Fiddling About, 24th, early afternoon (open)- Xmas 1677

[James O`Neill]

Despite being fond to the point of fixation of nearly all artistic endeavors, James O'Neill was no musician. That much would have been apparent to anybody passing by the Whitehall music room, perhaps with the expectations of a pleasant serenade, only to hear the discordant twang of an un-tuned lute, followed by a hurried series of disgruntled muttering.

 

It was not for lack of knowledge or any sort of ignorance, certainly. His friendship with Lucas Cole and the potential for further collaboration that came with it had inspired a certain degree of familiarity with the theory behind musical greatness, the works of Praetorius, Vicentino, and so forth, having proven quite proficient (if rather dense) in this regard. Nor was it due to any lack of interest in diversifying his own horizons: indeed, in this moment, James could claim with no dishonesty a theoretical fascination with mastering the intricacies of the lute, despite having no prior training in the stringed instrument. Unfortunately, it seemed that music was dissimilar from poetry only in the enactment of the desired effect, not in the discipline, attention, and practice required.

 

And while the sights of the world continued to seem so lively and colorful, when every sound seemed to ring out with intoxicating clarity and profound definition and every moment veered had an emotional tensity unto its own, discipline, attention, and practice were qualities that James lacked.

 

Alone in the room, he heaved a sigh, forest green eyes scanning the instrument up and down as if the severity of his scrutiny would startle it into revealing its secrets. Being a lute, the conclusion was quickly reached that it would not, by which time his thoughts were elsewhere. A song came to him (mercifully, perhaps, for a generous critic may have described James' tenor as passable where his instrumental talent was fully lacking), a Gaelic tune rather new in lyrics but old in theme. Rather surprisingly softly, he began to sing, cradling the neck of the now-forgotten instrument in one hand.

 

“Anois tá 'n choill á gearradh, triallfaimid thar caladh...” An easy smile settled in over his pale features, recalling the rest of the lyrics of the song. Distraction had brought him to the music room, and still it held the reigns tightly. “Is a Sheán Uí Dhuibhir an Ghleanna, tá tú gan ghéim...”¹

 

¹: From John O'Dwyer of the Glen, an Irish folk song that emerged in the mid-1600s amid Cromwell's subjugation of Ireland. The verse James is singing is rather poetically (as opposed to accurately) translated as “Now they fell the wildwood, farewell home of childhood/John O'Dwyerof the Glen/Your day it is o'er.“

[Hope]

Music attracts.

 

With one side of his cloak thrown back over shoulder, revealing lavender justaucorps trimmed with mint and purple beadwork, Rowland Alston strode up the hall his thoughts miles away. Or to be more accurate one and a quarter miles away, where he'd left a lovely napping, tangled in her bed-sheets.

 

But it was nearing three, and he'd a rendezvous to keep with the lads, upon thought of them his hand instinctively moved to stroke his moustache. An admirable thing. Full and healthy, gleaming and perfectly trimmed.

 

But the music attracted. Haltingly played, and the verses in a language he did not understand, yet poignant in a most evocative way. There was plainly a heart behind the song... curiosity had Rowlands steps slow, pause at the door way, then with uncharacteristic quietness he entered.

 

To watch.

 

A knowing smile formed on his face... and as the musician completed his piece Rowland begun to slowly clap, then praise, "Well done sir! A moving performance, I should think the ladies knickers shall melt right off! Brava!" his hunch was that this man was practicing ready for a seduction.

[James O`Neill]

James had not expected an audience.

 

Or rather not, he had not thought to have an audience. Expectation implied a certain degree of...forethought into what came after, which itself was a quality presently lacking amid the frenzy of his own mind. It was process enough to recall how the words went the last time he'd heard the song, nearly four years hence at a village tavern not far from Greyabbey, let alone think of the quality of the singing or who may have been nearby.

 

The only saving grace to his mediocre voice, perhaps, was that there was a certain degree of feeling in the recitation: he held few of the patriotic sentiments of Owen Roe and his other cousins amid the Clann Uí Néill, but the loss of Gaelic land to Protestant hands was without a doubt a crime. He had only to recall the dim memories of his early childhood in Connaught to think so, or even the glazed-over look in his lord father's face.

