PM to join [Funel's Ink] The Tattoo Of The Drum

[Baran]

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1st Summer 517 AV

Tap. Tap. Tappety tap. Tappety tappety tap. Tap. Tap. Tappet..-

"Would you stop that? Rhysol above, you're driving me more insane than my wife does!" The ravosalaman frowned disapprovingly as Baran put his hands up in a joking symbol of surrender and apologised. "It was the Plaza of Dark Delights you were after, righ'? We're almost there. Be about five chimes more." The man glared at the musician who was hiring his boat as the man put his hand back on the side of the slender vessel. "No more petchin' tapping! I've half a mind to chuck you out, bloody musician." Baran bit his tongue, but did as the man demanded. Truthfully though, he found it difficult to still his hands.

He had been plagued with a rhythm, all day long. Last night's dream had been bizarre, but it had made him obsessed with that drum that still taunted him. Could he get the rhythm? Could he tease the fragments of remembered beat from his skull? He was confident he could, but over the course of the day, he'd worn out to the point that the drum beat was now just an annoyance. Still, perversely, it amused him to transfer that annoyance to someone else, and the ravosalaman's outburst only brightened his mood.

Finally, the slim boat pulled alongside the plaza, and Baran disembarked with a hop. Although he had yet to capture the beat that had been teasing him, he was steadily growing more in tune with the city's own rhythm. Anywhere else, getting into boats all the time to get to places would become tiresome, but Ravok was kept alive by such vessels. They were as frequent as drunks in a bar, or maids in a brothel, and Baran was growing quite attached to them, and indeed the city.

By the time Baran had finished and gained his bearings, the ravosala had disappeared once again across the inky waters. So, he looked around. The wild-eyed musician hadn't come here by chance, after all. He was searching for somewhere in particular, that he'd heard mentioned in a conversation quite by chance, last season. It was a tattoo shop, Funel's Ink, and he was looking for it so he could top up the 'f' hole tattoos on his inner arms. They had been made a long time ago, but a grim-faced man of little skill in an Alvad backstreet. Now they were faded from sunlight. Baran disliked being shabby, and so walked through the plaza, eyeing with interest the various decadent and shady venues scattered throughout, until he came face to face with the very shop he was looking for.

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[Baran]

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He looked up, eyes alighting on the various features of the building- the black-framed windows, the brown-to-red peeling paint, giving an air of dilapidation, the vibrant green of the vines standing out against this. All in all, it was a building, not so dissimilar from others in the plaza. The look took less that ten ticks, and within a chime he had strode forwards enthusiastically to push open the door of the shop. A bell tinkled somewhere, and he looked around...

It was to his surprise that the tattoo parlour was virtually empty. Two chairs were pushed back against the wall, and a rack of equipment was sitting beside them. A divan-esque lounge chair was inhabited by an evil-looking hairless cat, who miaowed a thin, piteous squeal of a sound before hopping off the chair and going to greet the stranger. The strange beast, surely terrible at keeping away the rats and mice, wound it's way around the musician's legs as he tried to shoo it away, before calling out, "Hi, anyone here?"

There was a silence, but not a particularly quiet one. Somewhere above he could hear a sudden clatter, and heavy footsteps thudding downwards. Finally, as the man waited with his hand resting against the table positioned near the entrance a rather breathless man holding a half-eaten bun of bread pushed open a door and burst into the room. His cat sneaked through the door as it was about to shut, and Baran smiled with a half-raised eyebrow, whilst his fingers beat a small tattoo on the tabletop. What was the petching rhythm?

"Gods, sorry! As you can see, I was halfway through my lunch. Anyway, what can I help you with? I don't think I've seen you here before, am I correct? It's been quiet as of late..." He stopped tapping, and replied, "I doubt it, as I'm rather new to the city still. Although in some respects that seems to be a dirty word around here. As long as you can accept my patronage, I'm hoping to simply top up an existing pair of tattoos. Here, I'll show you." He rolled up the sleeves of his tan shirt, to reveal the 'f' hole tattoos. For those in the know, they would represent the shapes carved into the body of any string instrument. His were an almost exact representation of his own gamba's sound holes, called so as they help to amplify the sound the instrument creates.

The shop-owner inspected them with a critical eye, and hummed thoughtfully. "Alright, I'll see what I can do. That'll be fifteen miza for the pair of 'em. If you want to take a seat,..?" He trailed off, leaving a space for the musician to answer. He did so, "I'm Baran Veredith. May I enquire your name, sir?" He introduced himself as Matthew, and the tattoo artist began to prepare his tools. If he was disappointed to have such a mundane job for his first customer of the day, he hid it well. Baran was clueless anyway, but settled down into the plush chair and got comfy before the work began.

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