12074/Symphony in Reali(ty)

Symphony in Reali(ty)
Date of Scene:	19 July 2022
Location:	Sanctum Sanctorum
Synopsis:	Mushy sweetness? Never. An Ode to Joy.
Cast of Characters:	Illyana Rasputina, Stephen Strange

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Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Illyana sits on the ground with a fairly simple keyboard, not even a full-sized one. One that can sit in her lap, splayed across it, mounted on a pair of scissor-style legs. It's not an impressive sight, watching her bang away on a set of electronically-driven keys.

Doo doo DOO doo DOO do doo doo DOO DOO doo DOO DOO doo doo...

The clamour belongs to Beethoven's canon, albeit the simplest of his works. She leans on the basics of Ode To Joy, following the printed paper stuck on the little stand. Magnetic clamps keep the pages in place. The off notes when she runs through the basic scale requires her to glare, and start again.

Harmonious? Sort of. If a ten-year-old were practicing. Albeit this is a demon queen learning to play.

Stephen Strange has posed:
A twist of the head. A raise of the eyebrow.

Should Illyana be actually aware of it, Stephen seems slightly confused. As to what, it is apparent. It isn't necessarily everyday that one sees Illyana playing music. Listening to it, sure. But playing? Rare indeed. And to be playing Beethoven, no less. The slightly befuddled expression dissipates into a slight grin, as the good doctor officially makes his presence known.

"Practicing for a recital? Or is this just for your own entertainment?"

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Doo-doo-doo-Doo-Doo-Doo-doo, doo doo doo DOO DOO doo doo...

Illyana starts again, fingers stretched over the keys and shifting like she's going after a keyboard. She can, in fact, type pretty fast. This translates somewhat into the action of moving between the keys, striking lightly on the ends to produce the electronic part. Fluidity arises when she escalates the scale, the doubt on the remaining flat -- or was it a sharp? The page isn't telling her. Music is just another language to learn, but it's a bloody tricky one.

"Who would come to a recital for me? You and Piotr out of affinity, and everyone else hiding in a corner." Her mouth flattens as she spins through the next sequence, too fast, but still recognizable. La la la, la la laaaa la, la la laaa laaa la...

She mutters at screwing up. Stephen earns her sharp, frosty gaze through downswept lashes. "You know how to do all this so easily, da?"

Stephen Strange has posed:
The sorcerer takes his time to kneel down, directly behind the aspiring keyboardist, even as Illyana regards him with her icy stare. "I may know a thing or two, my dear." His arms wrap about the Russian's sides, the hands reaching out to seek the keyboard. "One would say it was almost a requirement for medical practice. Wonderful exercise for the fingers, you know."

Strange's chin hovers just over Illyana's left shoulder, allowing Stephen to see the sheet music clearly. "It does take practice, of course, but, after a while, it will come as natural as anything." With that, the fingers start on the keys. The right hand effortlessly ascends the scale, playing the beginning of the Ode to Joy, while the left plays the chords and accompaniment. The tone is light and bouncy, the tone from the electronic keyboard sounding rather well, at least in comparison to a true piano. Up the scale, then back down. The song just manifests without any trouble, as easily as breathing.

"I could teach you, if you wanted." The music pauses, but the arms remain in place, the fingers still upon the keys. "It would really be no trouble at all..."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Aspiring is one thing. Creating is harder than destroying, everyone knows that. The trickier matter for Illyana is figuring out the basics for... well, just about everything, honestly, especially when it comes to sitting back and figuring out more than how notes on a keyboard match dots on a page. The muscle memory simply isn't there. "Da, that would make sense. You need steady hands." She stretches out her fingertips under his and she lifts her shoulder, just enough to chuck Stephen under the chin. If he's going to rest there, then she means to make it at least vaguely enjoyable. Those shows of ocasional affection speak to the mellowing effect of a chunk of his soul occupying the broken windowpane of hers, or something more uncommon, being herself.

Whatever self is.