 

Yet the newcomer -well-dressed and immaculately groomed, to be certain- knew none of this, and to judge from his accent, would have understood little and less of the song's true meaning. “You jest, sir,” James replied by way of greeting, smirk settling in lightning-quick. His hand rose and ran through his hair with “If that piece was moving, I could scarcely wait to see your reaction upon seeing true art.”

 

“Nor,” he rose, setting the lute to the side with what would likely be derided as a musician as a wholly inadequate amount of care, “would I believe any lady capable of falling for my ever-apparent charms upon learning of the song's meaning. At least among the Sasanacha¹, surely.” Smirk broadening into a grin, in turn revealing a solitary dimple.

 

“Besides, my friend...” His tone carried on a chipper, brisk pace that would have, to many conversational partners, seemed quick and rushed in its Ulster brogue, though his green eyes drifted languidly over his erstwhile-acquaintance. “You seem to be a man of good judgment. Do I appear to be in need of musical talent to ease my lack of companionship?”

 

¹: Feminine plural for Saxons.

[Hope]

"In my -ample- experience with the ladies, it is not raw or refined talent that impresses them most, but rather the effort itself." Rowland quipped in reply with a ready smile. "Ah so, you may not win any parts in the opera, but I as a, no the foremost mustachioed gad-about, do not believe there was a woman in London that will hold that against you..." he there clicked his tongue, and winked, "but it's not a song we fellows want pressed against us, eh what?"

 

Having been leaned against the door frame, Rowland gave a hitch of shoulder and launched an easy saunter forwards, "So that was not some love song then? It's a dirty one? Pray, interpret!" Rowlands grin grew wider at the appearance of the others dimple. It was not that he was that way inclined, but the appearance of the dimple suggested playfulness of the sort that Rowland greatly enjoyed. Perhaps this fellow might be one to join his gang? There was always room for another sporting fellow amid their merry troupe.

 

“Aha! Did I insult you then?!" he laughed out loud at James pretense of preciousness. "My name is Rowland Alston, pleased to meet you..." and he twirled finger in the air before sweeping into a theatrical bow, "...Sir Lute?" a temporary nom de plume, "Sirlute - Salute! Ha, that sound a cue for a glass of something strong!" And he slapped his breast pocket, hoping he'd not forgot his hip flask.

[James O`Neill]

This one was bold to the point of brazen, and James found himself smiling sharply at the mustachioed man's bit of wit, eying him with some degree of approval. “And if it were so easy, my gad-about acquaintance, a man would scarcely be able to find any joy in the pursuit, the voyage to that point...” His free hand gestured vaguely towards the side, a sweeping motion that implied the whole notion and somehow said very little. “Ah, but that would be a question for the philosophers. A song at any rate, would be the destination, is that not so? I believe you can recall how the notes go.”

 

“My own song, however...as much as I could claim it mine-” There was a pause, and standing, he leaned against the back of the chair, pale fingers tapping the top in some private rhythm. “-is a sad one. A lament, truly. Fit for an Irish lass, and in all likelihood her alone.” The staccato of details were undoubtedly unnecessary, like much of his conversation, unintentionally revealing a bit more of aforementioned private rhythm. Smile softening somewhat, he added with a slight shrug, “I could not tell you why the song came to mind.”

 

Memory was an odd thing under normal circumstances, but its ebb and flow provided every impulse with the lightning bolt of inspiration, lighting the surroundings briefly and vividly before the black of night returned almost instantaneously. Fortunately, the foppish interloper provided enough conversation for these dancing flashes -not unlike the grin that re-appeared briefly on his pale, inexplicably tired features- to happen almost according to a natural, proper system. “If you're offering, Master Alston...” His green eyes darted across the room with an unspoken tension, before settling upon the other man in a vague attempt at watching the (hopeful) retrieval of the flask. “A toast to the lute, then, and may its mysteries be pawned off on another unfortunate gentleman.”

