Let the Games Begin
Sept 4, 2008 21:15:21 GMT -5
Post by Maleo Basilio Addams on Sept 4, 2008 21:15:21 GMT -5
Maleo found himself at that painfully awkward place again. Without Marlow, the fledgling vampire was incomplete, in several ways. His teeth had mostly become sharper, but his maw was not yet the fully-jagged, shark-like set of jaws like his Uram had. His eyes, though mostly black now, seemed to have faded back to gray around the edges of his iris, like he was caught somewhere in the middle of humanity and the darkness he craved to join.
That did not, however, stop his drive to rival El Castro. He knew he could not take on the man as a tenor. Even his lowest range was merely mid-tenor. No, he needed to do it more... publicly. However, he could not have it be humiliation - though the idea seemed to violate his family's... nature... - Maleo felt it best to get to Castro on a more intimate level...
Make him share his beloved spotlight, for one.
Sitting at a piano mostly reserved for rehearsals, Maleo kept his night time company with a pen and a thick sheaf of paper. Having little access to the family funds - Roderigo and "K-K" had seen to that with their own expenditures - Maleo had turned himself to composition. The weeknight opera was fine, but it was not enough. Not for his ambitions.
Fueled by an odd mixture of determination, a wonderful, suicidal depression without his Uram, a general lack of sleep and a lot of black coffee, Maleo made the best of his time spent in the dark. Just playing the piano and composing. It was only a couple nights now without Marlow, but something from his confrontation with Castro had awakened a hidden muse.
He could already hear it in his mind, the talk of controversy - the subject of which he wrote was most indiscreet, something the good, clean, God-fearing folk would not at all be on good terms with - and that was why he had to write it. He was already on his second night of writing, cursing at the piano, scratching out lyrics and writing again, all to burn the paper he was using (he did NOT want his composition compromised!) and start over.
Angrily now, sometime in the wee hours of the morning, he banged on the keys of the piano, demanding the old wooden thing play the notes he required so he could make sense of them.
Sliding back on the bench, Maleo folded his arms across his chest, staring at the title on another (mostly) blank sheet of paper.
Il Affare del Alessandro e Il Danzatore stared right back at him. It was a shoddy title, beneath such simpler names like "Il Muto..." but it was the best he'd even come up with. Writing this damn thing in Italian did not help his frustrations - he spoke the language well, it was just a frustrating addition that he needed to put in.
And he did not believe Castro would even touch something written in (*gasp*) actual Spanish. At least, in Italian, El Castro might not guess too quickly who the actual writer was. Burning the mostly unused piece of paper, Maleo felt sleep clawing at him. However, he did not have the strength to move from the piano bench.
Folding his arms on the piano lid, Maleo put his head down... just for a second... and was snoring a couple minutes later, right there in the rehearsal room.
That did not, however, stop his drive to rival El Castro. He knew he could not take on the man as a tenor. Even his lowest range was merely mid-tenor. No, he needed to do it more... publicly. However, he could not have it be humiliation - though the idea seemed to violate his family's... nature... - Maleo felt it best to get to Castro on a more intimate level...
Make him share his beloved spotlight, for one.
Sitting at a piano mostly reserved for rehearsals, Maleo kept his night time company with a pen and a thick sheaf of paper. Having little access to the family funds - Roderigo and "K-K" had seen to that with their own expenditures - Maleo had turned himself to composition. The weeknight opera was fine, but it was not enough. Not for his ambitions.
Fueled by an odd mixture of determination, a wonderful, suicidal depression without his Uram, a general lack of sleep and a lot of black coffee, Maleo made the best of his time spent in the dark. Just playing the piano and composing. It was only a couple nights now without Marlow, but something from his confrontation with Castro had awakened a hidden muse.
He could already hear it in his mind, the talk of controversy - the subject of which he wrote was most indiscreet, something the good, clean, God-fearing folk would not at all be on good terms with - and that was why he had to write it. He was already on his second night of writing, cursing at the piano, scratching out lyrics and writing again, all to burn the paper he was using (he did NOT want his composition compromised!) and start over.
Angrily now, sometime in the wee hours of the morning, he banged on the keys of the piano, demanding the old wooden thing play the notes he required so he could make sense of them.
Sliding back on the bench, Maleo folded his arms across his chest, staring at the title on another (mostly) blank sheet of paper.
Il Affare del Alessandro e Il Danzatore stared right back at him. It was a shoddy title, beneath such simpler names like "Il Muto..." but it was the best he'd even come up with. Writing this damn thing in Italian did not help his frustrations - he spoke the language well, it was just a frustrating addition that he needed to put in.
And he did not believe Castro would even touch something written in (*gasp*) actual Spanish. At least, in Italian, El Castro might not guess too quickly who the actual writer was. Burning the mostly unused piece of paper, Maleo felt sleep clawing at him. However, he did not have the strength to move from the piano bench.
Folding his arms on the piano lid, Maleo put his head down... just for a second... and was snoring a couple minutes later, right there in the rehearsal room.