The stroppy plunking becomes a light prance, as easy as a deer bounding through a field. Rather than grumble or stick out her tongue, she merely rests her hands lightly atop his. If he's going to play, scars and all, then her fingers will match at least the slight movements. "You are sure it would not? The point was to surprise you, but that cat has left its barn." She doesn't sound bothered in the least.

Stephen Strange has posed:
A gentle chuckle escapes Stephen, easily heard by Illyana due to his unique resting place, just upon her shoulder. "I believe the saying is that the cat is out of the bag. But, barn works just as well." His fingers, as scarred as they are, seem to have little to no trouble with playing. Even less so, with Illyana's own fingers upon his own. "And, believe me, you have surprised me already. If that was your goal, then consider the mission accomplished."

The fingers resume their dancing upon the keyboard. Only now, the playing is ever so slightly under tempo. Just slow enough to make it easier to follow where Stephen is going in relation to the music notes upon the page. "I am quite positive it would not be any trouble at all. I would not have offered otherwise. And, to be perfectly honest, I would not have offered to anyone else besides you." The fingers continue to play, though now it is more apparent that Strange is only occasionally looking at the musical score before the two of them. "Most others insist on being taught. You do not. Therefore, it is more enjoyable when I offer."

It couldn't be because Stephen himself has a sliver of Illyana's soul within. No, not at all. Favoritism for the person he shared his soul with? Unheard of!

"I was unaware you had an interest. Well...in playing. I am well aware of your usual musical preference."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
She would lean back, but that might disrupt Stephen from doing what he does. Like magic, music is particular and requires careful coordination to make it possible for the pair of them to act together. The touch of his fingers shifting over the keys is learned by touch, more than sight, giving a proper appreciation for what's happening.

Her own pressure is limited, since the whole point isn't to make him play what she wants or needs. Carefully she holds the keyboard in place balanced over her legs. There is a rhythm to be leaning into matters, the shifting vibrations of their creation dragged out. He plays and she sways, haunted between it. "You have that woman coming to bother you again? I could banish her. She is a demon, da? Even the kings of their Underworld must respect you have resident Hell Lord. Big, angry, mortal Hell Lord." Her lips break into a dark smile. "One wearing your ring, so very biased."

Another pause lingers when she plunks a black key to disrupt his playing, only because it's there taunting here. "We had no money for piano, violin, da?"

Stephen Strange has posed:
"If I believe I know to whom you are referring to, then no, not recently." Even when it is just the two of them, Stephen still resorts to speaking in generalities. It must be the mystical side that prompts the vague responses. Such is the way of wizards and sorcerers. "And yes, I do believe that most would-be students do realize that I am at the beck and call of a certain Demon Queen." There is a little in the way of jest in that comment. But, only a little. It is just a peek at what is behind the curtain...of how Stephen feels about the blonde before him.

Even as he speaks, the music continues to play. That is, until that pesky black key gets what is coming to it, causing a dissonant disruption to sound out. A F sharp (or a G flat, whatever your preference) adding a little chaos to Beethoven. And yet, it does not seem to bother Stephen at all. He just continues to converse as if nothing happened. "No money for a piano? Yes, I could see that. I know that the first piano I learned to play was an old church upright piano. Half of the ivory was missing and it did not look the best at all...but it was still musically sound and had perfect pitch. I think my father got it because the church was getting a new one and they were just going to throw it away. It was free to whoever took it out of there."

The music pauses, for just the briefest of moments. "Fortunate for me that my father had a truck, then, yes?" The music starts anew, but this time it isn't Beethoven, but something else. It sounds simple enough, a set of repeating notes, slowly building until it becomes apparent that Stephen is still within the classical music realm...but Bach, this time. First Prelude in C Major. And...as Stephen continues to play, yet not looking at his fingers at all, that this was one of the first songs he learned, on that old broken piano so long ago.

"We do not have that worry now, though. Would you like a piano? I regrettably am not versed in the violin, but I am sure we could procure one if you are interested."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"You are lucky I do not bite. You see? So civilized. Your Vishanti should bite the presumptuous and make clear it is intolerable. Agamotto is very sure to not like that." Illyana doesn't have a doubt about that, and she certainly isn't going to complain when it really comes down to it. Her mouth arcs in another smile; toothsome, traversing a dangerous milieu of possibilities. Amusement flicker-flashes in bright sparks when given the chance. She turns her head slightly to brush his cheek. "You are lucky. I was not so civilised when I was young." So eight minutes ago?