 

The bow was meanwhile acknowledged with a slight dip of his head and an even slighter bridging of their amiable distance, while James stretched out his hand loosely in the more modern gesture of a handshake. “James O'Neill. My father is the Baron Iveagh, from County Down. Charmed, surely.”

[Hope]

"So true, so true," Rowland cheerfully lamented, "it's hardly a sport at all. Yet one thing that bolsters me along, is seeing how pitiful poor at the game some other fellows are. Bumbling over their compliments, stuttering over kisses, and reticent with their intentions."

 

It was about at this point that Rowland realised that this chap in front of him was a bit of a philosopher himself. He leaned a bit closer then, studying, then leaned back, "You are a thinking man I see." he declared as though it was written on James forehead, eyes dancing meanwhile.

 

But however un-academic Rowland was himself, he'd not hold letters against the other. In fact. "Did you know I've been writing a book, on this very subject." was his merry brag, "perhaps my admirers shall turn it to a ballad, to the tempo of 'more more more!'" Rowland practically giggled at that point, before regathering himself he slouched into a chair...

 

...and watched James as he spoke of his own song.

 

He remained oddly quiet then for a time, and though he had found his hip flask it remained pinched between lean digits. Forgotten.

 

"You can look for meaning many places friend, but it's not very likely to be found in the halls of Whitehall, where one can expect as much substance to a woman as there is in one of your will-o'-the-wisps. Still. Perhaps we've all go an 'Irish Lass', someone we'll fondly remember till all is dead and gone." Here he flashed a discordantly bight smile again, knocked back a sip of the flask and passed it to James, "Well met O'Neill," his free hand clasped the others in a brief but firm shake.

[James O`Neill]

“A thinking man,” James echoed, barking a low laugh at the appellation, “I cannot say I've heard that one before. A man of wit, surely.” He tilted his head to the side, as if giving the whole idea a bare instant's thought. “Wit and want, with the former bridging its way to the latter. A thinking man sounds awfully dry.”

 

The thought easily could have been left there, sufficient in its brevity and levity alike. But James' own impulses won out easily against the could-have-beens often enough, and now was no exception. “Of course, one could argue that the artist must occasionally play the role of the philosopher...” Wandering away from the mustachioed man and over to the piano, his eyes skirted the room in a manner that would have implied an odd curiosity, before he caught himself and looked back at Alston, shrugging jauntily. “Ah, but as you said, this is Whitehall. Meaning is scarce, and they prefer the bawdier poems anyways.”

 

“Not that I'm truly so concerned.” Accepting the flask with a well-meaning raise and a smirk, he lifted it to his lips and took a hearty pull before handing it back. The slow burn was warming and pleasant, and savoring it, James began to edge away to his former seat. “My thanks, by the by. So, Master Alston of the many admirers, tell me of this book. A primer, perhaps? Or something with more...teeth?”

 

There was a possibility, he supposed momentarily, that the man was another literary sort. Not that, naturally, he was particularly concerned: it took all types, and his conversational talent was limited only by flights of fancy and temper alike.

[Hope]

Rowland had the vague impression that he'd insulted the man. "Ah, 'thoughtful wit' that is." he re-tracked, tipped his head, and then went back forwards, "but there you are, challenging thoughts propositions, a cynic perhaps?!" though perhaps calling James a cynic was even worse than calling him a thinker.

 

Conversations, like landscapes rolled and dipped, but currently this mustachioed fellow did not think himself in a vale so deep it couldn't be navigated out of.

 

James for his part paused to ruminate upon philosophy in the arts. "Like the broken vase in a painting?" which he'd heard symbolized lost virginity, "artists place meaning into the mundane, yet to a cretin it's just a picture of a pretty girl." Rowland gave a shrug, the conversation getting a bit academic there, outside of his comfort zone. "Or so my tutor told me." with the returned flask, he took another sip.

