Ashcroft the Conductor

Ashcroft the Conductor

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Blocking the stairwell that did yawn hints as to the workshops beyond was a shutter that rasped an undignified clanging from gloved hands that shook them so. A head with well groomed hair slicked back did stoop and crane about for another glimpse of the signage beyond the barred entrance. The painted sign work so concealed by distance and grill of the shutter of wreathed iron leaves could be anything from this distance. Dismayed, the fellow shook the gate once again, setting another rattle, his gloves wrapping around the iron as if it were someone that needed shaking into their senses.

The hour was early, far too early, sleep still clung to the very people who's job it was to wake others with pebbles upon the high windows. But sleep didn't commit itself to those with an obsession and a drive to solve a problem as soon as a solution was discovered in wakeful dreams.

Gloves released the gate. High boots of one of the higher echelons of society did pace, quick turning, impatient, each step driving another thought hard pressed into service. Gloves darted into a jacket of fineries, lined weave of gold set across a perfect white, well pressed by men who were paid to make things immaculate. And dutifully on time, whenever Ashcroft deemed it time to shift tone and fabric, at least twice a day to keep those that served keen.

Slender fingers quick snapped out a seashell with etched silver embellishments, cracking open the wide clam of orange snuff with a well practised flick of the thumb. A dash added to the arch between thumb and first finger, sufflucated sharply.

A face that braced against the expensive flavour that kept him roused.

“Must adjust the blend, too fierce for sharing, but just right to keep the ideas coming, perhaps a new shell, yes, a new shell with the finest to share between, the bracing stuff to keep me productive,” Ashcroft softly said to himself, conspiring utility in burning more money in his mind on fopperies. Generous was the man to aid his image of being gregarious to potential investors. A flash of a thought within his imagination, of handing out one shell of the latest blend from the inner circles of the upper rungs, the mix of blends stolen by those who clung to their side for a fee or secret gossip. A smile as he already felt the admiration upon him for sharing the private blends of folks than most would never meet, but feel in presence in the inner workings of society.

Some shutters of windows creaked open, stretches made and morning rituals dwelled upon a moment as sleep departed. Departed by virtue of Ashcroft's rattling for some. A few scowls from people from high windows that were so roused awake. A few rash comments of protestations swallowed for seeing the expensive fashion, instead muttering, “It's too early for getting into fights with nobles,” and the like.

Another investigation, this time eyes that had not rested properly for ten day gaining more focus peering from behind the gate. Signage of staves did flap about from a gust of wind, giving hope and a jolt of cheer to Ashcroft.

“Praise be! I may be able to gain implements to make the next production go even smoother than before. He does work from here!” Ashcroft did remark, standing to full height again, gloves rubbing together with glee. A wide grin upon his face, quickly fading as thoughts to what was to be bartered, imagined, commissined and designed, a myraid of problems to solve by virtue of the master of staves.

“When do tradesmen begin work anyway,” he thought aloud as he did beg belief, looking to the rising sun that did set the streets to glowing, and the birds to call at morning day's arrival. He drew pursing fingers across his beard, and shrugged in admiration of his own work ethic being much better in his own estimation. He gave himself congratulation internally, for not even remembering when he had taken a night to rest completely.

“Too much to do, too many projects to deliver true,” Ashcroft conceeded, smiling to himself, and then looked to the gate as if it might yield to his scrutiny, appraising it as one might a cloche, waiting for the gloved hands to open it to the service so hidden. Patience was only tolerable to him so long as something was progressing within his mind, twirling and turning as the sun did rise slow and people beset the day in far different tempos than his Ashcroft's restless own.

@Sauvignon
 
A stack of scrolls tumbled to the floor as the piercing ray of the day's light struck the stavesmith's eyes. Late had he worked into the eve and later still the night before. The etching of runes was no simple matter and required immense concentration of which little could compare. It'd been many a moon since Sauv worked himself into oblivion. Not since his initial apprenticeship under his master. The formerly sloth nature of his business now accelerated to an almost unconscionable pace.

