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[hamelinic]

And I... might walk 500 miles.

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[hamelinic]

[It takes a few moments before a smile scrawls its way across his lips again. It's not the genuine cheer of playing, is certainly a little crooked at the edges and more a glimmer than a flame in his eyes, but it's a good direction.

How often does a man who makes a living of entertaining other's whims get to play something of his own composition, genuinely dear to his heart? How often does he get to settle in and spin at his own will in front of someone who looked so deeply earnestly ready to appreciate music as it was meant to be?

There's an agreeable bob of his head as he stretches his legs carefully before tucking one back under himself again. The lute resumes her rightful place in his lap, expression somewhat more ephemeral for the moment, attention clearly fluttering away to somewhere in the middle distance of proper reality. There's just a touch of Suggestion infused in the tune he begins to pull from the strings, after all; just a touch of something to turn the dulcet tones toward the drawn sound of a violin as he plays.

Maybe something cheerful next, but for now, the moodiness bleeds out through his fingers and low soft voice. Hopefully the Suggestion isn't so strong as to ruin her own mood.]