 

“A book of advice, a primer yes, for dashing men-about-town who'd avoid being tied down. You know the problem surely." he gave a wink. James was a good looking man, no doubt catching the ladies eyes. "Hmm... but I like the sound of teeth now you mention them... could it apply to my topic. I must admit that it's pages are currently acquiring dust on the dresser. It seemed a grand idea at the time, but I soon grew bored of it. Perhaps it needs some of these 'teeth' that your interested tone recommends?" The way that James had asked, plainly favored something with greater substance.

[James O`Neill]

“A realist,” James shot back, giving Rowland a toothy grin to belie the fact that no harm had been done. “None can truly claim to be a cynic without admitting their worldview is unfairly negative. I, a mere pragmatist...” He steepled his fingers with an appropriate amount of melodrama. “Have committed no such crime. My beliefs are always reasonable, Master Alston.”

 

Which, of course, was an assertion that very few reasonable people felt the need to make. But very few reasonable people, James was certain, had become artistic virtuosos in their own right, nor were they as capable of captivating a room with the energy and flair of a sudden lightning strike.

 

Onwards to the book of the mustachioed Lothario, however, for reason was almost certainly a duller subject. “Few men, I believe, would wish to submit themselves to a mere primer. Pride aside, why study the broken vase, when you can understand its meaning elsewise? But ah...” A gesture to the side, sweeping and emphatic in its molasses-like languor. “I often wonder of the standards we impose on ourselves. Women are prone to gossip, it is said...yet who wouldn't find some amusement in the stories behind our author's knowledge?”

 

Or perhaps that was merely personal preference. A good tale, regardless of its truth, was a key ingredient to the best bandying of words. “'Lady S is fond of romance; candles and lilacs seem to warm her heart the best.' 'Mistress M nearly invoked the protection of her father, forcing our fearless author to...'” Smirking, James leaned forward, chin resting on one hand while the other tapped the side of the chair. “Ah, you see my point. Properly guarded from the worries of public opinion, a pseudonymous author could gain quite a legendary status...”

[Hope]

Rowland's eyes danced at James mocking dramatics, "Lud you are a card!" he declared with glee, "who was that an impression of, not yourself surely?" he laughed again slapping his knee, utterly amused with this windfall of an acquaintance.

 

Once he got a handle on himself again, he leaned forwards and said, "How would you fancy joining my company of men? You've heard of the merry gang, the oldsters swiving their way around the palace on the courtesy of old favors -- well we are the new and stylish breed redefining fun. We call ourselves the mustachio'd men."

 

The book the book - James had valid thoughts on the book - and right from the first he'd won Rowland over, for he was bored of writing it (to it current style at least), and favored discarding the whole damned thing. "True enough," he grinned lopsided, "why heed another's advice when we can go make those mistakes ourselves." said with something of a laugh.

 

"Ha, but did not write as an utter dullard," he put a moment into defense of his work, "though yes, an expose might be more entertaining, less scornful, and perhaps even more intellectually stimulating. The reader might draw their own conclusions, I grow weary writing for an obtuse readership."

 

"I am a great fan of 'Poor Robin's' almanac," mused of another anonymous author of the times, and rubbed at his chin. " 'Our fearless author'... may I use that?"

[James O`Neill]

“An impression? Oh, heavens forbid!” James rolled his eyes, chortling. “No, no. Anything but that. I was being genuine, you understand, to the point of insincerity...the artist's lot in life, you understand.” Or perhaps Rowland didn't. Considering the faint, more-than-likely imperceptible twitch of his lips, smile half-cracking at the mention of insincerity. I suppose I would be a fitting teacher...

 

The odd, nagging thought was pushed aside with the haste and belligerency one would normally give buzzing biting insects. Fortunately, Alston made conversation easily enough, and the combination of flattery and the continuing, delicious audacity of this supposed book was a light enough subject to float by on. “You certainly can, my fearless friend,” he allowed, eyes still lighting back up with mischief. “After all, I would hardly want you to sell your own struggle short. Not with the greater glory of London's literary element at stake, no.”