Bend not break. Words of the venerable reverberated yet were highly unappreciated at the moment. It was a proper motto for yewmolder; conductor and chaos.

That simple thought struck a shallow chord within him. A vague reminiscence, a bad itch.

Serendipity and regret all at once. A client.

Sauv grabbed Hush and Bluster from the wall, smoothing out his robes as he headed out the door. Early arrivals still warranted decorum, as long as their accounts were true. A figured awaited him at the gate of this illustrious workshop. He could've sensed the man's impatience cross the entirety of the Boiling Sea. A quick flick of the stavesmith's hand and infused wrought-iron parted.

"Sir Ashcroft, how fares the city's finest soundsmith?"
 
Arms outraised and up, up, in playful command of an invisible orchestra, of silent applause. Of theatrics Ashcroft was possessed, great glamour and stagecraft gifted to the cobbles.

Another shutter slammed in disgust at the hour. Ashcroft did continue as if not hearing. The stage was theirs to barter, and he would not be upstaged by any audience who found themselves in bedroom booth.

Ashcroft made shrill in places his voice, firmly attuned to his own pitch and pace. Some laziness with appropriateness, much dutiful to his promotion of his importance. The message always that great things were afoot where his boots did place and pace, and what a pleasure to paint a scene of other's places within what was illustrated.

"Much better for seeing you, that you do attend, good Sir and good craftsman, much better!" Ashcroft did say, snapping his finger with an arm that did swing in chumminess.

"Your craft is in double in hand I see, jolly good! Jolly good! I'm here to part you of some however, tragic I know! Make no mistake, double that you carry and double again is somewhere near the mark! I shall not deny you the custom!"

A haughty laugh that was indulgent to his ears, all too used with dismissing the exacts of bills and the feelings of waiters.

A snap of heels against the ground, as if sudden was the deal to be struck, attention to the immediacy of the fortune now behind gate awaiting. Often was he endured by people of dance being a man of song, and had adopted some steps from certain numbers.

A mischief in anticipation was in Ashcroft, near smug giggling and elbow nudging with his shadow, as if a rich pudding drenched in rum was soon to be waltzed in all aflame in dark light at some festive occasion to oo's and ah's.

"By musical hook and by masterful crook, I mean to meet stave with stave! If you get my meaning!" Ashcroft did announce through gate, firmly pleased with the delivery, an indulgant laughter that invited his audience do the same. The jest stored in the memory now to regale at dinner parties later, regularly. His hands were compelled to rub together, an enthusiastic habit that oft made others nervous.

An orange cat did rush itself out behind Ashcroft, screeching and flurrying away, a bristling object, Ashcroft's posture unflapping to the feline fleeing.

@Sauvignon
 
Sauv stood at the gates to his own workshop entirely nonplussed. He'd not taken to the Conductor's enthusiasm and likely never would. Especially at hours entirely too early for the smith's liking. Heavy purses, however, smoothed wrinkles as well as any Maltian remedy. The stavesmith still couldn't find himself to hate the other man. Few truly appreciated the simple artistry in Sauv's staves. Weavers reveled in hid creations' abilities but rarely saw past the practical. A pragmatism both welcoming and frustrating in equal measure.

"Fret not, Sir Ashcroft, your meaning is grasped by my unequivocal self," replied the smith with a flourish towards his workshop. Sauv indulged in the pace of the other, a sense of flair was not stranger to Suav.

The smith nearly jumped at the cat dash but maintained composure to oaken door.

One door annexed another until the two found themselves among an array of artistry. Sauv ducked between a smattering of shelves and produced something entirely un-staveish.

A heavy-hewn Silmorael baton with golden-flaked filigree was presented to the Conductor.

"How do you find the balance?"
 
