sixwordstories | (no subject)

[ Ariadne enjoys studying the architecture of the Opera House, and Arthur suggested she take in a production some time, as well. For the moment, however, there is no opera playing, and yet she's sure she can hear a hauntingly beautiful melody reaching her ears. ]

[The singing, slow and wistful, emanates from the lower levels, seeping through the labyrinth of tunnels and passages to the upper levels, completely without explanation. Aside from a gaggle of chorus girls flitting around the corridors and stagehands working in the main theater, the opera house is mostly deserted; there simply shouldn't be any music when rehearsals aren't taking place.]

[ooc: I figured it might be interesting for PotO fans :3. It's such an underappreciated song!]

[She's there, having made her way down to his lair by the light of the torch in her hand, but she hasn't quite found the courage to speak just yet]

[He sits near the shore of the lake in only a dress shirt and his usual black slacks, the hem rolled up to just below his knee as he lets the gentle ebb and flow of the water lap over his ankle. Though it's as cold as everything else so far below Paris' streets, Erik's grown so accustomed to cool darkness and biting stone that he hardly seems to notice.]

[Neither does he notice Christine as he continues to sing consolingly to himself, completely unaware that he suddenly has an audience. It's a wonder she even managed to get there without his guidance, having successfully managed to maneuver her way around his various traps and snares.]

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i-am-his-mask.livejournal.com - 2010-10-05 20:59 (UTC) - Expand

[Just sits there, swaying to the music, obviously out of place given her Cheerleading outfit. It's...Brittany. Bitch.]

[His voice carries from one of the deeper cellars, his rich baritone finding its way up through the vents and passages to the surface. He usually doesn't venture outside of his secret passages and catacombs during the day except to oversee production but he's been drawn there by the dusty, broken harp he found the week before. He's spent the day fixing it and now he's putting it through its paces as he plucks deftly at the strings.]

[ She hears him. Of course she hears him. Somehow, Christine thinks she would hear her Angel even if she were deaf. His voice has the power to stop her in her tracks, as always, and she has to lean against the wall to keep her balance. Her eyes close, something overwhelming washing over her body - guilt? Regret? She's not even sure, but his voice holds her captive nonetheless. ]

[His voice travels effortlessly through the lonely, forgotten passages of the opera house, echoing off of cold stone and snaking its way to the surface. The building almost seems to welcome its return, accommodating the rich sound in such a way as to make it seem near at hand when, in fact, he couldn't be deeper beneath the foundations.]

Yeah, lets go with that. xD Not sure if you wanted this to be right after she's left him...?

live-or-daae.livejournal.com - 2010-10-05 22:59 (UTC) - Expand

[Gustave listens with a sad smile and hums a little to himself]

[Somewhat entranced, the little girl wanders closer to the music. She's not bothered by her surroundings that much, and although there's something a little (anachronistically) off about her, she still somehow fits in.]

[Jack starts singing along his rich baritone finding the harmony with ease as he sweeps the stage.]

[She frowns, stopping as she hears the music. She's been told there's a ghost in the Opera House, but she's never thought much of it. Just like she's never thought much of Opera, but that music sounds like it's coming from...below? Frowning, she follows it.]