 

“Your audience will not change, after all,” he explained, with the unfortunate air of one considering themselves, in the absence of any true authority on the matter, a fitting substitute. “But if they go about, as you say, and make their own mistakes...ah, then you have inspired them! What could be more fitting?” The latter was, naturally, concluded with a tone of feigned wist, before James sharply added, “Or damning, but as we have established, such fears are beneath you.”

 

Reclining further in his seat, he rubbed his own chin- and the conspicuous lack of facial hair adorning it. “Did you say...mustachioed men?” An eyebrow arched, his attention previously having been caught (and just as immediately, diverted) at the mention of the Merry Gang. “While I am...intrigued by the possibilities, I must confess that I ah, seem to find myself lacking in one of...two qualities belonging to your group's name.”

[Hope]

"Genuine to the point of insincerity..." Rowland repeated, plainly a new concept to the man that needed some time to fathom, that perhaps warranted the clearing off of a mental bookshelf of gobble-de-gook, to be reserved for this 'new' field of mockery. For while he'd never heard of such before, he saw immediate potential in it's application. But for now, he flipped open his hip flask lid again, took a swig and muttered, "well fuck me."

 

Onward to the book now, James banter was filtered though a new screen of possible over genuine insincerity. The comments therefore meant nothing any more. "Oh yes, the Glory." he frowned and met his fellows eyes. Not pleased with how he now felt, if there were scales to be removed from eyes, frankly, he preferred them back on again.

 

"So that was more genuine-ness to the point of being insincere?" he asked with an unpleasant flavor of distrust on his tongue. "Bah." deciding to blow it off, he gave a mental shake, flashed a grin and declared, "to hell with the art critiques, if I was to do anything for a panel of judges it wouldn't be this, as soon as you get too serious about a sport all the fun goes out of it. What is life really but a distracting diversion, my book, my gang, our pranks, skiving off from the weighty subjects that would pin us down, that would crush the spirit out of a man."

 

The offer was given, for despite James far more of a thinker than the groups norm, and quite possibly a clever manipulator, Rowland just liked him. "Two things?' a mustach could be grown, what was the other? Moustachio'd Men. The fellow had been emasculated? "Har har!" Rowland was laughing again, "You'll have to tell us then who's got your cock, perhaps our first feat of the season shall be getting it back!"

[James O`Neill]

It seemed that in the midst of the babble (if the word's tertiary definition meaning the constant murmur of a stream brushing aside obstacles could be adopted as a bit of entendre...) he had struck a nerve. This was an oddity to James, who had believed he had stumbled across a fellow wit and contemporary bon vivant, and provoked a sudden tension in his jaw, contorting his lips into a momentary compromise between a smirk and grimace. Perhaps he was merely a mirror with which to mimic something that had been said earlier.

 

It seems I do nothing but wound, today.

 

Or not. The jocular Alston seemed to be a forgiving sort, at least insofar as James was willing to fight the current of his own excitability to process the emotional twists and turns of another, particularly when such effort had already amounted to so very little that day. His pained expression faded nigh-instantly, therefore, and it was with further breeziness that he greeted Alston's quip. “I suppose I provided you with an opening for that one, didn't I? No, no, my friend, the regrettable truth is that not every man has the capability to don a mustache as glorious as yours.” A shake of his head, gingerly, and a rueful noise. “I have tried until the trying has become futile. Over the course of an entire voyage to Italy, no less! No such luck.”

 

“I favor my mother's looks, and the Cassidy family is not prone to a crop of facial hair.” He barked another laugh, having long since accepted that unfortunate state of affairs. “Alas, I am afraid it will e'er be so, Master Alston. Unless...has your ensemble considered an auxiliary of sorts, for the laymen to your sordid clergy? A...beardless brotherhood, if you will, to assist in the merrymaking...?"

[Hope]

"It was laying right out there, all three inches." Rowland replied with another snorted laugh. But James explained there was the absence & then the inability to grow a mustache.

 

Poor fellow. It was the better part of his upbringing that had Rowland resist the urge to stroke his own mustache at that moment (no need to rub James upper lip in it.) "Well that's..." tragic, he'd been about to say, when his clean faced friend faced it with a brave and un-pitiable face, "...a great savings in shaving." Rowland's eyes wicker-snickered over James face then, observing for himself the boyish cleanness of his face.