What counts as civilised, it isn't splatting a chaotic element into Beethoven's conquest of beauty in the sonic realm. Oh, she's very happy to listen, to weave those enchantments through his hands and be the proxy for someone resting against Stephen's chest. He plays, she listens. Her fingers echo his without any consummate grace or skill at replicating exactly what he does. The flow and soliloquy of movements spark a certain dance of sorts, where hands shift and splay through the overture that's been the bane of recitals and the joy of audiences all the world. "They have pianos in streets. Badly tuned things, art more than pieces. I see people sit at them and play for others. Maybe we do this one day, I clank that key - - over here - - and you do that one over there. You know they throw away pianos here. It is so strange. We had not even one in the collective. The oblast must have had some but they were not allowed for many years. Even when I was a child, when things were 'better.'" Finger quotes in the voice there, a lie indeed. Beethoven becomes Bach and she's without sheet music or even knowing what to follow, instead merely going through the motions in the most obvious form.

Well, not one motion. She kisses his cheek. "I like this. You have to sit behind me. Violin, it is for people who like angry stabbing with a wand. Me, I have a sword for that."

Stephen Strange has posed:
"So civilized, indeed."

A smile grows as Illyana speaks of the Vishanti. "Oh, Agamotto does not generally approve of most things. 'Too reckless' he would say of a great many actions I have taken. I for one am rather glad they do not bite first and ask questions later. Imagine all the marks left behind..."

The idea of busking...of the pair of them out in the street playing for others, does earn Illyana a genuine laugh. "I could imagine us both, out on a street corner, plunking away at a piano. People would think we have lost our minds." The music continues to flow out as Stephen just shrugs, the motion more felt than seen for Illyana. "...which would be half of the fun, anyways."

Stephen takes the kiss upon the cheek willingly, with grace and just a hint of rouge signaling that the action was not expected but certainly welcomed. The fingers themselves do not stop, giving credit to years of piano lessons and practice. "Yes. I enjoy this, too." A pause in words, though not in music, then Stephen continues onward. "Interesting viewpoint. Violin as being an instrument for musical aggression. I would certainly prefer to be behind you in that regard. I have seen your proficiency with a sword. I shudder to think how that would translate into a violin bow."

Some more tones of Bach, before Stephen pauses. The keyboard grows silent, the stillness broken only by the breathing and heartbeats of the two upon the floor. That is, until Stephen breaks the silence again with his soft voice. "I have not played that particular piece in quite some time. It was used as a warm up, a practice piece to limber the fingers. I used to hate playing it, for it was constant and repeating, like listening to the same song on the radio every 15 minutes. I am surprised I still remember...yet not, at the same time."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Too reckless for everything and a half. Too dangerous. Too salty. Too red. "He chose you as his champion. He picks you over someone like Victor von Doom or the man with the angry helm. Fate, he calls himself. Such a name. Is it the magic helmet or that which makes him think that way?" A mild tease; Nabu versus Illyana wouldn't be pretty, for certain. "In the way of the world, you shoulder the burdens he doesn't have to and I can only hope that he'll let it go." Her smirk brightens, only a little.

Another rub of her cheek to his introduces that sharp line of his goatee teasing her skin and the Russian silently laughs. "See, so single-minded. Most people would be scrambling away or throwing the keyboard on the floor. Here you are, continuing as if nothing happened. I now imagine storms and explosions, and you keep playing the Blue Danube. Like the 1812 Overture, da? All the blasts and bombs, and the symphony plays on. We include cannons in our performances." How villainous but it's really a Russian thing and Stephen probably knows that.

A silence that lingers when the music stops won't be interrupted until a couple very high notes in a staccato run twinkle as far as the keyboard allows. Just like that. "They say the body remembers. Always it knows how to play. Different from magic, or swimming."