Ashcroft's face turned funny at the sign of a baton. He had sworn off using them them to guide the conducting process. A baton did focus the crowd away from gloves and shoulders and gestures and features. Still, the Conductor did with proper care, he did adopt baton tenderly.

He made sweep gentle to begin with, feeling the weight within it's every grain, the light giving rise to the flake's rich nature.

A waltz was adopted, the Conductor hearing music of another. A shake of the head, replacing his imagination with his own verse and creation. The triangle gesture of waltz within his hand directing the strings to act according to whims. And once this thought was siezed, chorus invisible did sing. Ashcroft always had a talent at bringing out the voices from the silence, the grain gaining gain, the bass mighty in the barotone, the treble curling fragile and lightly.

The waltz did place it's notation to the air, the shudders that had slammed closed gaining soundtrack to their morning ritual. Toasting breads and scrambling eggs gained the dancehall rhythm as they did pop and sizzle.

A swoosh of the baton, a temptation to turn the heavy born thing across his wrist. But such wouldn't do, one shouldn't showboat with a new found instrument not yet your own. Plenty of time for practicing tricks between rehearsals to come.

He snatched the baton from himself with fresh vigours, as if splashed by ice water after a round of fierce endothermic gins. The baton now adopted as if he were perhaps a night patrol person, musing a cudgeling for just a fraction of a fancyful moment, shirking such brutish wants. There was something about the weight of it that made him move from music issuing to blungeoning whims.

Another snap of the heel. A pendulum slow and low swing back and forth, a shrewd face in much amusement. A high quiet whine in the midst of it, a low growl of aggressive strums from pit. He felt how impulsive the tone, each impulse to speak full of life in the lows.

"Little heavy on the low end of sound, but it has it's uses for sure in the performance awaiting in the wings. I'll take what you have of this, if there be more old bean, do tell me there be such to buy, today, today! Oh, perchance, might you have something...lighter? More dulcet perhaps, in some silver hue, somewhat flutish in nature? Another stave or baton for an assistance to balance this growling beast, to reign in the rumblings with more silvering shiverings of trebling? Yes should would be spot on. Vibrato won't take well this powerful growl that's in my fingers, but it is essential you see to have vibrato in what I must perform, I owe my work so much," he said, wide grin and very chummy as he gestures with a baton he had not paid for, but allocated his purse properly and made excuses to his banker for double quick in his mind.

"Essential!" he exclaimed, as if the master stave maker was the coin master who must be sated with gusto explanation.

@Sauvignon
 
The smith noted his client's initial expression with a rare measure of anxiety. Sauv expected the man to treat this creation with welcome fervor and instead found something else. Surely it was not dissatisfaction but neither wholly embraced.

Sauv made to inquire but suddenly a performance was upon him, or so the Conductor's movements suggested. The Stavesmith allowed himself to roll among the tides of symphonic shroud. He could scarcely fathom what reigned inside the other man's mind. Knowing his client's proclivities was at the heart of creating a proper piece. It was what separated Sauv from the rest of the Tower's rabble.

Requests abounded in succession as the smith did best to make note of each.

"I suspected as much. I'll admit that this was a somewhat new experience for myself. To create such sonorous implements is outside of my usual petitions as I'm sure you understand. Thus I undertook to make multiple pieces so as to surely satisfy your needs. Please wait here a moment."

He ducked back between the various shelves and reappeared not long after.

"This," he began, holding out another baton. "This is hewn from ancient bamboo sourced directly from Aetochi. While it lacks metallic designations, you'll note the extremely intricate etchings. Lighter than the first but far from brittle."

He allowed the Conductor a moment to inspect before revealing the final work. This was noticeably different from the previous two in both size and purpose. Neither stave nor baton, rather closer to a cane than anything. "As is manifestly clear, the purpose served is twofold. Here, on the pommel, sits a shroudstone personally invested by an apprentice of the Sage of Spruce. It would serve anyone well regardless of need."
 
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