 

"Fake mustaches don't work." so some fellow had found out the embarrassing way, embarrassing to the entire gang (who took their 'badges' very seriously). Taking a swig from the flask again he passed it on over.

 

James had another idea, "An auxiliary?" spoken in the same tone one reserves for new concepts, "like apprentices, hmm, yes I could sell the lads on that." his lips hitched to a lopsided grin, "though I shall have your vow you'll not prank-me into those ranks should I ever pass out in your proximity." he was meanwhile imagining relieving William Abdy of his mustache. Oh to see the look on his face!

[James O`Neill]

James accepted the flask once more with a gracious nod and a chipper laugh, retaliating, “Far be from it me to insult the glorious calling of those men more blessed than I, Master Alston.” It was no use pining over a beard that would never be, nor a mustache that would never make itself known. Though of course, it was an easy enough sentiment to have when it was a well-established fact that there were plenty who preferred the boyish look, coupled as it was with wit, charm, and excellent hair.

 

A sentiment that he would drink to readily, along with the assent Alston gave him. Raising the flask to his lips before passing it back, James placed a hand over his heart and declared with solemnity, “I hereby pledge, in the name of all that's profane, that you will remain untouched by the whim of myself and any future beardless brothers. So help me, so on and so forth.” Like a good Christian, he crossed himself, altogether too willing to indulge in a bit of blasphemy, before leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees.

 

“It seems to me,” he considered, rubbing his beardless chin in mock contemplation, “that where the reputation of the Mustachioed Men precedes them, your so-called apprentices could strike. Think of the new window for pranking, my friend. A veritable world of opportunities, should our cups not prove too deep to escape from.”

[Hope]

Reassured, Alston affirmed, "I shall put it to 'The Board' at our next meeting." he gave a wink, indicative that there was nothing quite so formal as all of that.

 

"Pranks yes, my kingdom for a prank." he grinned, "Ah, but in good taste mind, we are the new breed after all." James suggestion that the Beardless Brothers might deal with the more, underbelly matters, appealed to the archetype ego of the Mustachio'd men. "There is a Fete on tomorrow night, we are practically honor bound to attempt something."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

OOC: edit made because I'd messed up sorry.

[James O`Neill]

“In good taste,” James echoed, amusement filling his Ulster brogue with a ready warmth. This Alston was a good sort to know, certainly, clever enough and more than amenable to the attitudes that had made London's court first seem so full of life upon his arrival. “Why, certainly. What else separates the new breed from the norm if not a sense of gallantry?”

 

The reminder of the 'fete' sent a sudden knot through his stomach, however; a startling reminder of his own limited freedom. Soon. The book will be published soon. Pushing back the momentary discomfort, he carried on lightly, “I suppose the event will be worth attending for the attempt alone...and perhaps to hear word from the ah, powers that be.” Grinning at Alston, he rose to his feet and took a fluid stride towards the door, all the best to set aside the thought...and to best satisfy another jolt of energy and restlessness occupying his errant thoughts.

 

“We shall see, at any rate.” Shrugging jauntily, he glanced at Rowland one last time. “I'm afraid, my friend, that I must be off. But you will hear from me, I assure you.”

 

(OOC: Fin for me! And thank you very much for a fun thread )

[Hope]

"Pick the best from what goes before," Alston canted of the 'old school', then dropping his voice to say, "you can hardly blame them for their failings, rising from the repression of Cromwell excess for excesses sake must have seemed a fair game. But now, nearing two score years of the restoration, a new and more cultured era evolves." The Moustachio'd Men walked a new line, or so they thought, while still fun loving they thought themselves a cut above.

 

With O'Neill's standing, so did Alston, their dawdling moments disappearing beneath a bubbling of energy, things to do, people to see! "And you, from me!" he echoed with a grin, a slap on the back.

 

 

 

 

OOC: well met! Looking forward to some manner of sport at the Saturday night Fete! *bows*