What a lovely name, by the way. First, what is it that you offer me, in turn? And second, strings, percussion, or wind-?" His head tilted to one side, curiosity shining in his crimson pinprick eyes.

Or was that ambition, perhaps-? Or greed?

”Ah, my mistake,” he said apologetically, ”All my knowledge comes from rumors, you see, so there's bound to be misinformation. I parsed through what I could and waved off anything ridiculous, like the idea you wore entirely lemon yellow with shoes so tall they looked like stilts, riding around on a rainbow unicorn that defecated little packages of colorful candy.”

Vanyel had made that one up himself and his mother had laughed for ten minutes about it, but the Collector didn't have to know that. It was hard to know if it was just his mother's terrible humor or if his little joke was truly funny.

”Where do you find your wares?”, he asked curiously, lifting his cup of tea to sip, marveling at the little drink.

Eyes flicked up and his pointed ears twitched, a grin spreading across his face, ”Why thank you... a shame I don't know yours. Do you have one? But I have many things I can offer! Dragon scales, gemstones, pelts from all sorts of creatures. I can get you live gemstones, holding life within them, taken both from deceased or living gembounds. I am not above taking a life for something that will benefit me in the long run.”

As long as his mother and family never found out then he would feel no guilt about it.

”Poisons, too,” he said, tapping a finger on his chin, ”From various plants and animals, if that's what you're interested in. I could get you many crafted items too. Pillows, fur blankets, trinkets and carved statues, I have a friend who makes such wonderful little carvings, perhaps he'd be willing to make me one or two.”

...little packages of colorful candy.

He spoke, tone soft and even, gaze unblinking. "You are not... mocking me, I trust..? That would be..." the Collector paused, as if searching for a word, warmth bled out of his demeanor to leave an empty stare and a thoughtful tap of his claws against one another. "...terribly rude."

He let this hang, for a moment, and when Vanyel moved on, he did not regain his prior friendliness. If there'd been humor in the phrasing of the 'story,' he showed no acknowledgment of it.

A pause, thought, and he shrugged gently. "Bring me the hand of the one who crafts your carvings," he said, at length, "and I will grant you a musical treasure beyond your wildest dreams. You will be unmatched. Unforgettable. That is my offer," he said.

Vanyel's face fell and he fluffed up his wings, ”Oh come on, that was funny... and untrue, obviously. It's called teasing, dear Collector.”

God he hated this guy... maybe he should have just gone to that weird portal in Gemini and hoped for the best. Barnabus was right.

And then his blood turned to ice. That was Attikias's hand the Collector was so brazenly asking him to collect. His grandfather if Carja's gushing was to be correct. Family. Did power matter that much to him?

Something ugly rose up, something that scared him. Something that whispered yes in his ears, against all that his mother had taught him about love and kindness and family.

”Thank you for the offer, Collector,” he said, placing his cold tea cup down, ”But that hand you speak of is far more precious than whatever you can offer me. Because you see, that hand doesn't just carve. That hand touches the heads of his children to offer affection, gathers food to feed his family, and paints the scales of my mother to let her forget the bad and remember the good. And I will not risk betraying his naïve trust for something as selfish as this.”

”I kindly ask for another offer,” he said softly, feeling fire well up in his chest with rage.

"Ah, well..." another drum of claws, this time against the table, "I do not believe we've progressed far enough in our relationship to offer jokes at one's expense." The Collector regarded the Vanyel with a frigid sort of indifference, though that would be difficult for pinprick red eyes to betray beneath that hood of his.

Morality. A cute little thing these sort thought they'd invented and preached to no end; and, oh, how it so frequently stood in the way of a shaken little status quo and his own dealings. Where would this Cave be if there weren't the occasional limb-stealing or grand larceny? Boring, for certain.

In short, forgive the Collector for being so blasé about the half-dragon's reaction.

"My boons must come at a price—" he crooned despite his cooling attitude toward Vanyel, "I'm trust that you're aware of the concepts of 'underselling' and 'overpaying?'" He thumbed the cup's rim. "They both mean that it would not be a fair trade."

Alas, the Collector stood with a sigh, abandoning their little soiree altogether. The slow clatter of his hooves marked his ominous sort of... circling around the table. "If you wish to turn down my initial offer, then that is fine," he hummed, "but do remember that you are in no position to be so... hostile."

Ah, but perhaps he could salvage this annoyance.

The Collector completed his loping circle, seating himself once more with a flourish and steepled fingers. "A lesser prize, then—though by no means worthless! It would bear a song so enchanting that it captures the attention of any. Appealing, no?" He paused, allowing it to sit for a moment. "It has fallen into disrepair, these days, but, ah... I can bring it to its former glory. A spit and a shine, and all that."

He leaned forward in his chair, eyes glinting once again in the light. "Your end of the bargain would be to bring me those who are gifted with song. One or two might suffice, if their voices are strong. And, of course... the more, the merrier. A chorus might be quite a delight." Palms clapped together. "What say you to this?"