[Sunday follows Aventurine through the honeycomb of buildings, quiet and uncomplaining, but increasingly uncomfortable once more. It is not the crowds that bother him but Aventurine. The sly, syrupy, cunning man has a way of seeping into the cracks of Sunday's life, turning every misfortune into an opportunity for himself. Now, once again, the gambler has an advantage over him. Sunday doesn't know where he will be at the end of all of this. The only certainty he has is that Aventurine will come into a handsome sum of money.
He doesn't say anything in response to the other man's offer, one that feels to Sunday like rubbing salt into a wound. Sunday can have what he wants...if he asks his IPC handler nicely for it.
So it is with a heavy heart that he slows and stops despite himself in front of a small hut lined in seagless windows and coral statues, with lovely shell-inlaid instruments displayed out front. His eyes lock onto a violin crafted from fine Xianzhou wood. Many years ago, he'd played the violin. He was never as good at it as he was at the piano, and never as skilled as Robin, but he still played notes that brought tears to the people who heard them. During his nights alone, it would be nice to play again, to let the bow dance and his mind focus.
But he dares not ask for it. He's never been good at asking for what he wants. It was never his place to want. On Penacony, he existed for the people as an empty vessel into which they could pour their lamentations and despair. And he was to carry that pain aloft and burn it in the heat of a scorching sun...
How is he expected to ask now, when doing so would yield more power to Aventurine?
He is still staring at the violin as he thinks about home, unaware that his companion has moved on ahead without him.]
no subject
He doesn't say anything in response to the other man's offer, one that feels to Sunday like rubbing salt into a wound. Sunday can have what he wants...if he asks his IPC handler nicely for it.
So it is with a heavy heart that he slows and stops despite himself in front of a small hut lined in seagless windows and coral statues, with lovely shell-inlaid instruments displayed out front. His eyes lock onto a violin crafted from fine Xianzhou wood. Many years ago, he'd played the violin. He was never as good at it as he was at the piano, and never as skilled as Robin, but he still played notes that brought tears to the people who heard them. During his nights alone, it would be nice to play again, to let the bow dance and his mind focus.
But he dares not ask for it. He's never been good at asking for what he wants. It was never his place to want. On Penacony, he existed for the people as an empty vessel into which they could pour their lamentations and despair. And he was to carry that pain aloft and burn it in the heat of a scorching sun...
How is he expected to ask now, when doing so would yield more power to Aventurine?
He is still staring at the violin as he thinks about home, unaware that his companion has moved on ahead without him.]