[closed] hey get your knives out

[prozaic]

WHO: Shalem + others
WHERE: Mostly in the Gallows, but there's something happening in Mirth too.
WHEN: Event time!
WHAT: Shalem is in jail, then he's not. Then he needs to make some money.
WARNINGS: Shalem's Shadow amplifying his bloodlust, some PTSD, lots of poetic waxing about dark things. More tba

[ a catch-all for people i've plotted with. feel free to respond to my plotting comment if you'd like a thread! ]

Comments

[prozaic]

[this is one of the outcomes he did not want, and shalem feels terrible. guilty. he's always been disappointing people, hasn't he? from his training, to his botched debut, and even as an operator. and it's persisted all the way into his afterlife.]

Let me make it up to you. [he's insistent on it, reaching out to hold onto set's elbows, a gentle hold, a gentle pressure.]

Please. You've gone out of this way to help a liar, let me make it up to you.

I shall sing, even.

[redsoil]

[ Set's expression folds a little, nothing about it manufactured - though he holds himself apart, distant in his shame. He'd believed it, of course. That Shalem was being harassed by individuals because he was someone who was pretty, handsome, with clever hands and a calm smile that would look so good on the stage. And he'd told such a good story, about how he'd always dreamed of singing and acting.

Set feels ashamed, for believing in it so readily. He curls his arms away, firm in his desire to not be touched; his skin crawls at the thought of it. He does not leave, however, willing to still be there. ]

Why do you think you have anything to make up for?

[ Neither mortals nor gods think that of Set. ]

You needn't do something you're not comfortable with, Shalem. I'm not angry with you. And I'm not so unaware of my forcefulness as to not understand that, like those who were trying to drag you onto stage, I was in the wrong.

[ Finally, he points to the space where Shalem had hidden away the letter of invitation that had been procured for him. ]

Am I to understand that you wish to avoid the stage, then?

[prozaic]

[ah, well, if set rejects his touch again... shalem might as well stop, so he withdraws his hands and places it over the contract, as if to protect it.

and he sighs.]

I would like nothing more to be on stage again... But I cannot be. Being a proper actor is well beyond me, and has been for most of my life. Singing and dancing for an audience... Impossible. I-- I cannot. Never again. [if anything, the shadows under his eyes seem deeper, not even the purple liner can do anything to hide them.

he's well aware that this is making him sound like he has an immense amount of stage fright. but that's another misconception he needs to clear up. but how? how can you tell someone that you want to kill your own audience, your own co-actor if the script calls for it?]

But around friends... I can still bring myself to create art around them, especially for them. Like yourself.

[redsoil]

[ More transparent than he ought to be, when Shalem attends to the contract he'd pocketed, the tension in the redhead's body begins to abate a little. It slides away from him, relieved that he does not have to fight off something at every turn. ]

Then, you needn't. I would not force you onto a stage in the way those people had tried to. And now that my misconception of your experience has been cleared up, I see that my labors were not... entirely ill-conceived.

[ Shalem may not need a teacher, but the teacher came with a private space. Perhaps, if Set were to go with Shalem and explain how the circumstances had evolved with his comprehension of the issue, then all would be well. ]

I have no musical talent, [ he admits, twining his fingers together as though to speak of an area where he did not excel was uncomfortable, rather than simply how things were for gods. They held domains. Some overlapped, and some did not. The god of war had no use for songs and poetry, and so - he had never thought of them. Until now. ] I cannot sing, nor act, nor dance. However, I won't deny my appreciation of the arts.

[ In his own way, he accepts Shalem's offer. ]

My wife tried to instill some manner of understanding within me of such things. She was always so patient with me, the way you are now.

[prozaic]

It takes time, effort, and so much training. Physicality, inspiration, a mindset.

I... lost that mindset a long time ago. [he sighs softly, lowering his hands from his chest.] It ebbs and flows for me now, but I often do not take the step forward into performing once more.

[then he brightens again. even if he doesn't say anything about why he doesn't perform anymore, it's not important right now, and he can try to find a way to respond if set asks why. one that doesn't involve lying again, but doesn't go into his experiences with the troupe.]

I recited poetry to a friend quite recently, that's how I know who I can and cannot perform for. [then he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, a long, slow exhale. when he next opens his mouth, he utters a wordless note, his voice taking on an entirely different quality.

his speech has hints of his background in performance, the measured cadence and proper pronunciation, hints of an accent he's still struggling with. but whereas he speaks softly, almost wispily, his singing voice is strong, clear, deep, coming from within his chest. after that one experimental note, shalem sings the first stanza of a song he heard not too long before his death, something about moons, rivers and companionship.

when he's done, he opens his eyes, but looks away, flushing. he hasn't done this in a long time and he's unsure about the reaction he'll get.]